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Detective Arthur Bryant will not live to see the new year.
Chapter
Thirty-Three
HIM
Even before we pulled into William’s driveway, the lights blinded me.
The Holloway residence is expansive, with long winding pathways leading up to the main house. Colored lights hang from the roof and windows, and a snowman with a blue scarf and top hat stands in the yard, accompanied by an illuminated life-sized sleigh and reindeer. It’s all so … excessive.
And headache-inducing.
I exit the rental car and circle around to open the passenger side. As I take Gwen’s hand and help her out, I steal a glance at her breasts in her low-cut black dress. She stands, swatting me in retribution. I chuckle, desperate to ignore the impulse to stab someone if they so much aslookat her funny.
“Let’s get this over with,” she says, adjusting her burgundy shawl.
Damn, she looks fantastic in red and black, I think, guiding her further into the property. Stereotypical Christmas music fills the air, accompanied by laughter as we approach the entrance of my boss’s house, where I’ll have to put up with my coworkers after hours. A large evergreen wreath adorned with glittering pinecones hangs on the door. I ring the bell and wait.
“Are you okay?” Gwen asks, glimpsing me through her mascara-plumped lashes.
I smile weakly. “I’m fine. Nothing to worry about. Just a headache.”
“I have some aspirin in my purse,” she offers before the door bursts open.
“Ho, ho, ho!” David—dressed as fucking Santa Claus—greets with a jolly laugh. He wears a scarlet suit and fake mustache, the works. “Come in, come in!”
“For fucksakes,” I mutter as he ushers us in, more annoyed than impressed by his costume.
After a maid collects our coats, we follow David’s lead further inside. The music gets louder as we cross the grand foyer and reach the living room, where an enormous tree is covered in sparkling baubles and dusted with fake snow. Presents peek out from underneath, and twinkling green and red tinsel is draped on the edges of every surface. Above, hanging from the high ceiling, a chandelier bathes the room in a warm glow.
Like I said, fucking excessive.
I shouldn’t have expected anything less from William. He’s loaded, and not because of the newspaper. It’s all old money. He’s the type of guy to show off, and this office Christmas party is no exception. With wealth like his, moderation is unacceptable.
“Hey, guys! Blake and his girl, Mia, are here!” David says, unfortunately reminding me of his presence.
I fight the urge to rub my temples as my coworkers welcome us with varying levels of enthusiasm. They’re scattered about, holding drinks and plates of food, and they return to chat about things I couldn’t care less about right now.
“You look fucking ridiculous,” I remark, shaking my head at David.
He slings his arm around my shoulder. “Aw, lighten up,” he says, the alcohol on his breath unmistakable. “Pour yourself a cocktail at the bar and enjoy the evening, Sullivan.”
I shrug him off and note the bar erected in the room’s corner, near a grand piano. Silently, I thank whatever deity that some wasted asshole isn’t attemptingMoonlight Sonata.
“Let’s get something to eat,” Gwen suggests, gesturing toward the tables.
Relieved to get away from David, I go with her. Set up on silver platters are various appetizers, a cheeseboard, and an impressive array of desserts. I grab a plate from the stacks and indulge in the admittedly delicious-looking food.
After loading up my plate with roasted potatoes, a slice of glazed ham, and a bar of apple crumble, we find a corner near the windows to settle in. While enjoying our meal, we take in our surroundings and I notice that Gwen, though not fully honed, has a keen eye for detail that reminds me of my own.
David does his rounds around the room, slurring some nonsense I’m sure nobody cares to listen to, as most of the partygoers are already—at minimum—tipsy.
Gwen rolls her eyes at him as he passes by for the third time. “Does he always act like this?” she asks, before nibbling on her vegetable skewer.
“He does,” I respond between bites. “Typically, less alcohol is involved.”
Right on cue, David trips over his own feet and falls face-first. Some people laugh, but he doesn’t seem ashamed. Ugh. The thought of publicly embarrassing myself like that is mortifying. I dive into my potatoes, unable to feel the Christmas cheer, my mind consumed with thoughts of murdering Detective Bryant.
