Caskets & Conspiracies

by Nellie K Neves

  “Are you okay?” he asked cautiously.

  I ignored the question. I did not have a good answer for him.

  “Thanks for the clothes.”

  His expression noted the way I had dodged his question and as if to assuage the fears I had not voiced, he said, “You’ll feel better after some sleep, I think.”

  I had been buried alive and left for dead. I was not sure I would ever feel better again, but he did not need to know that.

  “How are things going for you?”

  Ryder was not willing to talk about his own life just yet. “A lot has happened, but we should talk about it tomorrow.”

  “Do you have to go in?”

  “No. I made up an excuse. Just sent a message to Calhoun. The next time I go in, I want this over with.”

  One of my trembling hands came to rest on his back, his muscles tensing slightly as I touched him. I was not sure why I did it. It just felt natural.

  “I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you.”

  He caught my eye for a second and said, “It’s not so bad at Pharmaco. I have a job to do, and I know it’s important to bring all of this to light.”

  In the next instant he looked away, his voice still soft.

  “But the worst is sharing a house with Charles again. The smug look he gives me each night, like he’s the reason I’m alive. Just the thought that I am his puppet again, even if it isn’t real, it cuts me up. I can feel the hatred in my veins like a poison, and I loathe what he turns me into.”

  I had to bite my lip to keep the tears at bay.

  “I’m so sorry that I’ve pulled you into this. You were happy before me. Maybe it would have been better if—”

  He cut me off before I could say it. “Being here with you, even in these circumstances, it’s like, I don’t know, anti-venom. His poison can’t touch me when you’re around.” His Adam’s apple bobbed slightly as his eyes traveled over my face. His fingers brushed the bruise on my temple, his voice barely audible as he asked, “Does it hurt?”

  I shrugged. “It’s on my right side. I can barely feel it. Just a little perk of my disease.” Truth was I could feel the pounding inside my head, but I did not want to relinquish self-control, not for even a moment, not even if it meant less pain.

  “You need sleep,” Ryder said as if the thought had just occurred to him. He stood and pulled back the blankets. “My room is right below you, so if you need anything, just call. I’m a light sleeper. I’ll hear you.”

  I stared at the white sheets warily. The idea of being horizontal again still made me nervous.

  “Would you stay? At least until I fall asleep.” I had no right to ask, but being alone was not something I was ready for.

  “Of course,” he agreed quickly.

  As I settled in on my side, Ryder flipped the switch that plunged the room into darkness. I sucked in a deep breath, and my burning lungs wouldn’t allow me to exhale as the memory of the casket took over. Rationally, I knew it was not real, but I could smell the pine and feel the compression. I was trapped once more.

  The light flipped on, and Ryder knelt low by my side. “What’s wrong? What did I do?”

  “The dark,” I managed between gasping for air, “I can’t. Too dark.”

  He realized what I had gone through. “I should have— I’m sorry. Just breathe, okay?”

  He left me for a moment to switch on a lamp at his desk before turning off the overhead light again. My breathing evened out as I reminded myself I was safe. Ryder’s gaze moved from the floor to the bed, weighing his options and trying to decide which would give me more comfort without assuming too much about our relationship.

  Finally he asked, “What do you need from me, Lindy?”

  My thoughts went back to the night that I had lost Stella, the strength I had received while in his arms. I feared, just as I had that night, I could not survive on my own.

  “Stay,” I whispered, and he immediately understood.

  Crawling from the bottom of the mattress to fit into the space behind me, he wrapped one arm over my hip and pulled me close, my head resting against his other arm. As before, it was not about romance. It was comfort, comfort from a friend, my only friend and my solace in turbulent times. Every time my body tensed as the memory took over, his presence, even just the musky smell of him, brought me back to reality, back to safety again, until finally sleep won and I drifted away into my exhaustion.

  Chapter 22

  Light streamed in from the window, nearly blinding in its intensity. I squeezed my eyelids shut, but no amount of effort on my part could keep it at bay. I finally opened my eyes and let consciousness wash over me. The space was unfamiliar and disconcerting, but I quickly remembered.

  The church. The cemetery. Ryder’s room.

  I pushed back the blankets and set my feet on the hardwood floor, cold on my bare skin. My head still swam with exhaustion and pain, but I was grateful the confusion had faded with the daylight. Easing down the steps, I ventured to the second floor to find Ryder. As I stepped onto the open floor plan, I noticed a note on the counter near some muffins.

  “Eat something and rest some more. –Dr. Ryder”

  I chuckled at his sweet humor but declined the second instruction. I was done sleeping. I needed to do something. This had to end. One way or another. Picking up a muffin, apple cinnamon, I followed the swirling stairs down to the bottom floor, sensing that Ryder would have retreated to his studio to center himself.

  My footsteps were silent against the metal steps, though when I saw him and how entranced he was by his work, I had to wonder if he would have noticed anyway.

  His back was to me as I lowered myself to the third step from the bottom. He wore no shirt. His skin was tan. I was not sure why I was surprised he didn’t have a tattoo. Maybe because every guy I had ever dated had at least one. Even Kip. The muscles of his toned back rippled and rolled as his arm stretched and glided over the piece he worked on. It was the same one he had covered the night before to hide from me. I couldn’t make out the subject, but it was easy to see his passion as he worked.

  My father had taken me to a symphony once while I was in my junior year. It was my mom’s idea. Neither one of us wanted to go, but she felt as though he had taken me to one too many ball games and that I needed some culture. I don’t remember much about the music or the orchestra, but I loved watching the conductor. Every move he made compelled a swell or rush of sound as if his body were the air in every flute, the mallet on every drum. I’ll never forget his thin white hair and the way it wafted back and forth like seaweed on an ocean floor, barely tethered, but controlled by the movement of the music. He made it feel magical, even to a cynical tomboy like me.

  Watching Ryder work was like watching that conductor. He saw something beyond the lines. I could almost hear music in his sweeping arms and flicks of the hand. Charcoal smudged over his arm as he tried to wipe a hand clean on his skin. With two fingers he smudged the lines, surveyed his work, and collapsed into a chair with an aggravated groan, completely unsatisfied with his work.

  The drawing he worked on felt out of place in comparison with the rest of the artwork in the room. Large metal sculptures, geometric shapes that were welded at awkwardly beautiful angles, caught my attention after a full night’s sleep. One in the corner was especially beautiful. An array of steel pipes joined at one point and splayed out, almost like a crashing wave and its undertow.

  To me, each piece had the same message: balance. And for Ryder, it fit. I had noticed it before. He was a delicate balance of tough but gentle, strong but damaged, sophisticated yet poor. Such an intricate dance might break someone else, but Ryder managed it with ease.

  He stared at the piece he was working on, still unaware of my presence. I could hear him mumbling to himself but not so well that I could make out the words. Wanting to see the drawing, I leaned to my right, balancing carefully by the railing of the stairs.

  With a new angle, the picture transfo
rmed. The long, arching lines became hair, the smudge was the pupil of an eye, and tiny specks built a smattering of freckles. It was like looking in a mirror or rather seeing myself though someone else’s eyes. It was only half my face, the left side, the side I could always feel, and that made me love the drawing that much more. I wondered why he was frustrated. I had never looked so good in my life.

  “It’s beautiful,” I whispered more to myself than to Ryder, but in the silence of his studio my tiny voice echoed.

  Ryder almost fell out of his chair, spinning with his hand to his chest. He grabbed his shirt from a nearby table and pulled it over his bare chest.

  “How long have you been there?”

  His accusatory tone caused a pang of guilt for my intrusion.

  “I’m sorry. I came to find you, and I didn’t want to interrupt. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  The initial shock wore off, and his frustration faded quickly.

  “No. It’s me. I’m sorry. I get in a zone and I just— I’m sorry.” His gaze traveled back to the portrait of me, hesitant, as if he wanted to cover it again. “You like it?”

  I pulled myself from the stair, my body still a little weak and sore. “I love it. It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s you,” he said, as if it needed clarification and an apology all at once.

  Stepping closer, I noticed the way he had captured the stubborn pinch of my lips and the tense cynicism of my inner eye.

  “Did you do this from memory?” I asked as I resisted the urge to touch a few of the freckles on the page. “I thought artists needed something to work from.”

  His voice betrayed just how vulnerable he felt with me in such a sacred place.

  “Normally, yes, but I have this image burned in my mind. I won’t ever forget it.”

  I looked back at the portrait again, straining to see what he saw. It sounded as if it were a specific moment in time. I could not draw it to mind. When I looked back to him, he clarified.

  “The day you came to ask about the masquerade. I was in here staring at this blank sheet, and you knocked on the door. When you said you wanted a date, I couldn’t believe it. But then…” he laughed, “Well, you know. You got all Lindy on me, and I found out just how little it meant.”

  I pressed my lips together to hide my shame for my actions. It was a wonder he hadn’t left me to die in that casket.

  “Ryder, I was desperate, and it was wrong…”

  He ignored my comment and continued with his story.

  “I followed you out because somehow I knew you would be arrogant enough to go alone to the masquerade. I yelled after you, and you spun around, eyes blazing, ready for a fight just like always.” He stopped as if caught in the memory itself, reliving the moment all over again.

  “The wind blew your hair across your face, and I swear you got mad at the elements themselves for crossing you. I lost my train of thought while I was looking at you. All I could see was this.” He motioned to the charcoal drawing. Ryder hesitated a moment as if the words that followed would be too heavy, too revealing to share. “I lost right then. My upper hand disappeared, and I knew whether you wanted me or not, I would be yours.”

  Words surged in my brain like a rising tide then crashed from my mouth all at once, a wash of excuses and reasons why it could never work swept in around us. “Ryder, you know me. You know I can’t—”

  “I have a buyer interested in it, you know. A dealer in Atlanta.” He looked at the picture again with wistful eyes. “I’m not sure I’m willing to sell it. This may be the closest I ever get to you. Then, last night, seeing you there— I thought you had died, Lindy.”

  My heart broke for him. I hated my disease for what it cost me. I hated the monster inside that took some sick pleasure from my torment. A deep, hallow laugh echoed from the cage I had built as I realized what I could never have with Ryder but wanted desperately. The agony in his eyes was reflected in my own as I struggled with the circumstances I had been dealt.

  There were no more words between us. It was a stalemate in its own fashion. I could not pull myself from the walls I had built, and he could not find a way over. With nothing to confess, Ryder cleared his throat and spoke again.

  “What is our next step?” he asked, eager to change the subject.

  I wanted to explain myself for the hundredth time, but nothing had changed, not really, not until the case was over at least. Maybe then I could reconcile my past decisions with whatever I had felt when I was locked away to die.

  “I have a contact. He sent me information,” I said. “If I could pull it up, print it off, maybe we could put this together?”

  Ryder led the way back up the stairs, handing my clean clothes to me along the way from where they sat folded on the second-floor landing. Once we had arrived at Ryder’s desk on the third floor, I logged into my e-mail account, hit print, and disappeared to change my clothes. When I came back in my running pants and compression tank, the printer was hard at work, and Ryder was skimming Kip’s e-mail.

  “Who is this guy anyway?” I could hear his jealous tone, and considering how long ago Kip and I had dated, it was almost humorous.

  “An old friend that helps me on cases,” I replied.

  Ryder’s head stretched from side to side as he weighed my words. “Why does he sign it, ‘Love always, Kipper’ then?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Because he is a hopeless romantic even though we have been broken up for ages.”

  Ryder’s eyebrows remained elevated despite my explanation as if there might be a bigger story.

  “Seriously. He has a new girlfriend. He’s just sentimental,” I assured him.

  Ryder shifted slightly with discomfort. “Is there a wake in the water with all the bodies you have trailing after you? Should I start a club?”

  I good-naturedly shoved him from the chair and glanced over the words on the screen. The number for St. Anthony was there. I quickly scribbled it down as Ryder looked on with interest.

  “Who is Anthony? Seriously. How many of your ex-boyfriends write you?”

  “St. Anthony is a different case that I am working on.”

  The printer charged on, while Ryder’s eyes scanned the screen. It was my turn to feel exposed.

  “Child trafficking? What are you working on?”

  He took the mouse to scroll lower, but I batted him away. Ryder spun me in my chair and caught the armrests to bend low and meet my face.

  “Hey, we’re friends, right? And partners? I should know what you’re working on.” A wicked grin tugged at the left side of his face. “I saved your life, Huckleberry. Doesn’t that earn me something?”

  To free myself of his gaze and the anxiety I felt every time he was near, I gave him the abbreviated version.

  “My older sister was kidnapped when I was little. St. Anthony arranged that kidnapping. Now I have his personal number.” I ducked under his arm and started stacking the papers from the printer.

  “You have siblings?” He was intrigued as if it made me special.

  “Two sisters,” I said as I began placing the facts from Kip on the floor. “One older, one younger.”

  His voice was contemplative. “I always wanted a brother, someone older and bigger than I was, or maybe I just wanted a bodyguard. But my mom said I was enough trouble.” He laughed lightly. “I guess I was always into stuff when I was little. Drove her nuts.”

  I opened a window to let in the bay breeze and asked, “What’s she like, your mom? Are you close at all?”

  I knelt on the floor and scanned the papers, hoping I looked nonchalant though I was dying to know.

  He knelt near me and squinted at my mess as if he could see what I saw and draw the same patterns from the chaos. Names, pictures, dates, and times. Random and yet somehow it all added up to answers.

  “She’s good. Better now that she’s away from Charles. I never realized how much he brought her down.” He turned his focus back to the papers again. “Our place, my home growing up, it was
—well, it is huge, like a manor or whatever. We had maids, and I had a nanny, so I didn’t see my mom that much.”

  “Really? Did she work? Is that why you had a nanny?”

  The corners of his mouth turned down and inward as he remembered and scanned a document. “No. But Charles expected her to put on a good show. He had his own expectations for my mother. There was always some club or some committee for her to join, and then there were drinks at the country club and his fund-raisers. There wasn’t much time for motherhood, I suppose. Even when she was home, she was in her room a lot or just gone.”

  Gone did not refer to her physical absence. I was sure of it. Ryder spoke of a mother that was lost to the world even when she was right next to him. I hated the heartache that brimmed behind his dark eyes, like the clouds that sometimes shrouded Mount Baker. I changed the subject, hoping for a little levity.

  “You were a troublemaker as kid?”

  Some sort of boyish pride tickled at his cheeks. “I went through seventeen nannies in six years. The last one stayed only because Charles paid her more than his lawyer.”

  I rocked back on my heels and cocked my head to the side. “How bad were you?”

  His teeth ran over his bottom lip, but it was not true embarrassment I saw there, rather a bit of delight to share his childhood mischief.

  “One time I left fake vomit in Polly’s bed. Another time I switched the green beans in dinner with hot peppers. That was unfortunate because Miss Janine was very sensitive. She ate half a loaf of bread in about twenty-five seconds and quit as soon as she could breathe without coughing.” He thought for a second then said, “I spray-painted Blanche’s car neon green, though I only got one door done before she found me. Oh, and then when Miss Ivy brought her dog, I gave it a bath and dyed it bright purple. She only lasted three days. It was a record.” His finger shot up as if remembering some sort of dire information. “I convinced Miss Katelyn that our house was haunted. That one took weeks and a lot of hiding in closets, but it was worth it.”