Epilogue
Over three hundred years before the Christian Era, Aristotle observed: “Spoken words are the symbols of mental experience, and written words are symbols of spoken words. Just as all men have not the same speech sounds, so all men have not the same writing.”
“Handwriting: A Key to Personality” by Klara Roman
Nick and Kat left Burrows’ office and headed down the sidewalk. He put his arm around her, settled her head on his shoulder. Tie askew, coat slung over his shoulder, his appearance echoed his surface calm, not the maelstrom within.
“Can we drive by Heritage Hall?”
Nick eyed her suspiciously, the request seeming a little strange considering the late hour. He hedged. “It’s late; you’re still slimed from the woods and must be tired. Don’t you just want to head home?”
“It’s almost on the way,” she pleaded, looking wistful and tired. He didn’t need her explanation to convince him he’d do whatever she asked, but he let her continue talking as they walked to the car.
“It’s a peaceful place for me and reminds me of why I work at the university. I always find strength in the steeple. Don’t you just love it? Especially at night?”
Nick admitted giving it little thought until now.
She explained the personal symbolism. “It’s a beacon to redirect my thinking at times. I need the solace of just sitting there for a few minutes tonight.”
He conceded, “Actually, it’s an excellent choice. It’s where it all began.” He unlocked the car doors and settled her inside. She didn’t question him on what he meant. When he started up the car and turned on the heater she was reminded she wanted to ask him about the car.
“What happened to your Austin Healy? I meant to ask earlier. You still have it don’t you?”
“Sure, we never part for long. This is a loaner from G.
L.’s business. We have a loose partnership at the moment. We’ll finalize after
Ludlow
finds a replacement. I’ll ask him to step up the search now that this mess with Carlos is over.”
They parked in front of Heritage Hall as he finished dropping that bombshell so nonchalantly.
“You’re staying around here? Permanently?”
He nodded, wishing he could see her face in the darkened car. Was she happy about that, or merely surprised?
They wandered around the grassy area near Heritage Hall, the lighted steeple highlighted in stark contrast to the deep blue sky now that the rain had subsided. They discussed the murder, and the subsequent actions of Carlos.
Kat agonized over the inability to pin down the murderer through the handwriting analysis. He talked her through her concerns; reminding her of her own words, that analysis can show tendencies but evidence must be found to arrest someone for murder.
“I know. You’re right. And we did eliminate a lot of suspects and showed that Carlos was the one to watch. It was the evidence that was conflicting. Maybe I wouldn’t have pressed him so much if his writing had been different.”
She stood still, staring at the beacon, seeking confidence. “For now, it’s resolved. I guess I can accept that handwriting analysis brought us a long way to the right suspects. Maybe I need to try some graphotherapy myself, to change my thinking.”
“Nick smiled, thinking of assimilating her handwriting analysis in the future with his detective work. He walked with her, holding her hand and turning the conversation to insubstantial things—anything to help her wind down. They ended near the parking lot and turned for one last look at the steeple.
“It all began here when I leapt into your car that night.” She tightened her hold on his hand while she turned to face him, wanting to ask, “What began.” His wince at the firmer grip startled her and she studied his hands in the moonlight, finally seeing the scraped and bloody skin on his fingers from his struggle with Carl.
“Nick, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you were injured. Let’s go home and I’ll bandage your hands.”
“Kiss me and make it better.”
“That’s not quite how it goes.”
“It works for me.” Nick tangled his fist in her hair gently, the scraped knuckles forgotten. She kissed him with all her pent up feelings.
“Did that help?”
“Not quite enough. Marry me and make it better.”
Startled, Kat tilted her head to look into his eyes, knowing what she wanted to say but fearful.
“You don’t know much about me.”
She looked down at her ruined shoes. “You don’t have a clue how many shoes I own. What if you couldn’t handle my style?”
Glancing down at her mucky shoes, gathered up at the end of the fight in the park, Nick said. “Someone like you needs a lot of shoes. And all of your styles fit me fine.”
“Oh, Nick!” Kat kissed him again, weaving her fingers through his luxuriant hair, holding tight. When Nick came up for air he murmured, “I guess that’s a yes. Works better than any herbal salve, too.”