aren’t in need of companionship like others.” He then looks up at me and smiles. “Or maybe he just hasn’t found the right woman yet.”
----
I n the evening , I arrive in the dining room to find the detective’s usual seat unoccupied. Mrs. Whitmore finishes laying out the meal, her gaze carefully focused on her task. Hungry, I sit at my end of the table and wait for Keenan. The moment the housekeeper leaves I begin to eat, deciding Keenan wouldn’t care about the usual dining room etiquette. But when my hunger slowly abates and my plate is nearly finished, he has yet to appear. The man doesn’t practice healthy eating habits, and I wonder how he’s managed to survive this long. An image of Keenan hunched over his desk as an abandoned cigarette slowly withers by his side flashes in my mind. Does he lock himself in his study constantly because he’s passionate about his work? Or has the man occupied his mind with work because he’s lost all passion in life?
I rise from my seat and leave the dining room in search of him. I immediately head toward his study and knock on the door, but he doesn’t answer. I know better than to think silence equates absence, so I knock more insistently and smile when his flustered voice travels through the door. His annoyance increases when I enter the room, mostly because he had just told me to go away. As I suspected, Keenan is hunched over his desk, examining a collection of papers with a frightening intensity. A cigarette lies in the ashtray beside him, a steady cloud of smoke rising with lazy deliberateness, but what I didn’t expect to see is the glass of liquor on his other side or his slightly inebriated state.
He doesn’t even bother to glance up from the document in his hand, and his voice is curt. “I said I wasn’t hungry.”
I respond in kind, my words revealing my peevish state. “Well, no wonder. You’ve already started drinking.”
He glances up suddenly, slightly surprised. It’s almost as if he didn’t expect his intruder to be me, but I find that idea baffling. Mrs. Whitmore must have knocked on his door earlier. His shock quickly dissipates, replaced by a swarm of emotions that struggle to dominate over one another. He rises from his seat and approaches me, shocking me even more. His eyes are bloodshot, and his tension slithers toward me threateningly.
“Alright, Moira, shall we go eat?”
My suspicion immediately rises. “I thought you weren’t hungry?”
“I am now,” he says, attempting to usher me out of his study.
I should follow him and ignore the gnawing suspicion inside me, but my desire for knowledge has never been denied. To leave now would be impossible, especially since the detective is hiding something. The fact he doesn’t wish me to know what is written on those papers should warn me it’s something I don’t want to see, but I’ve never been one to turn away from knowledge, even if it’ll hurt me. So instead of exiting with him, I maneuver around him and snatch one of the sheets. My eyes narrow as I realize it’s a concubine’s list of transactions.
“Moira–”
“Why are you looking over Rachel’s transactions? Or is this Mia’s?” When he doesn’t answer, I narrow my eyes and my voice tightens with distrust. “Why so much guilt, Detective?”
He exhales slowly, his stoicism deflating with the movement, and it’s the first time his eyes meet mine reluctantly. “It’s yours.”
“What’s mine?”
“The list of transactions,” he explains, gesturing to the paper in my hand. “It’s yours. Not Mia’s or Rachel’s.”
Ah, that would definitely explain the guilt drifting my way. For a while, I’m incapable of feeling anything other than bewilderment as several questions crop up, demanding to be answered.
“I see.” My voice is cold and emotionless, and my expression hardens into one I’ve seen plenty of times on his face. “And when did you decide to pull out the liquor? Was it before or after
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