“We’ve been spending a lot of time together. It’s only natural to be curious.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” she said firmly, and he chuckled.
“So, what else do you want to know?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“Everything, then, but that would be dangerous, wouldn’t it, Ryder? Because in a few months you’ll go back to New York, and I’ll be here, working in my bakery, wishing I hadn’t spent so much time getting to know you.”
“Just because I planned to stick around for a year doesn’t mean I’ll only stick around for a year,” he responded.
“It doesn’t mean you’ll stick around longer, either.”
“I guess how long I stay will depend on what I’ll be leaving behind.” His words hung in the air, and Shelby knew he was waiting for her to respond, waiting for her to stop being a coward and start going after what she wanted.
The problem was, what she didn’t want kept getting in her way.
Three strikes.
And the last one would be too painful to ever recover from.
Ryder pulled onto the interstate, accelerating into sparse traffic and putting distance between them and Catherine Miller.
A woman behind bars for a crime she said she hadn’t committed, stuck there because she had no power to free herself.
Sometimes, Shelby felt the same way.
Powerless to free herself from past mistakes, from self-doubt, from fear.
Powerless despite all the power she had.
Faith. Family. Friends.
She didn’t live behind bars. Her prison was one of her own making, but it was no less real, and Shelby was unable to break free, no matter how much she wanted to.
Tell her I love her.
That’s all Catherine had asked, but Shelby thought she wanted more. Wanted something so desperately she hadn’t dared mention it.
Freedom to leave the prison, to reach out for all the things she didn’t dare dream she’d ever have.
In that small way, at least, they were exactly the same.
SEVENTEEN
Ryder’s cell phone rang as he pulled up in front of a faded clapboard farmhouse. He grabbed it, glancing at Shelby as he answered. She’d fallen asleep, her head resting against the window, her hair falling across her cheek. If he’d had the time, he would have driven around for a while longer, let her get the sleep she obviously needed, but he didn’t.
Not just because Shelby had a wedding cake to decorate and deliver, but because danger was breathing down their necks. They couldn’t afford to do anything but keep pushing hard for the answers that would lead them to the killer. Finding him was the only way to stop him, the only way to keep Shelby safe.
“Ryder Malone.” He kept his voice low, hoping she’d get at least a few extra minutes of rest.
“This is Deputy Sheriff Logan Randal.”
“What can I do for you, Randal?”
“Put Shelby Simons on the phone. She is with you, right?”
“Yes, the sheriff and I agreed she’d be safer that way.”
“May I speak to her?”
“She’s not available.”
“Yes, I am,” Shelby mumbled as she lifted her head and opened her eyes. They were red-rimmed and deeply shadowed, her skin so pale it was almost translucent.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“Just resting my eyes. Is it Dottie?”
“Deputy Sheriff Randal,” he said, handing her the phone. He wanted to smooth the frown line from her forehead, but she’d been on edge since they’d left the state prison, and he figured it had more to do with him than it had to do with meeting Catherine.
Afraid, that’s what she was.
So afraid that she wouldn’t allow herself to accept what she felt, believe it could last.
“Hello?” She pressed the phone to her ear, her eyes wide and wary as she watched him. She listened for a moment. “Monday? I think that will work.”
“What will work?” Ryder asked, and Shelby slapped her palm over his mouth.
“I’m trying to hear,” she whispered, her palm so smooth and silky he didn’t see any reason to push it away. “Okay. I’ll see you then, Deputy Randal.” Her hand dropped away, and she handed Ryder the phone.
“Well?”
“They rescheduled the sketch artist because of the fire. She’ll be here Monday. The sheriff is going to send a patrol car to bring me to the station once she arrives.”
“I’ll bring you.”
“There’s no need. Not if I have a police escort.”
“There’s every need.” He got out of the Hummer and opened Shelby’s door. He’d be bringing her to the sheriff’s office whether she liked it or not, and no amount of arguing would change that, but she didn’t seem intent on arguing.
Her gaze was focused on the old house and its overgrown yard. A storm door hung on broken hinges, the screen gutted out. Brown grass surrounded the dilapidated building, but beyond it, the land looked lush and green. The fields, at least, were being tended.
“The place looks abandoned. Do you think we’re at the right house?”
“We’re at the right address. Unless something happened to Catherine’s grandmother, she must still be living here.”
“Maybe, but she’s not living very well. Look, two of the windows are broken. The roof has a hole in it. What does she do in the winter? What does she do when it rains?”
“Good question. How about we knock on the door and ask?”
“You, there! Get out of here!” a voice called from an open window on the first floor as Ryder opened the gate. The faded blue curtain rustled, but there was no sign of the speaker.
She was there, though, hidden behind the fabric.
Ryder focused his attention there and called out. “We’re here to see Eileen. Is she around?”
“I said, get out of here.”
“Catherine sent us to make sure her grandmother was doing all right. We’re not leaving until we do that.” Shelby stepped forward, and Ryder tugged her back. For all he knew, the speaker had a gun aimed at one of their heads.
He touched his weapon, the Glock warm and smooth beneath his fingers.
“Are you Catherine’s friends?” The curtains pulled back, and a red-haired woman looked out, her face tan and deeply wrinkled, her cheeks hollow. She looked gaunt and jaundiced, cigarette smoke floating through the window and out into the yard.
“We met with her, hoping to get information about a case we’re working on. She mentioned her grandmother, and we offered to check in and see how Eileen is doing. Is she here?”
“She’s here, and she’s glad you didn’t say you were Catherine’s friends. My granddaughter doesn’t have any that visit her or me. Not anymore. Hold on a minute. I’ll let you in.”
A few minutes passed before the door swung open, the rusted hinges squeaking as Eileen motioned them inside. She wore faded jeans and a bright pink tank top, both her arms covered in faded tattoos, a cigarette held between her fingers. Nothing like the frail grandmother Ryder had expected, but her hand shook as she waved them toward the living room, and he understood why Catherine had worried so much about her welfare.
“Come on in. I don’t have all day.”
“You’re Eileen?” Ryder asked, and the woman nodded, closing the door and turning the lock and bolt.
“Who else would I be? Who else would live in a dump like this? Go ahead and sit. Might as well get comfortable.” She lowered herself into a worn easy chair, wincing with the movement. “So, what do you want?”
“Catherine is worried about you. She wanted us to make sure you were okay,” Shelby responded, g
ingerly sitting on the edge of a sagging sofa.
Ryder stood, afraid to test the strength of any of the rickety furniture.
“That’s not the only reason you’re here, is it? It’s not like you know my granddaughter, and it’s not like you care about her or about me. So, what do you really want?” She stubbed the cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray, her thick-veined hand trembling violently.
Fear?
Illness?
A combination of both?
Ryder wasn’t sure, and he studied her as she studied Shelby. Eyebrows drawn on. No eyelashes. Lips pale.
Cancer?
He hoped not.
For her sake and for Catherine’s.
“We’re here for exactly the reason I said. To make sure you’re okay,” Shelby responded to her question, and Eileen’s scowl deepened.
“Don’t lie to me, girl. I don’t like it.”
“Why would I lie?” Shelby stood her ground.
“Because lying is what people do. Even highbrow, fancy ladies like you.”
“I’m not highbrow or—”
“Eileen, we also want to find out what you know about Maureen Lewis’s death,” Ryder cut in, and Eileen turned her attention to him.
“The true-crime writer, right? Got blown up in her house. Police determined that she was murdered.”
“That’s right.”
“I heard about it on the news.” Eileen pulled out another cigarette, tapped it against her knee.
“She was writing a book about the murders that your granddaughter committed.”
“She was convicted, but she wasn’t guilty,” Eileen snapped.
“That’s not what a jury of her peers thought.”
“Catherine was railroaded by the system.”
“Do you know how many family members of convicts think that?” Ryder didn’t pull his punches, and Shelby grabbed his arm, shook her head.
He ignored her.
Whatever information Eileen had, they needed it.
“Plenty, but I’m not one of them. I know my granddaughter, and I know the things she’s capable of. Murder isn’t one of them.”
“Someone killed those patients, Eileen,” Shelby said quietly, and Eileen nodded.
“Exactly, and that’s how Catherine got herself into trouble. She reported the murders. Did you know that?”
“No.” Ryder knew very little about the case except what he’d read in old newspaper articles.
“It’s true. There were several patients at Good Samaritan that Catherine was really close to. She met them when she was still a nurse’s aide, and she continued to care for them after she became an RN. None of them had any family close by, so she’d bring them little trinkets and go to visit them when she was off duty. That’s the kind of girl Catherine is.”
“But?” Ryder pressed her to continue and she frowned, staring up at the ceiling as if she could find answers there.
“Flu season rolled around and four of those patients died in less than three months. Complications from the flu. That’s what the families were told, but Catherine knew that none of them had been sick. She started keeping track after that. Two more patients died in the next five months. Neither of them were sick, either. Being the kind of girl she is, Catherine took the information to the local police, and they started to investigate. Next thing we knew, Catherine was being accused of murder.” She lit the cigarette, took a long drag and blew a stream of smoke into the air.
“Accused based on what evidence?” Ryder asked, and Eileen shrugged.
“Three of the patients who died left my granddaughter money. One of them left her entire estate to Catherine. Really ticked off the woman’s granddaughter. She requested an autopsy. The results were inconclusive, but the woman still insisted that Catherine had manipulated her grandmother into changing her will. She planted the seed of suspicion. The police watered it. They hunted for months until they found evidence to arrest Catherine. Evidence someone else planted.”
“You’re saying someone murdered eleven people and then framed your granddaughter?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Who knows whether he was trying to pin it on her from the beginning or if she offered herself up by going to the police? All I know is that it worked. She’s in jail. The real murderer is free.”
“Circumstantial evidence doesn’t get a person convicted, Eileen,” Ryder said.
“If you’d done your homework, you’d already know what got her convicted.”
“I haven’t had a whole lot of time for homework, so why don’t you fill me in?”
“The police found a syringe with traces of potassium chloride in Catherine’s purse. Her fingerprints were on it. They also found a bottle of potassium chloride in her work locker, and one under the seat in her car. It was all over the news, and she was pretty much publicly convicted before she ever went to trial,” Shelby offered quietly, her eyes filled with compassion.
“What’s your name, girl?” Eileen responded.
“Shelby Simons.”
“Well, Shelby, here’s the rest of what you need to know. Part of my granddaughter’s job was to administer medications. Sometimes orally. Sometimes through injections. She touched dozens of syringes a day. Anyone could have taken a syringe she’d used, filled it with potassium and emptied it out again. Anyone could have stuck a bottle of poison in her locker or put one in her car. She never bothered to lock either. Besides, Catherine is one smart cookie. She graduated from high school two years early and had her nursing degree by the time she was twenty. No way would she be stupid enough to leave the evidence around if she was a murderer. Which she isn’t.”
“If she didn’t murder her patients, who did?” Ryder asked, and Eileen shrugged.
“That’s the question, isn’t it? Catherine thought she knew, and she told anyone who would listen, but it didn’t do her any good. The prosecutors had their scapegoat, and they knew they’d get an easy conviction. A poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks, no one but an old grandmother and a couple of troublemaking friends to help her. Catherine didn’t stand a chance.” Eileen took another drag of the cigarette, coughing as she blew the smoke out.
“Who did she think the murderer was?” Ryder’s nerves hummed with excitement, blood racing through his veins in quick, hard bursts. All they needed was a name. Once they had that, they’d know what direction to go, which way to look.
“She told me not to say.”
“Why?”
“Because she was worried about me. That girl’s heart is too soft. She said she’d spend the rest of her life in jail if it meant keeping me safe. Like I’m going to live the rest of her life. Don’t know where that child gets her heart from. It doesn’t come from my side of the family, that’s for sure.”
“Did you give Maureen the person’s name?”
“Of course I did. No way would I let my granddaughter rot in prison. Next thing I knew, Maureen was dead. Catherine was still in prison.”
“Who did Catherine suspect?”
“A doctor. Guy named Christopher Peterson. Nice upright member of the community. A guy no one would ever suspect.”
“But Catherine did?” Adrenaline shot through Ryder. Finally, a name.
“He had access to the patients who died. He was at Good Samaritan on the days of their deaths. He was arrogant enough to think he knew what was best for everyone who walked through the doors, and he wasn’t as upright as he wanted everyone to believe. He had asked Catherine out a few times after she started working there. Seeing as how he was married and had three kids, it wasn’t something she was interested in.”
“The fact that he was a player isn’t a reason to suspect him of murder,” Ryder said. But it was something to go on. Which was
a lot more than they’d had an hour ago.
“Didn’t you hear a word I said, boy? Aside from Catherine, he was the only one working at Good Samaritan every day that a patient died. The defense brought him up as another possible suspect, but there was nothing to link him to the potassium, and he’d been called home on emergencies before two of the patients died.”
“So, he had an alibi.” Shelby sounded disappointed, but an alibi didn’t mean a person was innocent. It just meant he was good at covering his crimes.
“Doesn’t mean he didn’t do it.” Eileen took another drag on her cigarette, frowning as she exhaled. “I promised Catherine I’d quit these cancer sticks, but so far I’ve only been able to cut back.”
“Bad habits are hard to break,” Ryder responded by rote, his thoughts on the information Eileen had provided. Another suspect. A man whom the community trusted, whom his patients trusted. Was it possible he was the real murderer?
“You’re telling me. So—” she stubbed out the second cigarette “—is there anything else you need?”
“No, but before we go, Eileen, Catherine had a message she wanted us to give you,” Shelby said as Eileen struggled to her feet.
“What’s that?”
“She said to tell you that she loves you.”
“Yeah?” Eileen blinked rapidly, her eyes moist and bright. “That girl. Her heart is too soft. That’s been the problem all along.”
“If you’d like, I can take you to visit her next week,” Shelby offered, and Eileen’s expression brightened.
“Anytime. Just give me a call. My number is listed. I can pay you for gas, but that’s about it. Funds have been short since Catherine went to prison.”
“I wouldn’t want payment, Ms. Eileen.” Shelby kept talking as Ryder tried to hurry her out of the living room and back to the Hummer. Catherine wasn’t the only one with a soft heart. Shelby had one, too. In his mind, that only made her more vulnerable.
He wanted to tell her to guard that part of herself, but Shelby’s softness intrigued him as much as her silky hair and sweet smile. More than either of those things, because it stemmed from something deep in her soul.
Undercover Bodyguard Page 15
