CHAPTER TWELVE

It took Molly a few minutes, upon waking in the morning, to recall the night before, or anything for that matter. She had woken slowly, rising from the haze of deep slumber. She had been lying in bed for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, before she even registered that she wasn't in her own flat. A second later, she realised she wasn't wearing anything more than sheets. Dread set in then, just for a moment, and she shot up in bed, looking around herself.

The overly decadent design of the room around her stimulated the rest of the memory of hiding from the stalker in some ritzy holiday spot in Carlisle with Greg.

She turned red as his name popped back into her brain, as the full memory came into perspective.

When it came to sex, Molly was not inexperienced – under-experienced, certainly, especially for a woman of thirty-two who had never been married. She'd been hurt by one too many pricks while she was in University to be quick to get into bed throughout her adulthood. Up until the night before.

The night before, she and Greg became a mess of grinding hips and hot skin and ragged breaths. They rolled over for another go more times alone than Molly actually had sex on individual accounts. Which explained how she'd wound up back in the bed, anyhow, considering she barely remembered being in the bed. On the sofa, on the island in the kitchen, on the stairs and against the wall all had much more vivid memories.

She sighed. It was hard to keep everything straight in her head already. On one hand, she was so comfortable with Greg. And one glance from him could set her off. She'd never felt quite this strongly on so many levels about a person. It wasn't simple fascination or liking the feeling of someone fancying her. It was him – completely and utterly – everything about him did something to her.

If that was all there was, everything would be simple. It would work. Judging by the way they'd gotten on the night before, he certainly at least fancied her on a physical level. If that was it, she would be ecstatic, with the excitement on the horizon.

Unfortunately, there was more than that. And, she could not shake him – her nameless stalker. He even told her that she didn't know where she was, and that should've calmed her mind, yet, it did not. She was still nervous of what was around the corner, still hated to see windows drawn. It made no sense.

Had she and Greg messed it all up? Would it have been better to just wait? In spite of herself, Molly found herself smiling. That was the exact train of thought she had when she'd lost her virginity to her University boyfriend at eighteen. Fourteen years, apparently, didn't make that much of a difference.

Looking in the mirror opposite the bed, she laughed at her rat's nest of hair. Finding Greg's shirt where it fell on the floor, she shrugged it on, tugged a comb over her head, and headed down the staircase.

Greg sat at the table, busying himself with overly blackened toast, and a newspaper.

"Morning," Molly said, suddenly finding herself grinning as she crossed the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. "How'd you sleep?"

"When you finally let me get to sleep?" He looked up at her, finding his lips stuck in a grin as well. "Very well, thanks."

It felt so normal, Greg thought, slightly shocked. Sitting in a kitchen, waiting for Molly to emerge from the bedroom, making small talk over coffee. Of course, it really was anything but normal.

Though, it didn't have to be. Realistically, it could become the new normal. They just had some obstacles to go through first.

And, these obstacles were, more or less, all he thought about during the day. He was on near constant video-conference with his team. Asking about DNA tests, any developments, shooting out ideas, looking for anybody who could have been suspicious. They were all getting a bit pissed off, but he did not particularly care at the time.

But, at night yet again, the obstacles seemed to vanish into thin air, and somehow he wound up back under covers with Molly, moving with her, memorising the shape of her mouth, the contour of her sides, and seeing exactly what he could do with it all – and what she could do to him.

He signed off video-chat, after a long day of finding nothing (yet again), and with a sigh began to sink into the chair, hands pressing into his brows, massaging his temples.

From behind him, Molly wrapped her arms around his neck, "Hey," she said softly. "It's all right."

"It really doesn't seem like it."

She caressed the top of his neck, playing with his hair, "But it won't do us any good to worry over it."

"And what would do us good?" He asked, turning his head towards her, giving her a quick kiss.

Molly had a soft gleam in her eyes. "I started the shower; it should be hot by now."

Greg hopped up to his feet. "Race you."

In this way, they managed to keep each other from worrying too much. In each other, they found distraction. It was impossible to think of any possible danger with hot water pouring over them, as he pressed against her and she suckled on his neck.

He couldn't remember the last time a woman had been quite so consuming. When they were together, it became hard to think of anything else. Just the way the pressure of the water attacked his skin, and her arms around him, loud to each of his senses.

It was different than things were in the past. It was more than just sex. He liked her smile, and her conversations. The way she tripped over her tongue so easily was rather endearing—he never would have expected that particular reaction, but he'd always thought that way about her. Not to mention, he found her extremely attractive.

She was really something else, as far as Greg was concerned. Sweet and loyal, she potentially revamped every opinion he thought he had on women.

He liked the way she spoke to him. There was a hint of admiration in her voice occasionally, as though she really thought he was something else. He hadn't had that in years – everyone usually disregarded him, but with Molly, it was the opposite.

For once, he made a conscious effort to stay awake long enough to talk with her afterwards. He hadn't done that since his second anniversary with his wife.

Then, lying on his side, facing her on the next pillow over, they would talk.

"Do you really think you'll find him?" Molly asked one night, wide eyes shimmering in the dark.

"Yeah." Greg said sleepily, but unable to take his eyes off her. "We're putting him in prison before he can lay a finger on you or on anybody else."

Molly nodded, even if she didn't quite believe it, it helped to hear him sound so sure of himself.

"You know," He mused, rolling onto his back, and pulling Molly in to lean on his chest. "He was responsible for my first unsolved case."

Wrinkling her brow, Molly frowned. "Was he? And you still have no idea who he is?"

Greg shrugged. "What can I say? He's thorough. And this was before Sherlock, anyway…sorry."

"Sorry? About what?"

"Mentioning Sherlock. Probably still a sore spot with you."

"It's been a year, Greg. Time heals." Molly sighed, yearning for a subject change. "But, anyway. You were saying, about your first unsolved case."

He cocked a brow at her odd behaviour. However, he figured it was simply because of unresolved feelings over Holmes, and shrugged. "Her name was Celeste Paxton. Eighteen. Stalked and murdered, just like Shaelee Birdie. We had pretty much nothing to go on. I suspected her boyfriend for a bit, but we hit a wall with him."

"Her boyfriend?" Molly frowned. "Doesn't that go against his…oh, what'd you call it? Profile, or something?"

"Not really. He thought she was cheating on him with Billy."

"Billy?"

"Yeah: Billy Morrison."

Molly stopped, feeling something creep gown her spine. She sat up slowly, her face frozen. "Greg…I think I know him."

"What?" He sat up as well, and they almost bumped heads.

Molly nodded. "Yeah. He…he was at Bart's the day I looked at Birdie's body. He asked me out."

Greg could have sworn his heart stopped beating. The look of sheer horror on his face nearly made Molly want to run away or vomit – he never looked like that, so afraid, so out of control.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, the new sudden connection forming before his very eyes.

"My God," He muttered. "We have our connection."

With this, he stood up, pulling on pyjama bottoms as he hopped down the stairs to the desktop, with Molly following behind, pulling on a white dressing gown.

The screen was blank, but then flashed, and in came the image of the ginger techie, Collin. He hardly noticed at first, his eyes drawn downward, apparently rubbing in hand sanitizer.

Upon looking up, the techie turned green for a second, but then let out a barking laugh. "My God! I was right. You two are shagging up there! Looks like I'm eighty quid richer."

"Shut up," Greg said sharply, before pausing. "Wait, you bet on us?"

"Not just me," Collin said. "The whole floor. And some doctor chap named John's in on it too. We all knew you were on the pull."

Molly stared at the computer screen, flushing pink from embarrassment. How could it be so obvious?

Greg rubbed his temples passively, sighing from annoyance.

"The Chief Superintendent is going to be so brassed at you, sir." Collin still couldn't wipe the smirk from his face.

"And you're not gonna tell him," Greg snapped back his order. "It's none of your business, anyway."

"Fine, sir," the hacker said, shaking his head. "What can I do for you? Just so you know, though, the web cam wasn't on, if that's what you're worried about. I wasn't shooting no porno or anything."

"Oh, yeah, that's really reassuring," Greg mumbled sarcastically. Then he shook his head. "No, I'm calling because I think we have a lead."

"A lead?" Collin blinked.

"On the Paxton-Birdie-Hooper case?"

Molly could have smiled had she been less afraid. It was a bit of a mouthful.

"Oh. Right." Collin said, sitting up straight in his chair. "What'd you have?"

"I need everything you've got on Celeste Paxton's former boyfriend, William Morrison."

Collin blinked. "I thought he checked out fine?"

"I've got new suspicion." Greg mumbled.

Molly, with nothing else to do, side-stepped out of the room, and returned momentarily with a shirt over her arm, and two cups of tea in her hands. She promptly gave one to Greg, and took the other in both her arms.

"Found anything?" She asked.

Greg pressed his lips together. "Collin's looking."

"Aha, here we are," the techie said, eyes darting from one side of his own screen to the other. "Nothing major, though."

"Well, read it out." Greg said, absentmindedly putting his hand on Molly's waist as he listened.

"All right then," Collin began to read. "William Edgemont Morrison. Born in East London. Thirty-two. Failed out of Kings College in '99. Couldn't afford to go back to any other university. Been married once – apparently a really rummy relationship, looks like she got him arrested for…" Collin squinted at his computer screen. "Driving a getaway car chock-full of heroin. Went to rehab. Is currently clean. And looks like he's a public services custodian, at the moment."

Greg furrowed his brows. "Does he happen to clean the London Library?"

Collin began typing furiously. He blew up his stubbly cheeks for a moment, hard in concentration. Then, he grinned. "Oh, got it."

"What is it?" Molly asked from the arm of Greg's chair.

"Oh, hi, Molly. Didn't see you there," Collin waved slightly, then coughed. "Anyway. Yeah. Morrison's on the rotation for cleaning the London Library."

"That connects him to all three of you." Greg murmured.

"And I'm sending an emergency page to Donovan right now," Collin said, typing away. "Thank God she works late. And we'll get him arrested for the murders of Celeste Paxton and Shaelee Birdie and on suspicion of stalking Molly Hooper."

"Oy," Greg said, a playful glint in his eye. "Don't try going and stealing my job."

Collin smiled back. "Wouldn't dream of it, sir."

When they hung up and the computer screen went blank, Molly stood in the middle of the room, rather dumbstruck. Then, she grinned wide as possible. "Is that it then?"

"Afraid not," Greg said, shaking his head, hating to see her grin disappear so quickly. "He had an alibi for the first murder. Probably had an accomplice or something we need to watch out for." He paused. "But I wager you're safe to return to London, if you'd like. We can get packed up."

"Or," Molly said, a slight gleam in her eye. "We could do something else. Any ideas?"

Greg cocked a brow. "Just one."

Sergeant Sally Donovan walked through the doors of the Interrogation Room, watching a rather dishevelled young man whimper and whinge at the table.

Using her most professional face, she walked up to man, putting a file on the silvery surface between them.

As horrible as it sounded, she sort of liked being on her own for this case – proving she could do it might just be the push the Chief Superintendent needed to give her a promotion once a position opened up – and with the way things were going with Greg...well, she hoped he wouldn't have any hard feelings.

"All right," She said. "You know why you're here."

"Not really, no." Morrison said, snivelling pathetically. "I ain't got a clue."

Opening the file, Donovan put three professional photographs on the table between them. One of Celeste Paxton, one of Shaelee Birdie, and one of Molly Hooper. "Who are these?" She asked, "Your girlfriends?"

Morrison looked at the pictures, giving a baffled expression. "One was – bloody fif'een years ago! 'Fore she got 'erself killed."

"She got herself killed, Mr Morrison?" Donovan grabbed firm hold of the statement. "Or did you do it?"

"Oh, bloody 'ell," Morrison said, grabbing onto fistfuls of hair. "I dint kill 'er! I was in France."

"What about for her?" Donovan said, picking up the photograph of Shaelee Birdie. "Where were you when she died?"

"I dun even know who tha' is!" Morrison protested.

"Shaelee Birdie. Works at the London Library." Donovan said evenly. "When you clean."

"An' 'cause my old universi'y gelfrien' was killed, I'm a suspec'?" He shook his head in disbelief. "I can' move on or nothin' can I?"

Donovan folded her arms across her chest tightly. "Because Shaelee Birdie was killed by the same man – who was doing the same thing – stalking. You are the only connection they have. And even though you were out of the country when Celeste died, you're obviously connected somehow. So you'd better start talking. It's over."

Morrison shook his head vehemently. "I dunno! Never seen 'er 'fore!"

"You know what happened to them, don't you?" Donovan said, settling into the chair opposite Morrison. "Drugged. Raped. Cut in the throat."

He twitched.

"Twice, wasn't it, Billy?"

"SHUT UP!" He slammed his hand on the table. "I din't do i'!"

"You'd better have one good alibi." Donovan said, clearly unimpressed. Then, she lifted the third photograph, the one of Molly Hooper. "Recognise her?"

The way Morrison's jaw dropped was good enough of an answer as any.

"You fancy her? Think she's pretty?"

Morrison honestly looked utterly flabbergasted. He was good, Sally would give him that, too bad for him she had experience with psychopaths.

"Wha'?" He said. "'s a crime now to chat somebody up in an 'ospi'al?"

"It might be." Donovan said, leaning over the questioning table. "Unless you've got a good reason why she's been stalked – just like the other two. Ever since you two met." She lowered her voice. "You can see where this is going, can't you?"

Morrison's brows drew together. "I ain't no s'alker. I mean, Chris' I me' 'er once. Dint even ask 'er out af'erward."

"So you developed a fake relationship with her, following her everywhere."

"No. Bloody well forgot 'bout 'er." Morrison said, adamantly. "She ain't exac'ly my type. So fligh'y, quie' y'know? Quiet ones ain' the best for da'ing. Quiet, shy – that don' work for me no more. Besides. She got a nice enough face, but seriously lackin' in other asse's if you s'cuse me for bein' crass, Sergean'."

Donovan paused. Morrison had just negated the entire profile. Obviously trying to shift the blame from him. If only he knew – nobody said a thing about the profile, and he had just given her a complete foil.

"Does it bother you?" She asked solidly.

Morrison seemed taken aback. "Does wha' bother me?"

"Talking so badly about Molly—Kitten, you called her in your emails. Why now are you denying what you obviously feel about her? What are you trying to prove?"

"I don' fuckin' know 'er!" Morrison yelled. "I dint do nothin'!"

Donovan sighed. This was going to be more difficult than she imagined. For a split second, she almost wished Greg was in the interrogation room too. Almost.