“Not at all. If she likes ’em, she can keep ’em.”
“Thanks.” I left the house and grabbed the boots.
They were dusty but on the newer side. The leather on the vamp and instep was stiff. I put a finger through each of the pull straps, hoping not to leave a bunch of fingerprints behind, then hauled them to my truck.
“Uncle Briggs is messed up.” Mateo blew out a long breath as we started down the road. “The whole drive up here he kept calling me Griffin.”
“I’ll talk to Dad.” Again.
“Think he’s got what Grandpa had?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I do.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“I don’t know.” But if Dad didn’t act sooner rather than later, I’d step in and do what needed to be done.
Briggs needed to see a doctor. We needed to know what we were dealing with here. Maybe medication would help. Maybe not.
I drove us back to Mom and Dad’s place, dropping Mateo off at the shop.
“Are you coming in?”
“No, I’ve got to head to town.” I could blame Briggs for shattering my resolve to stay away. But really, it had only been a matter of time before my resolve shattered.
“Okay.” Mateo pointed to the boots in the backseat. “Want me to take these inside?”
“No. They aren’t for Mom.”
They were for Winn.
Chapter Eleven
Winslow
“What are you doing here? And why do you have flowers in your boots?”
Griffin walked into my office with the boots, each with a geranium poking out of the top. He eyed my desk, searching for a clear space to set them down. There wasn’t one.
“This was clean,” I mumbled, shuffling folders and papers out of the way. The mess I’d wrangled had returned. Story of my life.
The moment I thought I had something under control, it snuck up on me.
Sort of like Griffin.
I’d spent the past two days making peace with the end of our relationship. It was fine. Good, even. The right decision. It had been time to put Griffin behind me and focus on this job.
That was the reason I was in Quincy, right? I should be spending my evenings out and around town, not locked in my bedroom with a gorgeous man who knew how to deliver an orgasm. I’d tucked my weeks with him away on a shelf in my mind where they’d collect dust for the next decade.
Except then he’d walked through my office door with flowers and suddenly all I wanted was more.
More nights. More weeks.
More.
He set the boots down on the desk, then took an empty chair, leaning his elbows on his knees. Looking up from under the brim of his hat, those blue eyes didn’t have their normal glint. He looked worn, like the world was propped against those broad shoulders.
This visit wasn’t about me, was it? This was not an apology and whatever these flowers were, they weren’t a gift to work his way back into my bed.
I waited, giving him a moment. People usually told you the most when you lent them a minute to breathe.
“My uncle. Briggs.”
“The one from Willie’s with dementia.”
He nodded. “He had these boots at his place. Said he found them on a hike around Indigo Ridge.”
My body tensed. “When?”
“He wasn’t sure. I didn’t press. He found them and turned them into flowerpots.”
A unique idea, except he’d probably erased any evidence I might find. They were women’s boots, the intricate pink and coral stitching in the leather a pattern of paisleys and swirls.
“I did my best not to touch them,” Griff said.
I grabbed my phone from the desk and took a few quick pictures from all angles, then I left Griffin in his seat as I went to the bullpen. “Allen.”
He looked up from his desk and I waved him into the office.
“What’s up, Chief?” He dipped his head to Griffin. “Griff.”
“These boots were found on Indigo Ridge,” I said. “Without the flowers. Would you mind taking the flowers out and then cataloging these into evidence? We’ll want to dust for prints and see what we find. But I’m guessing these are Lily Green’s.”
“You got it. Want me to check with her mother to see if she recognizes them?”
“Please.”
Allen walked out of the office, coming back with two evidence bags. I helped him put a boot in each, then closed the door behind him as he left.
“I’ll be visiting your uncle,” I told Griffin, returning to my chair.
“Figured you would.” Griffin stood and walked to the bookshelf in the corner.
I hated how good it was to see him. His faded jeans draped over his strong thighs. They molded to the curve of his ass. The T-shirt he wore today was dusty, like he’d been out working all morning.
The scent of his soap and sweat filled the room. I’d washed my sheets yesterday, erasing him from my bed. I regretted that decision now because that smell was intoxicating.
He picked up a framed photo on the middle shelf. “Who’s this?”
“Cole.”
“Cole.” His eyes narrowed. “Another ex?”
“A mentor. We worked together in Bozeman. And he was my sensei.”
In the photo, Cole and I were standing together, each wearing white gis at the dojo in town where I’d taken karate. When I’d been promoted to detective in Bozeman, Cole had suggested I learn martial arts. Not only as a way to keep in shape but as a way to protect myself.
“You have a black belt.”
“I do,” I said.
“And these are your parents.” He pointed to the photo on the next shelf. Not a question, but a statement, like maybe he’d seen their picture before.
Mom and Dad stood beside me on the day I’d graduated from the police academy. I was wearing a black uniform and a hat. The smiles on all three of our faces were blinding.
“Your dad looks like Covie,” he said. “I’ve seen him around town before. And you look like your mom.”
He couldn’t have known what a compliment that was. My mother was the most beautiful woman I’d seen in my life, inside and out.
For a while after they’d died, I’d put their photos in storage. It had been too hard to see them frozen in time, laughing and smiling and happy. I’d walk into my bedroom, see their photo on a shelf and burst into tears. But then the nightmares started, so I’d put the photos back, because even though it hurt to see them, to miss them, I’d take their smiles a million times over their deaths.
Griffin moved to the last picture on the shelf, one of me and Pops fishing when I was a teenager. “You had more freckles.”
“Summers in the sun. That was before I wore sunscreen every day.”
He hummed, then resumed his seat, leaning forward once more. His eyes stayed glued to the edge of my desk, and once again, I waited until he was ready. “Do you still think that Lily’s death might not have been a suicide?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
As the days went on, the uneasy feeling hadn’t faded, but the logical part of my mind had begun to yell. There was no evidence pointing to anything but suicide. At some point, I’d have to let this go.