Blood Always Tells by Hilary Davidson (always you kirsty moseley .TXT) 📗

offensive story he found. playboy and mistress in death pact screamed another tabloid. There was some speculation about whether Dominique and Gary’s deaths were truly accidental, or whether they had actually committed suicide together. There were anonymous sources making insane claims; one particular rumor—that the couple’s naked bodies had been found entwined in a bed strewn with rose petals—had really gained traction. The reader comments were what finally forced Desmond to shut the screen down. “They deserved to die for committing adultery. That is a sin they will go to hell for,” read the first comment on the Bizarre Love Triangle story. If Desmond could have reached through his phone and throttled the person, he would have. Marcus Aurelius had plenty of advice about keeping calm, but that wouldn’t have stopped him. He tried to think of something comforting the philosopher had to say while he stood on the street, wiping tears from his eyes and trying to pretend it was from the wind. There was nothing.

Finally, he wandered back to Dominique’s apartment building but, at the last minute, he changed his mind about going inside. He wasn’t sure what stopped him, except that his emotions were overpowering him. They were coming on with the velocity and force of a tornado. The one swirling to the top was regret. He owed Dominique so much. It had been his responsibility to take care of his baby sister, and he’d failed miserably. There was a den in his house with a wall filled with the awards he’d earned in the service for bravery and honor. The truth was, they didn’t mean much; they were props he used to convince himself he’d done right in his life. But Dominique’s sad death showed him the truth: he’d always let his sister down, even if she didn’t know it. He’d let his whole family down.

He walked west across Twenty-Ninth Street, vaguely remembering a church Dominique had taken him to once. His sister never fit in with the modeling scene in New York. She didn’t smoke or do drugs, and her occasional indulgence in champagne was about as wild as she got. She’d had a lot of boyfriends, but he didn’t think she’d gotten serious with many of them; at least, that was what he was determined to think, and nothing was going to change his mind. She liked fine clothes, and her hobby was hunting for interesting churches.

Desmond was less comfortable inside houses of worship. Whenever I walk into a church, I feel like our grandmother is watching me, he’d admitted to his sister.

I always feel like Nana is watching me, she’d told him.

But the concept of having their grandmother’s eyes on them had a very different meaning for the two of them, Desmond knew. Nana doted on Dominique. His sister was only four when their mother had gone to prison. Only four when her father had died, Desmond reminded himself. What had been a tremendous blessing for him had been a curse for her. As much as Desmond hated his stepfather, he had to admit that the man had been a perfectly good father to Dominique. He’d adored the girl, and Desmond couldn’t remember the man ever shouting at her, let alone punishing her when she was naughty, which was often. He was only monstrous as a stepfather, making Desmond call him “Mr. Monaghan” and trying to distance him from the rest of the family, beating him for infractions big and small, real and imaginary. For a long time, Desmond hid the abuse from his mother, because he knew how deeply the truth would hurt her. His heart broke thinking just how badly it had devastated her when she’d found out.

The church was closed for the night when he arrived. He stood next to its low, decorative iron gate, pretending to admire the offbeat neo-Gothic façade, but his mind was trapped between past and present. He’d tried to broach the subject of Mr. Monaghan with Dominique once or twice, but his approach had been tentative; he’d eased off, relieved, when she didn’t seem responsive, promising himself he’d revisit the subject when she was ready. He knew their grandmother had told Dominique that her father’s death was an accident, and he felt an obligation to set the record straight. It hadn’t been an accident at all, and he was the only person living who knew that. But deep down, he was terrified if he told her what had happened, she would cut him out of her life forever. Now that she was gone, his sadness and shame were unrelenting, because he could never set things right.

His troubled thoughts were leading him in painful directions. That was why he needed to run around New York like a maniac, he realized. As long as he was moving, he didn’t have to think about all he’d lost. He stepped away from the church and walked to Madison Avenue, turning north. He thought about what to do next, and he was grateful for the distraction when he got a text. Better yet, it was from Westergren. Got a test result. Want to talk?

Desmond called him back immediately. Westergren was the only cop in the world he wanted to talk to. “Hey. I got your message. What’s this test?”

“I wasn’t sure if I should bother you about it,” Westergren said. “It’s probably not a big deal. But they checked the blood on the shirt they found in the sink, and it’s Gary Cowan’s.”

“That’s not a surprise, is it?”

“No, but here’s where it gets weird.” Westergren’s voice was almost giddy. This was his first serious investigation, and he was enjoying it to the hilt. “There was blood on that nail you found. It doesn’t match what’s on the shirt. It’s definitely not Gary’s.”

Desmond’s breath caught, making his chest feel tight. “Could it be my sister’s?”

“Nope. They tested it, and it isn’t hers.”

“That leaves one possibility,” Desmond said. “It belongs to Max.”

Chapter 38

On Tuesday morning, after an endless, sleepless night,