Love Is The Bond: A Rowan Gant Investigation Read Free Page A

it quietly escaped his lifeless form.
    Then, and only then, did she receive her
reward.
    She now allowed
the fury to run rampant through her body as she stepped forward and
collapsed on the bed, writhing with an ecstasy not entirely of this
earth.
     
     
     
     
    11 Months Later
    Thursday, November 3
    7:23 A.M.
    St. Louis, Missouri
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER 1:
     
     
    “You knew I was taking these classes, Rowan.”
My petite, Irish-American wife made the statement and then paused
to poke her head through the neckline of a sleeveless, pullover
sweater then tug it down over her blouse. Quickly sliding her
thumbs along either side of her jaw, she gathered her recently
shower-dampened spirals of auburn hair and pulled them from the
back of the garment then allowed them to spill over her shoulders,
falling almost to her waist. She looked back at me and gave her
head an exaggerated shake. “So what’s the problem?”
    “I never said there was a problem,” I
replied.
    “You didn’t have to,” Felicity stated.
    Her normally soft, Celtic lilt was taking on
a far more discernable edge, and the colloquial speech of her
heritage was starting to add itself to the mix. While the undertone
was always there, it didn’t usually present itself so clearly
except under particular circumstances—such as being overtired,
inebriated, or surrounded by her relatives. Since I knew she was
none of the above, it could only mean one thing. She was getting
perturbed.
    “I’d call it more of a concern,” I told
her.
    “Semantics,” she chided.
    “Not really.”
    “So, you don’t have a problem with this
then?”
    “No… Yes…” I almost stuttered, fighting for
some middle ground with regard to my feelings. “I don’t know. I
just wish you’d said something earlier instead of springing it on
me like this.”
    “I’m not springing anything on you, Rowan,”
she returned. “I just took some photography classes, that’s
all.”
    “You’re the most sought after freelance
photographer in Saint Louis, Felicity,” I objected. “You
don’t just take some
photography classes.”
    “If I’m going to maintain that reputation,
then I have to keep up on new techniques now, don’t I?”
    “Quit dancing around it. You specifically
took certification courses on crime scene photography.”
    “Fine,” she spat. “Yes. I took classes on
forensic, crime scene, and evidence photography to be exact. And,
yes, I’m certified now.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I passed the final exam.”
    “You know what I mean.”
    “Because it’s an aspect of the business I
wasn’t familiar with.”
    “And it doesn’t have anything to do with Ben
mentioning the freelance consultant program for the police
department?”
    She tried to sidestep the question. “You were
sitting right there when he asked me if I was interested, and you
didn’t object then.”
    “No, I didn’t.” I gave a slight nod. “But,
that was what? Seven, maybe eight months ago? As I recall, you said
you were going to think about it.”
    “Aye, I did think about it,” she shot back. She fixed her
jade-green eyes on me and arched her eyebrow, daring me to
challenge her response.
    “And, apparently you came to a decision,” I
said with a half-hearted shrug.
    “Aye, that I did.”
    “And now you’ve taken these classes, which
tells me your decision is that you’re going to sign up for the
consultant gig.”
    She nodded. “Probably.”
    “Probably?”
    “Okay then. Yes. I am.”
    “Felicity, it’s not like we need the money.
Between my business and yours, we’re in great shape. The house is
paid for, our investments are stable, we’ve…”
    She didn’t let me finish. “Money isn’t the
point, Row. It’s something I want to do.”
    “You WANT to take pictures of dead bodies?
Victims of violent murders? Suicides?” I asked with more than a
note of incredulity in my voice.
    “It’s not likely to even come to that,” she
explained. “The freelance program is