by Karen Rose
That would be me, Emma thought and approached the driver with what she hoped was a friendly smile. It wasn’t the driver’s fault that there were ten million places on the planet she’d rather be. “I’m Dr. Townsend,” she said and shook the driver’s hand. “I’ll have to get my luggage from the baggage claim, then I’ll be ready to go.”
The woman gave a brisk nod. “I’m Linda Raines. I was hired by your assistant to drive you to Lexington tonight. Did you have a good flight from Seattle?”
Emma nodded even though the flight had been truly horrendous. Bumpy and nauseating. She tried to tell herself it was the turbulent flight that had caused the butterflies in her stomach, but deep down she knew better. It was the prospect of facing this airport, this city, and everything it represented. She’d be gone soon enough though. She was just passing through Cincinnati on her way to Lexington where she’d spend the next week lecturing to auditoriums packed with strangers. She’d planned to fly into Lexington, but Kate had called with a last-minute itinerary change. Emma’s flight into Lexington had been cancelled. The only other flight was into Cincinnati.
Kate booked all of Emma’s lectures and travel, managed the details of Emma’s personal and private business. But Kate was far more than an assistant. She was Emma’s best friend. She’d been Will’s friend as well. Kate knew exactly what flying into this airport would mean for Emma and had apologized profusely, but there had been no way around it. Emma had a book signing in Lexington at two tomorrow afternoon. She had to make it in from the West Coast tonight or she’d miss her commitment.
Raines cleared her throat. “We should be in Lexington by twelve thirty or so if we don’t have to wait too long for your luggage. Point out your bags when they come ’round and I’ll get them to the limo.”
Emma stood far enough back from the luggage carousel to be able to see her large suitcase that held two weeks’ worth of suits while standing apart from the throng of people. She’d gotten quite good at that, standing apart from a crowd even as she stood among them. Someone cleared her throat behind Emma and she turned to find a shy-looking woman in her midsixties standing behind her with red cheeks and a book in her hand. A familiar face stared up from the book’s back jacket cover, Emma’s own. She forced a smile and the woman smiled back.
“Dr. Townsend, I’m sorry to bother you,” the woman said softly, her voice barely audible over the roar of ten luggage carousels and the conversations of fifty times that many people. “I just wanted you to know how much I enjoyed your book. I brought it with me to read on the plane.” She faltered, dropping her eyes. “Your book has helped me a great deal. I lost my son recently and, well . . .” The woman let the thought trail with a self-conscious grimace. “I suppose you hear this all the time.”
Emma did, in every city she toured, every standing-room-only hall in which she’d lectured over the past year. Bite-Sized had struck an instant chord with the public, hitting and staying on the bestseller lists for more than six weeks. Bite-Sized discussed the ways to cut grief and loss into manageable pieces, suggested practical ways to get through each day after the loss of someone dear. The book was the product of eight years of conducting therapy groups for the bereaved. It had been Emma’s life’s work.
Now . . . it was her life.
“You’re not alone,” Emma said quietly. “Have you found a support group?”
The woman bobbed her head. “Yes, yes, I have. And it does help. My son . . . he was all I had left.” She swallowed hard and Emma found herself doing the same. Found herself watching from the corner of her eye the middle-aged man with the pink carnations who’d been standing in Will’s place. Now he stood next to the luggage carousel with his arm around the shoulders of a plump middle-aged woman who held the pink carnations carelessly in one hand. They were talking animatedly with big smiles and an occasional hug. The pressure in Emma’s chest increased and she dragged her eyes back to the woman holding the book.
The woman hesitated, then blurted, “I read you lost your husband recently. I’m so sorry.”
Emma’s smile was now brittle, her heart thundering. It wasn’t recently. It had been a year. A year without him. A year alone. It was not the first time a reader had expressed condolences, but to hear it here . . . The air suddenly seemed thick, impossible to breathe. I need to get out of here. She wanted to bolt, to run far away from this damn airport and all the memories it dredged up. She wanted to tell the woman with the book to mind her own damn business. Instead, she drew a quiet breath and made herself say, “Thank you.”
“At least you know how to get through the pain.”
You’d think so, Emma thought. “Yes,” she lied. She’d gotten good at that over the last year, too. Lying, not getting through the pain.
The woman hesitated again, then held her book out. “Would you mind signing it?”
At least this was something concrete she could do, Emma thought, reaching for a pen. “Not at all. What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Alice.”
“To Alice,” Emma said aloud while writing. “Bite off what you can chew, one day at a time.” The hypocrisy of the message had ceased to sting after several hundred signings. Now it just left a dull ache in the pit of her stomach. She signed her name and handed the book back to Alice. “Take care and stick with the support group. They’ll help you get through. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I just flew in from Seattle and I’m very tired. And I think I see my luggage coming round the bend there.”
Alice hugged her book to her chest and gave a little wave. “Thank you.”
Emma was relieved to find that her luggage truly was coming round the bend. She snagged the large bag from the conveyor and jumped when it was taken from her hand.
Linda Raines. Her driver. Emma had nearly forgotten about her.
“I’ll take that, Dr. Townsend. Follow me. The limo’s waiting outside.”
Emma followed and was ushered into the backseat of a black limo with tinted glass. She could vaguely see that another woman sat in the front passenger seat, her profile hidden by the neat black cap she wore. “My partner,” Linda explained. “At night we don’t drive alone. She’s been driving all day, so she’s probably asleep.”
Emma slid onto the spacious seat with a sigh. “I’m sure I will be, too, as soon as we start rolling.” She had her eyes closed before Linda shut the door and barely felt the trunk slam as her bag was stowed. Then they were off. Away from the dreaded airport, away from the city where she and Will had lived for the entire twelve years of their marriage. Away from the home they’d built together, laughed in, loved in together. The home in which she hadn’t set foot in nearly six months.
She always had a good reason to bypass Cincinnati. A last-minute lecture, a meeting with fellow psychologists in whatever city she was in, a meeting with her publisher in New York. She flew through JFK often enough that she’d finally leased a small furnished apartment in New York, just to have a place to stay, to store her suits. It was there she went whenever she hadn’t been able to make weekend plans. It was there Kate forwarded her mail, sometimes bringing it in person so they could visit. Go shopping. Walk the streets of Manhattan. It was there Emma hid.
You should go home, said the nagging voice inside her head. I will when I have a schedule break. But she knew she was booked all the way through June. So I’ll go home in July. I’ll call Kate tomorrow and ask her to set it up. Tonight, I’m going to Lexington where I’ll sign books and lecture until next week when I go to Baton Rouge. Then St. Louis, then Houston. And so on.
She opened her eyes, looked at the highway signs stretched across the interstate. Then sat up straight as the limo passed the Lexington exit, going north instead. Her heart started pumping hard. They were headed away from Lexington. The wrong way. I never checked Raines’s ID, she thought. I should have checked her ID.
She tapped on the glass separating the front and back seats. “Excuse
me,” she said loudly. “You missed the exit. Hello.” She tapped the glass again. “You missed the Lexington exit.”
Linda Raines lowered the window. “You’re not going to Lexington, Dr. Townsend.”
Emma’s heart stopped. She licked her lips, made herself breathe. Slipped her hand into her coat pocket and flipped open her cell phone, prepared to dial 911 by touch. “Then where am I going?”
Raines’s partner twisted in her seat, yanking off her hat. Emma could only blink, her heart settling back into a somewhat normal rhythm as irritation flared high. “Kate.” Her assistant. Her best friend. “What the hell is going on? Where are we going?”
Kate’s brows lifted. “You’re going home, Emma. You’ve run long enough.”
“But . . .” Emma stuttered. “What about Lexington? The signings, the lectures?”
“I rescheduled Lexington. Baton Rouge, St. Louis and Houston, too. You’re taking a break, Emma. And you’re going to deal with that house and everything in it.”
Chapter 2
St. Pete, Monday, February 22, 8:15 a.m.
Someone had set an empty chair on one end of the semicircle. Sitting on the edge of his desk, Christopher swallowed hard as he stared at the empty chair, then made himself meet the grieving eyes of his graduate students. Tanya was crying, quietly. Nate looked like he was trying hard not to. Ian just looked mad.
Christopher knew how they all felt. For three days he’d been bouncing between rage and grief. He hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time, seeing Darrell’s lifeless eyes every time he closed his own. For three days he’d been hounded by the press, begging for a comment, but even that wasn’t as bad as the reaction of his own bosses.
He’d been summoned by the University administration, for God’s sake. They’d called him into the dean’s office Friday afternoon, every face tight with concern. For themselves. “Don’t say anything that would make us liable,” the University’s lawyer had warned, and it had taken every ounce of strength he possessed to keep his fury contained, to promise his “cooperation on the subject.” They didn’t care that one of his students had died, only that the University wasn’t held responsible.
But his students didn’t need his rage right now. They needed him to be calm and strong so they could begin to heal and go on.
“I don’t know how to start,” Christopher said. This was the first time they’d all been together since Darrell’s death, three days before. “I still remember Darrell when he was a freshman. Seven years ago.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a sad half smile. “He was this scrawny, skinny kid carrying this backpack that looked heavier than he was. He told me that his mother had worked two jobs scrubbing floors to help him buy the books in his backpack and that someday he’d pay her back.” Christopher’s eyes stung as he remembered that first day, the fire in Darrell’s dark eyes, the boy’s determination to succeed. “I asked him what he wanted to do with his life.” The memory lightened and a real smile curved his lips. “He said he wanted my job.”
This earned him a tremulous smile from Tanya and a sad chuckle from Nate. Ian was unmoved, still angry. “I watched him grow from that scrawny, skinny kid to the man you knew. I was so proud of him.” Christopher sighed, hating what would come next. “But Darrell was careless Thursday night, which was so unlike him. We have to talk about this, even though I know it’ll be hard.”
“He wasn’t bloody careless,” Ian bit out, his brogue thickening more than usual. “Darrell was more careful than the lot of us put together.”
Ian and Darrell had been close friends. Accepting Darrell’s death would be hard under any circumstances, but knowing his death had been avoidable had to be particularly hard for Ian to bear. Christopher leaned forward, squeezed Ian’s arm. “Normally, I’d agree with you. But I saw the coffee cup with my own eyes, Ian.”
Ian jerked his arm away. “There has to be another explanation, that’s all.”
“Ian.” Nate shook his head. “Let it go, man.”
“Darrell was tired, Ian,” Tanya murmured wearily. “He’d been pulling all-nighters that whole week before. I guess he just needed the caffeine to stay awake.”
“He would have drunk it in the lounge, not the fuckin’ lab.” Ian lurched to his feet, paced to the window where he stared out at the courtyard, his arms crossed hard over his chest. He turned, his eyes flashing. “I will not believe he was careless.”
Christopher slowly pushed away from the edge of his desk and met Ian’s turbulent eyes with deliberate care. “And I will not believe Darrell Roberts took his own life,” he said quietly. “I had to tell his mother he was dead, Ian.” He swallowed hard, remembering the anguished shock in Yvonne Roberts’s eyes, the pitiful choking sound of her sobs when the awful truth sank in. He’d held her, let her cry. Cried with her. Then sat by her side as she told Darrell’s four younger brothers the devastating news. The big brother they idolized had made a mistake that cost him his life. He was never coming home. “It was one of the hardest things I ever had to do.” He had Ian’s attention now. The younger man’s eyes narrowed as he listened. “I can’t even imagine telling his mother he did this to himself. He wouldn’t. You know he wouldn’t.”
“That detective asked me if Darrell had been depressed.” Tanya’s voice was rough from a weekend of tears. “I was so mad, I told him what he could do with his question.”
“Pissing off the cops isn’t going to solve anything,” Nate said rationally, if unsteadily. Nate’s calm was surprising, Christopher thought. Nate had a history of being a hothead, of leading with his gut. Darrell had always been the voice of reason among the grad students. Perhaps Nate recognized that and was trying to fill the void.
“I wasn’t pissed off, actually.”
Everyone immediately turned to the door to Christopher’s office where Detective Harris stood, his eyes sharp and assessing. A chill crept down Christopher’s back as he met Harris’s cold gaze. “Detective Harris. What can we do for you?”
“I need to talk to you.”
Christopher raised a brow. His heart was beating hard and somehow he just knew he wouldn’t like what was coming. “Just me, Detective, or all of us?”
Harris’s eyes fell on the empty chair. “All of you, I think.” He came into Christopher’s office and perched on the corner of the desk. “I got some interesting information from my lab this morning,” he said, his eyes scanning every face. “The ME says the concentration of cyanide in Mr. Roberts’s stomach was four times higher than the concentration of cyanide in his coffee cup. Now, I’m no chemist, but that just doesn’t seem right to me. Professor Walker, what do you think?”
Stunned, Christopher could only stare at him. “What?”
“My ME tells me the numbers should have been switched. That the concentration in the cup should have been higher. That the poison in the coffee should have been diluted in his stomach.”
Nate shook his head. Hard. “No way. That has to be a mistake. It has to be.”
“My ME thought so, too. So he reran the test. Twice more. Had a colleague do the same. The numbers were consistent with every test.”
Tanya was pale. “Your equipment . . . maybe it needs to be calibrated.”
Harris regarded her with a level stare. “It’s a police crime lab, Miss Meyer,” he said dryly and Christopher got the impression that while Tanya hadn’t pissed him off before, she’d done so now. “Our equipment is every bit as sophisticated as yours.”
Christopher pulled the heels of his hands down his face, his stomach churning once more at what the detective had left unsaid. “Wait. You’re saying it wasn’t an accident? That Darrell did this to himself? That’s as impossible to believe today as it was on Friday. Darrell Roberts would never have taken his own life.”
Harris just looked at him. “I agree, Professor.”
For a moment, Christopher just looked back. Then cognition hit and he co
uld feel the color draining from his face. “Oh, my God. You’re saying somebody else did this? That somebody murdered him? That’s . . .” He dropped into the chair behind his desk. Searched the faces of his students. All three looked as sick as he felt.
Harris’s face didn’t change, not a muscle moved. “We found Darrell’s fingerprints on the cup, but no trace of his DNA on the cup.”
“Maybe he wiped it off.” Tanya’s whisper was thin.
Harris’s smile was sardonic. “There was no trace of DNA in the coffee left behind, either. We didn’t find any trace of a straw near his body, either, so don’t even try. What do you conclude from this, Professor?”
Christopher met Harris’s gaze unwaveringly. Made himself remain calm at the implied accusation. It’s a police technique, he thought. But I have nothing to hide. “I’d have to say the cyanide was introduced from two different sources, Detective. But while this seems to rule out accidental ingestion, it doesn’t definitively prove foul play.”
“Spoken like a lawyer,” Harris observed. “Not a chemist.”
“I watch TV,” Christopher replied evenly, then clenched his jaw. “Look, Harris, I still can’t believe Darrell would kill himself, but if somebody killed him, that person would have to have access to this lab. And that’s us. So if that’s the direction you’re going, just spit it out.”
Harris didn’t blink. “All right. So where were you between ten p.m. Thursday night and one a.m. Friday morning, Professor?”
Nate covered his face with his hands. “This isn’t happening,” he whispered.
Christopher let out a controlled breath. Commanded his heart to slow down. “I was home with my daughter, Megan. She went to bed at ten thirty. I called my mother at eleven thirty. I imagine you can check my phone records to confirm this.”
“Kind of late to be calling your mother, isn’t it?”
