The Next Widow: A gripping crime thriller with unputdownable suspense (Jericho and Wright Thrillers Book 1)

by CJ Lyons

  “Did you see this room?” she said, annoyed he was missing what she saw as obvious. “Leah’s a good doctor. Not just skilled. Good. Gives a shit. These are good people, this is a good man, good father.”

  The vehemence in her voice surprised him. He turned his focus back to the victim. “He put up a fight.”

  “You haven’t seen the half of it.” She took a deep breath, the emotion draining from her face. Once composed, she reached for Ian’s hand, taking it in her gloved one with the careful caress of a lover, gently rolling it over so Luka could see the man’s palm and forearm. Cuts sliced in random patterns, some shallow, others deep enough that muscle extruded from between the flaps of skin. “Defensive wounds. I think Ian was doing whatever it took to keep the devil away from his daughter.” A small noise rumbled from her throat—the type of noise that would make a man think twice if he heard it in a dark alley.

  “DNA?” Ian had fought back, so a good chance—Luka hoped—that the killer’s DNA was caught under his nails or had transferred to his body.

  “We’ll see. Depends on how smart and how prepared our actor was. CSU hasn’t found any trace of the weapon yet. Looks like he took it with him.”

  “What do you think it was?” Luka asked as he forced himself to take a closer look at the gouges along the right side of Ian’s neck, arm, and shoulder. He didn’t touch the body—was afraid if he did the damn head might topple all the way off.

  “We’ll do comparisons, but I’d say a hatchet. Maybe a short machete. Something that could strike with considerable force.” She pointed to one of the wounds. “But also with a sharp cutting edge—see how it’s down to the bone?”

  He didn’t want to, but he followed her hands as she pivoted the body forward to reveal the right shoulder. “Not much blood.”

  “Not much time to bleed out. My guess is the gash to the belly came as he was up against the door. Should’ve dropped him—would’ve most men.” She aimed her gaze at the open bedroom door. “He fell, leaving that smear of blood. Killer pushed the door open. Stepped past Ian—explaining that handprint on the floor where Ian props himself up, maybe makes a grab at the killer’s legs. Killer swings down, slashing the neck, the arm, the shoulder, whatever he can hit, all the while dragging Ian across the rug. Then Ian makes one heroic last stand, shoving the killer away while he leans up against the bed he knows his little girl is hiding under.”

  Luka drew in his breath, the vision she painted as visceral as a punch to the gut. He glanced up, saw the spray of blood on the ceiling. “That only pissed off the actor.”

  “Exactly.” She made a slashing motion with her hand, the chop of a hatchet over and over. “He went into a frenzy. Just about decapitated Ian.”

  Luka pushed up to standing, glancing around the room. “And then what? He didn’t go after the girl. Was gone by the time the wife got home. Didn’t steal anything—at least nothing obvious. What the hell did he do next?”

  Maggie carefully repositioned Ian Wright’s body and covered him with a sterile shroud, as if tucking him in for a long sleep. Then she gestured to faint bloody footprints marked by CSU tags. Luka followed her out to the hall where the footprints stopped in front of the pile of dirty laundry. “He grabbed something to wrap over his bloody shoes or he simply stopped and took them off.”

  “And then?” he asked, not seeing any crime scene markers to indicate the killer’s path from there.

  “Then he walked away. Vanished.”

  Four

  At three in the morning, Good Sam’s ER was at its most quiet. Although the nurses and staff never used the “q” word. Instead, three a.m. in the ER was known as the dead hour.

  Leah embraced the quiet. She cradled Emily on her lap in the finally empty exam room across the hall from the ER’s glass-walled waiting area and allowed the silence to invade her mind, crowding out all thought and feeling—at least for a minute.

  The frenzied moments that brought them here had already blurred together, almost as if they’d happened to someone else, not Leah. Not Emily… Not Ian. The ride in the ambulance. Leah and Emily strapped to the gurney. Emily on her mother’s lap, clutching Leah, as the police officer repeated back what Leah told him while the medics avoided eye contact. Leah didn’t hold it against them; it was a constant fear among first responders, that despite their best efforts, their families weren’t immune to the dangers they fought.

  Then being whisked through the ER, past the triage nurse who sobbed as she took a moment to try to comfort Leah, into this room, a quiet side room usually used for sutures and orthopedic procedures. The policeman—he told Leah his name several times, but she still couldn’t remember it—waited with them.

  “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” Emily kept crying as she clung to Leah, her volume a rollercoaster climbing from a whimper to a shriek and back again.

  Rita, the charge nurse, entered, a collection of paper evidence bags and the ER’s digital camera in her hands.

  “None of us know what to say,” she told Leah.

  Leah had no words, simply nodded, relieved that it was Rita. The charge nurse and Leah were a lot alike, both able to focus on the job at hand, no matter how difficult. Leah could depend on Rita; she wouldn’t break down, and that would make what happened next as painless as possible.

  “Just know, we’re here for you,” Rita continued as she sorted her evidence collection supplies. “Anything you need, you just ask.”

  Which would have been a comfort if Leah could find the energy to think far enough ahead to know what she needed. Right now, it took everything she had to remain calm for Emily. The last thing her daughter needed was to see her mother break. Leah swallowed her emotions like shards of broken glass. Emily. She had to keep it together for Emily.

  It was what Ian would want. Ian, oh God… Leah closed her eyes, her face buried in Emily’s hair, forcing the image of him from her mind. Don’t think, just do. Get through this. For Emily.

  Numbly, Leah followed Rita’s instructions, posing Emily on her lap for photos, first with Emily’s PJs on, then again once they stripped them off, documenting her lack of injuries. It became a macabre game of Twister as Emily screamed and fought Leah’s attempts to move her. But finally, it was done. Now it was Leah’s turn. Rita forced Emily’s hands free from their white-knuckled grip on Leah and pulled her away to dress her in clean hospital pajamas while the police officer took over the camera.

  As Emily left Leah’s arms, she shrieked, shrill enough that the policeman jumped. But then the scream cut off, mid-breath, and Emily sagged limp in Rita’s arms. Rita laid her on the exam bed, and she didn’t move, her eyes wide open but not seeing, not responding. As if she’d surrendered, body and soul, to the horror of the night.

  That’s when Leah’s heart crumbled. She’d thought seeing her daughter’s pain was bad; this was so much worse. Anxious to get her daughter back in her arms, she quickly posed for the police officer, gave him her jacket, stripped free of her bloodstained scrubs, washed the blood from her hands and finally held them out for him to document. Once he’d finished, she only took long enough to dress in the fresh scrubs Rita brought, then she scooped Emily up off the bed, back into her arms.

  The officer left, carrying his bags of evidence. Leah almost called out; those stained clothes represented her husband’s final moments, but she reminded herself that they weren’t him. Not really. All that was left of Ian was right here, on her lap. Emily. She had to protect Emily. Starting with: where to go from here?

  Rita, with the instincts of every good charge nurse, anticipated Leah’s needs. “I’ve put a call into psych.”

  It was a good idea—one Leah should have thought of herself. “Who’s on call?”

  “Dr. Kern. She’s on her way in.”

  Leah sighed. Jessica Kern was the psychiatrist who ran the free clinic where Leah volunteered. She liked Jessica—everyone did—but her irrepressible eagerness wore Leah out at the best of times. “I didn’t think Jessica took call.”


  “Not often. I have the nurses up on peds finding Emily a bed—they’re short staffed, so it will take a little while. But she can’t be discharged, not in her condition.” Her words reverberated through Leah’s mind. Not only was Emily virtually catatonic, but even if the ER did discharge them, they had nowhere to go. No home—not anymore. “In the meantime, can I get you anything? Call anyone for you?”

  Leah was certain that by now her boss and all her friends at Good Sam had been alerted to her presence. She really couldn’t start to imagine what she needed—except peace and quiet. She had no energy to talk to anyone, not even to thank them for their condolences or offers of help.

  Rita gathered her paperwork and the camera, glancing across the room at the posters and brochures displayed for victims of violence.

  Afraid to go home? Call this hotline

  Victim of a crime? We’re here to help

  Feeling the shock and aftermath? Join our support group

  The posters featured artfully mussed-up models with blackened eyes and purple photoshopped bruises. Leah felt like she might vomit. How many times had she used all the same clichés? Had she actually ever been able to help anyone?

  “Want me to call them?” Rita asked. “Victims’ assistance?”

  Victim. The label rankled. “No.” Leah was surprised how normal her voice sounded. “Thank you.”

  “Okay, then.” Rita hesitated, her hand on the door. “I can come back once I get this in the system. Stay with you. If you want.”

  Emily had her head buried between Leah’s breasts, primal, guttural noises escaping her, otherwise unresponsive to the world.

  “No,” Leah said, stroking Emily’s hair. “We’re fine.”

  Rita pursed her lips, but left—propping the door open, presumably so the triage nurse across the hall could keep an eye on Leah and Emily. As if they were specimens on display. Leah shifted in her chair, putting her back to the door, hiding Emily from anyone who might pass.

  Now, they waited. And Leah had never felt so alone.

  Not even the time her mother had forgotten her at dance class when she was four and she’d had to spend the night with a classmate whose parents called the police when they still couldn’t reach Ruby the next day. Of course, just as the cops arrived, Ruby came storming in flinging accusations, smelling of pot and booze and a strange man’s cologne. One more friend gone forever, forbidden to play or speak with Leah.

  Or the time Leah had chickenpox and Ruby couldn’t take her feverish whimpering and left her for three days with a case of ramen noodles—the variety pack, she’d told Leah as if that made all the difference—and a box of Cap’n Crunch. She’d forgotten milk and Leah had scalded her hand getting the ramen from the microwave that she’d had to climb a chair to reach. She’d been seven.

  And there were all the other times when Ruby would yank her out of bed or school and without warning drive her over to Leah’s great aunt Nellie’s. Over and over until one day when Leah was eleven Ruby simply never came back. Well, not for Leah. She’d still drop by Nellie’s when she needed money—Nellie was a soft touch when it came to trying to fix Ruby’s life.

  Whenever Leah heard her mom’s voice, she couldn’t help herself. She’d think, This time she’s come for me. And Leah would race to her room, grab anything she cared about, trying to cram seven tons of hope into a five-pound bag, wash her face, fix her hair, put on her best sunshine smile, anything so Ruby wouldn’t think she was still too much work to love, and she’d dance downstairs to greet her mother, certain this was the day Ruby would take Leah back into her life.

  That never happened. Most times Leah was lucky if Ruby even glanced in her direction. No matter how good her grades were or what special presents she’d made and kept safe for Ruby to make up for missed holidays, Ruby never said one word directly to her daughter, too focused on pursuing her transaction with Nellie.

  Even now, in her best moments, Leah couldn’t help but wonder, just for an instant, Would she love me now? and it galled her that decades later, that childish wish was still her knee-jerk reaction.

  If Leah still wasn’t over her own mother’s abandonment, then how the hell was she going to help Emily get through what happened tonight? Not just seeing her father murdered, not only being terrified for her own life… but Leah hadn’t been there for Emily. Her daughter had been alone in a house with her father’s killer and she didn’t even know how long for.

  Several of the ER staff stopped by, offering condolences and help, but Leah couldn’t avoid noticing the way no one touched her, as if violence was contagious, and how their eyes did a hit and skip every time they collided with Leah’s gaze, glancing away faster than a car spinning out on black ice.

  The sound of heels tapping echoed from the hallway. An older woman in her mid-fifties appeared in the doorway. Her blond hair was styled in an old-fashioned twist at the nape of her neck and she wore an equally vintage-style A-line dress with the kind of skirt that swirled with each step as she rushed to Leah.

  “Leah. I heard.” Jessica Kern bent down to envelop Leah and Emily in an awkward hug. Leah stiffened. Then she remembered: Jessica’s own husband had died a few years ago, before Jessica moved to Cambria City. Leah felt guilty; she was certain there was a correct response to their shared grief, but right now she was too numb and exhausted to think of anything to say.

  “You didn’t have to come,” Leah said. “It’s three in the morning.”

  Jessica pursed her lips. “Of course I came. How could I stay away?” Her lipstick matched her shoes; she could have just stepped out of a Cary Grant movie. The one staring Grace Kelly or no, the one with the spies and Eva Marie Saint.

  Leah’s mind fogged for a moment, escaping her dismal present for a blissful past. Aunt Nellie had loved those old movies—she’d let Leah stay up late and they’d huddle on the couch, pop popcorn in the fireplace as they were transported to another time and place. Leah in turn had introduced Ian to them and he’d given her a box set of Cary Grant DVDs on their first Valentine’s Day together. That and a tin of popcorn. They’d sat and watched movies all night long, not worrying about missing out on any fancy dinner or roses or other traditions, instead creating their own.

  Jessica pulled the exam stool close to Leah’s chair, sat, then laid a hand on Emily’s head, stroking her hair. “It’s a terrible thing. It’s why I’ve come.”

  Leah’s thoughts meandered to the charity gala where she’d first met Jessica and somehow allowed herself to be talked into volunteering at the free clinic. Andre Toussaint had bought a table for the ER and trauma attendings. It’d been right before Christmas. Ian had looked so handsome—different than Cary Grant, better in many ways, at least to Leah’s eyes. Leah had splurged on a new dress—on sale at a discount outlet—and since they had no money to bid on any of the expensive silent auction items, she and Ian had danced the entire night. It felt magical, floating across the floor wrapped in his arms, as if they were alone in the universe, as if that night might never end.

  “Leah?” Jessica asked. “What can I do to help?”

  Leah had no answer. But that didn’t stop Jessica.

  “It might be too soon, everyone goes at their own pace, but I wanted to be here for you,” Jessica said, her words coming in a rush. She seemed genuinely upset. It was a harsh contrast to the cold that enveloped Leah: solid, thick ice she wasn’t sure she’d ever break through. It made the world around Leah feel blurry at the edges; all the noise and motion seemed very distant, nothing to do with her.

  Jessica shifted her weight, reached a hand to Leah, then stopped and dropped it. “I never told you, but it happened to me as well. My husband. What you’re going through. Back in Chicago. Home invasion. Gordie… gone.”

  Leah jerked her gaze away from Emily to focus on the other woman. Beneath the carefully applied makeup, dark circles smudged her pale skin—as if they’d been there too long to ever be erased. “You think it’s the same man?”

  Jessica’s eyes went
wide. “No, sorry. No, they caught the—a drug addict who thought the house was empty. It should have been, but I forgot my phone and Gordie went back…” Now she clutched at Leah’s arm, keeping Leah’s focus from straying. “I know as physicians we’re taught to always feel in control, never admit weakness. And working in the ER, you probably don’t want to confide in the victims’ advocates you see every day. So, I came.”

  Leah simply stared, Jessica’s words still not penetrating. Did she want to do a therapy session, here? Now? Some small, rational part of her brain knew that research showed that earlier intervention after trauma led to less PTSD and other long-term effects, but the rest of her shuddered at the thought of breaking down and sharing her feelings. Especially with someone she worked with. Not now, she had to stay focused—for Emily.

  If Leah had her way, maybe not ever. Maybe she could bury these feelings so deep she’d never need to experience them.

  Rita returned, carrying a small tray with medication. She held the tray out as if an offering.

  “I ordered a dose of midazolam. Thought it might help,” Jessica said, standing up and moving aside so Rita could reach Emily.

  Midazolam. A powerful sedative with the welcome side effect of mild retrograde amnesia. Something else Leah should have thought of—would have thought of for any other patient, in any other circumstances. “Thank you.”

  Leah knew the sedative wouldn’t be enough—not after what Emily had suffered—but it should get them through the night. Four hours and twenty-seven minutes until morning. She could do that. Four hours. Twenty-seven minutes.

  After that, all she could imagine was an abyss. A future without Ian. The prospect felt dark, a black hole devoid of life. Impossible to fathom.

  Emily didn’t even flinch when Rita gave her the shot. Rita left once more, and the sedative kicked in. Emily finally relaxed, her entire body sighing in relief, leaving Leah’s skin blanched bloodless where Emily had held her in a death grip.