Forgotten Obsessions (The Love is Murder Social Club Book 1)

by Talia Maxwell

  “You think he was murdered?” Derek asked in a whisper. He supposed he was asking himself, pondering out our, but Medley looked up and frowned.

  “It’s not my job to think anything. I’m gathering all the facts. And Derek, look, here are some facts. Your father was found shot in the head with the gun pushed to his temple. Could he have shot the trigger from that position? Certainly. But I don’t have a weapon at the scene and I have blood transfer that seems to suggest even if he pulled the trigger…someone else was there. So, I’ll ask again. Do you know of anyone who’d be upset with your dad? Anyone who would have reason to cover up a suicide, perhaps? And can this Maeve girl account for your entire evening? I’m looking at a specific window.”

  Derek resisted an unfriendly sneer. Officer Medley hadn’t done his homework. He could think of at least half a dozen men or women who had a beef with his dad about something or another, and challenging Derek to live in fear wasn’t the right course. The answer wasn’t who killed him; it was which one from the list of many. And with that, Derek shut his mouth, crossed his arms over his chest, and said, “I’m happy to come back and answer all those questions again with my lawyer.”

  He knew how this game worked. They’d consider him hostile, but he’d be safe from their dangerous assumptions.

  Medley shut the file and all but rolled his eyes. He stood and tugged upward on his pants, adjusting his belt to hit the midsection of his stomach. He had a small paunch, Derek assumed from nights of imbibing.

  “We’ll be in touch, then,” the detective said with a wrap on the table.

  Derek nodded. He was done talking.

  Derek sat in his car and dialed her number. He had it saved in his phone as Maeve: CPR Girl. No picture, no real history of texts or calls. Had it been only yesterday that he talked to her for hours? Invited her to dinner?

  “Hey,” Maeve said and he knew immediately that she’d been waiting around for him to call. “How are you doing?” she asked, and then she hesitated. “I mean, I’m sure you’re shit, but how, you know, are you holding up?”

  “If I ask you to come over,” Derek said, slowly, weighted, “could you?”

  She didn’t answer right away.

  “Are you sure it’s me you want right now?” she asked.

  Derek braced for rejection.

  “My sister called the police on me last night,” Maeve said. “She thought I vanished from Northeast Portland. She made a website and everything.”

  “In four hours?”

  “You have no idea what my family is like.”

  “Yeah, well, I think that goes for me, too,” Derek added with a click of his tongue. “You think maybe we can be two people who enjoy each other? Look, I don’t want to be alone. Let me come to you.”

  She paused. He heard rustling and a muffled cough.

  “Sure,” Maeve said. “Yeah. Okay. Come on over.”

  Chapter Twelve

  She buzzed him in and then counted to sixty.

  The elevator doors dinged open down the hall and Maeve put her ear to the door to listen for his arrival. Soon, someone knocked and she peered out of the peephole, just to catch a glimpse of him before she opened the door.

  There was part of her that still wondered if he was going to murder her. At this point, there was enough proof of their company that he’d at least be a suspect. And this time she told her sister that he was coming over so at least someone knew.

  Millie had called the cavalry to find her missing sister last night and Maeve still didn’t know if she was mortified or honored. She’d tried her phone and got nothing but a few dropped calls and frantic, so Millie thought, attempts to get in touch. She came over to the apartment and found Roger with the Night Manager—again—her apartment door open wide and no sign of her sister.

  Two hours later, Millie was all over social media and the real media; the kidnapping story picked up early morning heat. People weren’t taking chances and Maeve was the perfect face to flash as a news alert.

  News of her safety spread slower, but by the end of the day everyone had moved on to a real crisis or a newly invented one and had forgotten all about the brown-haired beauty who left her dog and her apartment unattended and walked out into the night.

  When Maeve was dropped off at the Italian restaurant to retrieve her car wearing the same clothes she had on yesterday, she couldn’t help but feel as though the cops judged her a bit. A police escort had to be the worst walk of shame ever.

  Now, Derek was back.

  Roger went crazy at the door, his tail thumping, his tongue ready to lick whatever human appeared on the other side. Maeve tried to hold him back, but Roger wiggled and spun against her, eager to meet the new potential friend.

  She opened the door slowly and Roger stuck his nose out, sniffing, and when Maeve opened the door fully, she tried to keep her dog from knocking Derek over cleanly. He tipped and balanced and leaned in for an awkward hug while she wrangled the dog and shut the door.

  “Thanks,” Derek said. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked a bit while Maeve leaned down and held Roger by the collar, bent over and trying to look up, her hair falling into her face. “I needed to escape.”

  And he thought of her. Maeve didn’t know if this was good or bad, but he was at her apartment, so that felt good.

  She motioned for the two of them to sit down side by side on the couch. He sat and his eyes wandered over her decor and furniture, taking in the scope of her life. Maeve tucked her feet up under her body and angled her face toward him. Empathy and worry were etched into her forehead.

  “Talk. Or, like, don’t talk?” she said. Roger hopped up and licked at Derek’s hand as if to communicate the same.

  He pet the dog and stared at the floor. “This day…look.” He brought his eyes up, stared at her and looked away. “They wanted to know if I had an alibi—”

  “They thought you might have killed your dad?” Maeve asked and then she put her hand over her mouth. She didn’t know where the line was with Derek—what he wanted to talk about or what he wanted to keep secret.

  In his grief, it seemed like all bets were off.

  “I know they’re doing their jobs,” he said, and he leaned his head against her couch and sighed. When he opened his eyes and looked at her, he was apologetic. “I’m sorry. I’m bad company. I just didn’t want to be…”

  Alone.

  Maeve understood. The world around them was coupling up, carving out adult lives for themselves with weddings and babies and fulfilling careers. Maeve searched every day for jobs within her field and the reality of the market was cruel. But maybe that was just Maeve’s reality. Derek was a nurse, he’d had an unsuccessful engagement, but he was building a house—he had it more together than she did. But there he was, in her apartment, and she didn’t know if she was supposed to kiss him or coddle him. Give him a bj or make him tea.

  She stayed on her own chair, silent, and let Derek take the lead.

  “They’ll call you,” he continued. “To confirm that we were together and…”

  “I’m happy to tell them the truth,” Maeve said directly. “Totally and completely.”

  Derek bristled. She picked up on the subtle un-comfortability and tilted her head.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Of course,” he replied, and brushed his hand in her direction. “The truth.”

  “But…” Maeve teased out, eyes locked on his. “Right. I was with you all night.”

  “You slept outside. I slept inside. You can’t confirm I was inside all night, and that’s the truth. I’ve been through this before, remember.”

  She nodded. “Okay. I’d have heard you leave…”

  “Didn’t have a car there,” he reminded her.

  “Receipts will show you didn’t car share out to murder someone…besides, what was your motive to go and shoot your dad?” Maeve asked with mirthful incredulity while Derek’s face was blank and sincere.

  “They’ll rule me out eve
ntually, sure, but not before the damage is done,” Derek said. “Face value isn’t a luxury you’ll get with detectives. It’s not that I’m worried. It’s that I’m…tired. I’m so tired of it all.”

  “If I’d known you’d have needed me as a better alibi, I would’ve demanded to sleep inside,” Maeve said with a hint of flirtation, but then she turned away and blushed, regretting it immediately. It wasn’t the time and she was an idiot.

  Derek tilted his head and stared at her, contemplating, before saying, “Some people are too pure to be put through this hell. I’m sorry.”

  Pure. He’d called her pure. Maeve thought the sound of it was ugly, like an indictment of her personality that she could not control. And pure wasn’t the word anyone who knew her would use to describe her. She was a soon-to-be Criminologist, with a head of murder facts. She loved examining crime scene photos and exploring new technologies to advance the science of crime. She’d once made-out with a guy at a concert while waiting in line for the toilet, never seeing him before or after their ten-minute pee break, and she wanted to tear Derek’s clothes off and fuck him right then and there, but his dad just died and she was trying to be respectful. Pure?

  “You don’t have to be sorry,” Maeve said. “You do whatever you need and I’ll be here.”

  He sat up and reached out to put a hand on her knee. His fingers sent a shock of desire and excitement through her body, but she kept her composure straight and calm, a picture of grace and companionship. Pure.

  “The circus might start up again, and no doubt you’ll get swept up with it if you’re with me,” Derek said then in a didactic tone. “Avoid the media entirely. Please. Some people might play that differently, but I’ve been too wronged too many times to do anything but hide and wait for it to blow over. Couple of weeks. Month, tops. Stay off everyone’s radar. Maybe shut down your social media accounts.”

  Maeve noticed the subtle implications—she wasn’t going anywhere, at least he hoped she wouldn’t. She sat back, eyeing him. With me, he’d said. If you’re with me.

  “But,” he said and waited, searching Maeve’s face, “if you want out of all this? Now’s the time to tell me.”

  “Oh,” Maeve responded with cool surprise. “Tell you what, exactly?” she asked. “That last night was fun and I think we have a connection, but…I don’t want to ride out the news cycle with you?” She made a face and kept going, playful but clear. “Is that what you thought? Hey, Derek,” she said in a sing-song voice, pretending to be on the phone, “super fun to meet you. But, shit, I’m not really into death, so…bye-ee.” She waited for him to smile. He didn’t. “Look, you don’t know me, yet,” she added with a telling look, “but I’m not some little thing that needs to be schooled on how to be strong when the shit hits the fan.”

  “Shit hitting the fan in a murder investigation is like shit hitting a jet engine turbine.”

  Roger hopped down and wandered off, his collar jangling.

  “Yeah, and okay?” Maeve asked. “I’m just here.” She shrugged. “If tomorrow you don’t want me here, then we’ll talk about it tomorrow. But today, I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Because you like murder?” Derek asked in a teasing tone.

  She smiled a sad smile. “No, that’s all wrong. I like the puzzle of solving murders,” she said, with solemnity. “I don’t like that people are hurt. I don’t like the pain that lingers after someone is stolen from this earth. That,” she paused and assessed his face, tender, heavy-lidded, cheeks pulling a bit as he bit his lip, “is the worst pain in the world. And I’m sorry you’ve had to experience so much of it.”

  She turned and wrapped her arms around his shoulders in a deep embrace. They shifted to face each other. He was medium-height and she was tall, and when he pulled her into his lap, facing him, and she put her head on his shoulder, their bodies pressed against each other with uncorrupted closeness, Maeve wondered if it was possible to stay huddled up next to him forever. His hands wrapped around the small of her back and occasionally his fingers found their way to bare skin where he traced lazy circles and rubbed his thumb along her spine, massaging her.

  Soon, she turned around, crawled back down the couch, put her head in his lap and stuck her feet up on the edge. Roger had returned and, assuming he was invited, jumped up and flattened himself against Maeve’s stomach and legs, nuzzling her shoulder.

  Maeve laughed and didn’t kick the wily beast off the small, shared space. Instead, she settled under the great blanket of dog and let the feeling of Derek running his fingers through her hair and across her scalp, rock her to sleep.

  Without even a kiss, Derek and Maeve slept like that on the couch, a line of bodies and fur, tangled up with one another, showing nothing but how desirable true companionship could feel.

  The lamp in the bedroom stayed on all night.

  When they woke in the morning, Derek smiled.

  “I didn’t mean to do that,” he said, and adjusted his legs, sitting up slightly against the couch. “I must have been exhausted.”

  “I have that effect on people. I cause narcolepsy.”

  “You lie,” Derek teased.

  “Of course,” she answered, and stood up. She swiped her phone and noticed a missed call from an unknown number. Then another. And a third. She wondered if that meant the police were desperate to get in touch with her. She was Derek’s alibi and the case was now hitting the early morning news lineups.

  Her sister texted her: The Find my Phone app shows that you’re in your apartment. Tim Shelton died. His son still w/u? You have until 10 or I call the cops again, bitch.

  She fired off a one-off text to her sister: Yes, he’s here. I’m good. Call soon.

  Her mother texted, too: I think the dad of the Woodstock thing was murdered last night. Check channel four.

  And she thought her mom was cute for thinking that TVs froze in time and that at whatever point she received that text, she could simply turn on channel four and watch what her mom was referencing. Old people and technology was fun.

  She’d received an email from Gloria on behalf of the Murder Club.

  Dear Girls, I received news this morning that Timothy Shelton was found in his home shot to death. Devastating, especially with the timing of his visit. Take care of yourself, my little club. Anyone who wants to meet up for a drink, respond. Gloria.

  As she finished reading the email, her cell phone rang and Maeve answered it without even checking the caller ID. She prepared herself to talk to the police on the other line, but for a long second she could only hear frantic breathing.

  “Millie?” Maeve asked. “Is that you?” She pulled the phone to see the number. Unknown.

  A woman’s voice came on the line. She whispered and every word was swallowed in hushed panic. “You don’t know me,” the woman said. A muffled cry. A slow hiss. “Derek Shelton is dangerous. He’s not who you think he is. Run away. Now.” Then the line went dead and the voice rattled around in Maeve’s head. She stared at the phone for as long as she could and then she turned to Derek.

  He pet Roger under the collar and along the rump, praising the dog for leaning into his touch. His T-shirt hung off his shoulder a bit, exposing his tanned arms and collarbone. Maeve’s hands began to shake.

  “What?” Derek asked. “You okay?”

  Maeve looked at the phone and then at the boy in her apartment. The boy she didn’t really know that well at all—the boy she wanted to know, but…no. She had two seconds to decide if she wanted to drop the phone call into his orbit to see how he’d respond or handle it herself.

  “Journalist,” Maeve answered, her throat dry. The lie was quick and easy and swallowed painlessly.

  “Shit,” Derek said and he stood up and walked over to her. “The madness is starting. Let’s put the phone on do not disturb and figure out breakfast. I’m sorry, Maeve. This isn’t how I…”

  He couldn’t find the words to finish.

  And Maeve couldn’t calm her hea
rt. She felt the pressure from the shock of that woman’s voice—Derek Shelton is dangerous—in her shoulders and in the tightness of her lungs, and she thought of his lips on hers and wondered if anything had been real in the past few days.

  “It’s fine,” she said to him, hoping she sounded believable. “Nothing I can’t deal with.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  He felt sorry for the girl. Why would anyone want to stick around when his life was so inevitably complicated? Derek moved between deep pangs of grief and anger—his dad was gone. Somewhere in the back of his head, he had almost expected this moment for years. Throughout his teenage years, Timothy would often make dark jokes about turning up dead.

  Derek wanted to do nothing but forget his past and yet it defined every part of his personhood.

  His thoughts wandered to Maeve.

  He’d been banking on her being cute when he made the call to invite her to dinner. And, even if she hadn’t been his type, he was already smitten by that point and was ready to forgive a multitude of sins. Then Maeve showed up and his world melted—how could someone like her exist? Funny. Talented. Her body, tall and slim, her brown hair straight and long, her stomach flat, and her chest perfect. God, then she’d say something hilarious and he’d lose it.

  Except, Maeve didn’t deserve the world of scrutiny and distrust.

  He thought of the ruthless headlines to come—the armchair detectives who’d no doubt find a way to include her in the conspiracy—and his single goal was to protect her. It was in his DNA to protect the ones he loved, and he knew that Maeve would inherently push his assistance away, she wouldn’t believe it could get that bad, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t try.

  His phone rang.

  He picked it up without thinking.

  “Hey,” a voice said, casual, calm. Derek knew it immediately. It was Julie. He tried to mask his disappointment—she’d see through that in a heartbeat.