She Wore Mourning P.D. Workman (best novel books to read .txt) 📖

of all the time. I should have noticed that something was wrong… I should have asked Spencer about what was going on, but I was just focused on myself. On my comfort and my profession.”

She sighed and stared pensively off. Her fingers brushed over the tattoo again, and she looked down at it as if she hadn’t been aware she was touching it.

“He’s here with me all the time, now,” she said. “He can’t ever wander away now.”

Isabella stopped speaking, but he could still see her lips mouthing the words.

Until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

Isabella gave a brave smile and brushed a few stray cat hairs from her dress.

She was much better on her own show. She sat on the stool she was comfortable and familiar with and chattered to the camera about colors and tones and shades. She was wearing the clothes that suited her, even if she did have to wear long sleeves to cover up her tattoo. And just one necklace and ring. Nothing that would be too distracting as she painted.

Zachary sipped his coffee while he watched her begin to daub the canvas. A beautiful seascape started to appear. Cerulean blue waves and fluffy white clouds scudding across a sky of celestial blue.

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SNEAK PREVIEW

HIS HANDS WERE QUIET

Mira Kelly put the pictures of her son down on her kitchen table, one at a time, like they were precious treasures she thought Zachary might try to run off with.

Photographs were Zachary’s passion. Ever since Mr. Peterson, his foster father at the time, had given him a used camera for his eleventh birthday, he’d been taking pictures. It was that passion that had eventually led him to his profession. Not a department store photographer or a wedding photographer, but a private investigator. It gave him the flexibility to set his own hours, even if many of them were spent sitting in a car or standing casually around, waiting for the opportunity to catch a cheating spouse or insurance claim scammer in the act.

Zachary ignored the lighting and framing issues in Mira’s pictures and just looked at the boy’s face. He was a teenager, maybe thirteen or fourteen. Still baby-faced, with no sign of facial hair. Dark hair and pale skin, like Zachary. Quentin’s hair was a little too long, getting into his eyes in uneven points. Zachary couldn’t stand hair getting in his face and ears and kept his short. Not buzzed like foster parents and institutions had always preferred but still easy to care for. The first few pictures of Quentin didn’t give a clear view of his eyes. His eyes were closed, hidden by his shaggy hair, or his face was turned away from the camera. Then Mira put one down on the table that had caught his eyes full-on, looking straight through the camera. Blue-gray. Clear. Distant.

Mira kept her fingers on the photo, reluctant to release it to him. “Quentin was a beautiful baby,” she said. “Everyone always said how beautiful he was. Not cute or handsome, beautiful. He could have been a model. But he didn’t smile and laugh when you made smiled or tickled him, like other babies. He laughed at other things; the sunlight filtering through the leaves of a tree, music… I didn’t realize, in the beginning…” She wiped at the corner of her eye. She’d been resisting tears since she had first greeted him.

Isabella Hildebrandt had said that Quentin had been autistic when she asked Zachary if he would meet with Mira. The boy had been living at the Summit Living Center, some sort of care facility, when he had died suddenly. ‘Died suddenly’ was a euphemism that Zachary particularly hated.

Mira was convinced that Quentin’s death couldn’t have been suicide. “He wouldn’t have done that,” she insisted again, looking at the picture that showed Quentin’s eyes.

“Why not?” Zachary asked baldly.

He could see that his bluntness surprised her. She was used to people talking about her son’s death in veiled terms. Coming at it sideways and trying to comfort her. But that wasn’t Zachary’s job. Zachary’s job, if he took the case, would be to find out the truth about Quentin’s death. And if he was going to do that, he needed Mira to speak plainly instead of soft-peddling euphemisms.

“He… he couldn’t.” She stumbled over the words, looking for a way to explain it. “That just… wasn’t something that he would have been capable of.”

“Physically, you mean?”

“No, he was healthy physically, mostly, but… he had autism. He didn’t have the ability… mentally… to decide