The Vanishing Girls by Callie Browning (read this if txt) 📕

of ink bled through piles of receipts, leaving a faint blue ring around Holden’s glass as weak sunlight peaked through the faded blinds. His head was face down on the open ledger, his eyes squeezed shut as his mind tried to navigate the fuzzy edges the brandy had lent to his reality. In the background, the parliament clock's incessant clanging was louder than usual; Holden felt sure it was trying to punish him for what he had done. Surprisingly, Clifford had strolled in two hours earlier than usual, toting brandy and a glass and left them on Holden’s desk without saying a word. As Holden poured, he reflected that as kooky as Clifford was, he was infinitely dependable, even if it meant that Holden's liver would pay the price later. Holden downed three shots in quick succession and then planted his head in the middle of the ledger, replaying the last twenty-four hours in his head.

His life sank back into the pre-Eileen quagmire that he recognized but no longer wanted any part of. His mood had vacillated between anger and despair since she'd quit. He cursed himself for making love to his employee and yanked his hair as he tried to find a way out of Paul’s latest snare trap. At first, Holden had been annoyed with Eileen’s lack of patience, although he was honest enough to admit that Paul had a way of pissing on anything that Holden held dear. Yes, it was his lot in life to look after the business, even if it meant tolerating his brother until both of them were cold in the grave, but that shouldn’t be Eileen’s cross to bear. A murderous impulse stole over Holden as he savoured the thought, but even he knew he didn’t have it in him to kill.

By noon, he’d picked up the phone and put it back down four times. He wanted to call but he suspected that Eileen’s steel-tipped tongue would eviscerate him no matter what he said. Holden knew he loved her, knew he wanted to give her everything, but all he could give her was lip service and not the good kind.

The bell tinkled as the front door opened and Derricks’ hulking figure entered the room. Holden grumbled under his breath. He felt his inner old man coming alive, the version of himself who complained when the mail was late and pouted when his favourite TV show was cancelled. Derricks had gone missing for days on end and had never returned his call. Now he showed up unannounced and expected Holden to comb through files to cover up the government’s negligence. To say that Holden was not in the mood was an understatement.

Derricks spread the files on the table and poured himself a glass of brandy while Holden looked through them; luckily, there were only fifteen.

“How’s Lynch faring in the new post?” asked Holden as he opened the first manila folder.

Derricks smacked his lips. “Not bad you know. Another pathologist was seconded to assist him so he’ll be fine.”

Holden eyed Donna Green's report. “I don’t see any mention of the pollen we found on her, so I’ll add that. It’s the second time I’ve come across pollen on these victims.”

Derricks nodded and sipped his brandy. “Make a note, young Davis, and I’ll investigate.”

His face sobered when he looked at the label on the next file: Lloyd Greaves. “It’s hard to believe he's gone. He wasn’t the nicest fellow, but it’s taking time for me to accept that he’s gone.”

The commissioner nodded and leaned back in the chair as he cradled his glass in his hands. “How come you’re taking so long to organize his funeral? He should have been buried by now.”

“Me?” Holden was surprised. “Dorothy said she was sending him overseas to be cremated since the island doesn’t have the facilities here to do it.”

Derricks squinted at him. “She never mentioned that to me. You think she’s losing her marbles like Thorpe?”

But Holden didn’t answer. He had reopened Donna Green’s folder and slid it next to Lloyd Greaves’. The handwriting on both was markedly different, even though they were both signed by V. Thorpe.

“Look at these. Which one is Thorpe’s handwriting?”

Derricks squinted at the files. “His penmanship is fairly scratchy. Looks more like this one." He tapped the one on the left.

“So who filled out this other report?”

Derricks rubbed his beard and shook his head slowly. “Young Davis, this is definitely a problem.”

Chapter 28

Happy Home

In theory, being at Happy Home was just like working at Davis and Sons. The commute was nearly the same since both businesses were less than five minutes drive apart. But while Davis and Sons was all business with its casket catalogues, polaroids of wreaths in a leather-bound album, Happy Home oozed cheerful charisma. It was housed in a well-kept grey building with a sign on the outside that didn’t lose one of its peeling letters whenever it rained. The homey interior was modern with verdant potted ferns in every corner and flowering plants on almost every surface. Framed photos of the Greaves family lined the walls in the waiting area, most of them featuring the proud founders with their two children. Work finished at four sharp and in the three days Eileen had been away from Davis & Sons, Dorothy had only asked her to do make-up and administrative tasks. It was the job Eileen ached for months ago, but now that she had it, she was miserable.

Eileen missed Clifford’s irreverence, driving to parts of the island she had never seen and Holden’s droll humour. Three days had passed since she’d left Davis and Sons. In that time, Holden hadn’t sent flowers, called or even stopped by her apartment to talk. She knew because she had stayed up late waiting to see if he would visit. It hurt to think that she’d crossed the professional line with him, but it burned her to the core to know that she had almost bared her soul to him, possibly