It’s been a long couple of months of deep revision on my CHASING LIGHT memoir and getting back into the querying trenches, as well as completing several magazine writing assignments. But during these next weeks I’ve carved out a good chunk of time, so let’s jump back into DEAD RINGER with our heroine Blainey Blair and see if we can help her wrap up this case that has haunted her so.

From the end of CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO (full chapter linked here):

(After Blainey’s hospital visit to Nora Malone, mother of heart transplant patient Jenny Malone)

I was alone in the elevator leaning against the back wall when the cab slowed, the door opened, and a young woman in dark green scrubs got on. I stared at her, my mouth open, and tried to breathe. Tall and slender with high cheekbones, cinnamon-colored hair, and eyes the blue of an October sky, as Guy had so eloquently put it, she was a dead ringer for Rachel Roper. She nodded at me and gave me an odd look, clearly put off by my gawking.

I pulled my eyes away from her, but not before catching the name on her ID badge.

Mandy Wytheman.

The words were out before I could stop them. “Is Miller Wytheman your father?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Mandy turned her blue eyes on me with more than a little suspicion and tilted her head to one side. “Do I know you?”

It took a moment to find any words, my brain careening every which way with the things I obviously couldn’t say — “No, we don’t know each other, but I knew your birth mother who your father probably drugged, raped, and impregnated when she was just fifteen, and also he probably murdered her because she was looking for you” — so that I had to bite hard against the inside of my cheek. Instead, I caught my breath and said as evenly as I could, “I know Dr. Wytheman from St. Regis.”

“Oh,” she said. “Yeah, he’s my dad.” She snuck a glance at my plastic badge with VISITOR on it.

“I came to see a friend in ICU,” I said. Thank God I’d observed the professional courtesy of keeping my St. Regis pastoral care ID badge in my pocket. Under no circumstances could she tell Miller about meeting me. I stared at the floor, feeling her gaze on me.

“You work there, at St. Regis?” she asked. I could tell she was trying to draw me out, knew her intuition was telling her…something.

I looked up and kept my expression as vague as possible. “Used to,” I said, which maybe wasn’t going to turn out to be a lie. “Some admin stuff.” I shrugged and looked back at the floor. Elevator etiquette is clear about conversation if someone keeps staring down when you try to talk to them. She took the hint and said nothing more.

As I leaned against the wall, the hum of the slowly moving elevator vibrating against my back, an unwelcome flash of memory rose, Miller’s hands on my bare hips, my skin burning under his touch and how in those moments I imagined the passion could immolate us both, then as quickly thinking of him with Rachel, still a child, and him using her young body for his own sick pleasure. A wave of nausea rose up, and for a horrifying moment I thought I might vomit.

Then the elevator stopped at the second floor with a gentle jolt. Mandy moved in front of me, and when the doors slid open, she half-turned and said over her shoulder, “Have a nice day.”

“You, too.” The doors took their goddamn time closing.

My hands were shaking and my knees felt weak. The cheery summer sun was no match for the spreading darkness in my soul. On the drive back to St. Regis I rehearsed what I’d say to Fred. Besides coming clean about the work I’d been doing with Mark and confessing my boundary breach with Rachel Roper, there was the matter of Miller. If he was the father of Rachel Roper’s daughter, then he also was most likely the one who supplied controlled substances to Rachel’s addict mother years ago. And worse, he was probably the one who’d slipped into WindDancer and with his whole life at stake injected a lethal dose of fentanyl into Rachel’s IV. In the event Miller Wytheman still had privileges at St. Regis, I was absolutely required to disclose all I suspected.

It was now just after one o’clock in the afternoon. There was time to grab a quick lunch before my meeting with Fred at two, but I didn’t see how I could possibly put a single thing in my mouth. My stomach churned and I wanted to cry, but I felt too numb to even do that. Scurrying in through one of the hospital’s side doors, I avoided the elevator and took the stairs up to Pastoral Care. The thought of running into Miller again sent me into a near panic. If I saw him face to face, there would be no way of hiding what I knew. And considering what he’d done to Rachel, that would be a very dangerous situation.

Mavis was still at lunch, and Fred’s office was dark. I shut my door behind me and sat at my desk with my head in my hands. I should call Mark. I should call Weston, the grieving brother. I should call Detective Chad Miller, even though he’d told me in no uncertain terms to keep my nose out of his investigation. Instead, I sat paralyzed. And, anyway, I didn’t have proof of anything. I wasn’t going to tell anyone else until after I’d spoken with Fred. I didn’t want him blindsided any more than he already would be. I thought of how shitty these past months had been for him, with the love of his life, Maxine, battling late stage breast cancer, what he must be going through. I hated that I was going to add to his overwhelming burdens, but it couldn’t be helped.

I now had forty-five minutes until my meeting, until I was going to drop the news and Fred was most likely going to drop the hammer and fire my ass. That would probably please Mavis, but it felt weird to think of not being here, in this place that had come to feel like somewhere I sort of belonged, or at least some old remnant of me did.

Well, I hadn’t been fired yet. There was just enough time to go track down Benny The Intern and find out if he’d come through and made those pastoral visits or ridden off into the sunset. I paged him and waited…waited…waited some more. Then I huffed out to look for him, starting in the ER, where the nurses all swore they hadn’t seen him. I glanced into the nearly empty cafeteria. No Benny.

I tried surgery waiting and peeked in at ICU, then did a quick spin through pediatrics. When I ran out of places to look, I returned to Pastoral Care where by now Mavis was back from her lunch break. Before I could say anything, she asked in an anxious tone, “How is Nora?” and I realized in all my freaking out about Miller I’d completely forgotten about the woman I’d just driven to the next town to see, a woman we all cared deeply for, who we’d known for months as the fierce lioness mother to our heart transplant patient, twelve-year-old Jenny. And who now hovered between life and death because of the aneurysm that had without warning blossomed in her brain.

“About the same,” I said, feeling guilt for the concerned expression on Mavis’s face and shame at how Nora’s condition had all but slipped my mind. “They’ve put in a stent. Things could go either way. It’s a waiting game now.”

“Okay,” she said. “Well, thanks for going to see her.”

I nodded, hesitating in front of her desk.

“Is there something you need?” There was a new softness in Mavis’s tone, maybe her concern about Nora, maybe detesting me a little bit less these days.

“Yeah, actually, I’m looking for Benny,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You know, the errant intern I’m about to throw out of the program.”

After a pause, she said, “Well…rumor has it he likes to frequent the nurses’ lounge on fifth floor.” I felt like she’d thrown me a juicy bone, and I gratefully snatched it up.

I yelled my thanks as I flew back out into the hallway, and fueled by irritation at Benny and adrenaline at the thought of all I had to confess to Fred, I took the stairs up to fifth floor two at a time. Pushing into the hallway, I passed the nurses station and hurried on down the hall to the lounge at the end, and dang it all if Mavis hadn’t been right on the money.

Opening the door, I saw Benny leaning over a young nurse, one of his hands pressed against the pistachio-green wall she was trying to melt into. Well, well, well. Not so shy and withdrawn after all.

“And, there you are,” I said. I wish I could have bottled the look he gave me, saved it for later to inject right into my veins for an instant hit of dopamine. That whole “deer in the headlights” description doesn’t even begin to sum it up. Think “toad in the road about to be squashed flat.”

He removed his hand from the wall and turned to face me. The young nurse edged away to stand over by the window, where she peered at us from behind a wispy curtain of pale, blond hair. She looked like she couldn’t have been a hundred pounds soaking wet, and she seemed both embarrassed and relieved that I’d barged in on them.

“I, uh…” he began, but I cut him off.

“Get out,” I said to him, surprising even myself at how piano-wire-tight my voice sounded.

“But, I…”

“I said get out. Get the fuck out. You’re done.”

I watched him try to puff himself up, jutting his scrawny chest forward and going for an indignant tone. “You can’t just…” and I could tell from his don’t you know who I am tone that my hunch about mommy or daddy having some kind of monied connection to the hospital was on target.

“Oh, Benny, but I can. I just did. Go.” I was determined not to be the only one bounced out of here today. It made me feel wild, reckless.

When he didn’t move, I turned my attention to the young woman. “You know you could file a complaint against him, right? Report him for harassment. I’ll help you write it up.” She blinked hard, looked at Benny, then at the floor.

Benny muttered something under his breath and scurried past me, leaving a disgusting wake of bad aftershave and musky arousal. I resisted the urge to follow him out into the hall and yell obscenities after him. Good riddance, but now I’d have one more problem to lay at Fred’s feet, a minor but necessary reshuffling of the pastoral care team, sure, but the real problem might be blowback on Fred from Benny’s wealthy, connected mommy or daddy.

In truth, if I was Fred, I’d be asking me how I let things got to this point. He’d be right to wonder. I’d been completely sidetracked by the jolts of adrenaline from my work with Mark, craving the feeling more and more, while feeling less and less at home in my work as a chaplain. And because of that, on my watch and as his supervisor I’d allowed things with Benny to get completely out of hand.

More immediately, though, Benny’s negligence meant today’s patients hadn’t been seen.

I fished out one of my cards from a back pocket and offered it to the young nurse. Her cheeks were flushed and her large brown eyes were puddled with tears. “You did nothing wrong,” I said in as kind a tone I could muster. “Let me know if you want to talk or pursue any action.” She nodded, took the card, and wiped at her eyes with the back of one hand.

I dashed back downstairs and got the patient sheet from Mavis, who surprised me by handing it to me without comment. I had time to squeeze in at least half the visits. Tamping down my frustration at how wildly out of control this whole day was beginning to feel, I folded the list I’d made, tucked it in my prayer book, and went to make some calls. How surreal it all was. The man who raped Rachel Roper as a fifteen-year-old girl, who impregnated her and murdered her to keep the horrible truth hidden was the neurosurgeon I’d slept with. Meanwhile, there were still patients to visit, to listen to and pray with and for. It was impossible to balance the everydayness of it. But right now I had to. I had to shove down the horror and do my job. And somehow I had to call Mark and bring him up to speed. But when?

I finished my last patient visit ten minutes before my two o’clock meeting with Fred and returned to Pastoral Care, shutting my door to collect myself and to practice again what I would say. At three minutes till two I heard the quiet thump of the main door and then the hum of voices, Fred and Mavis talking. I stuck my head out and gave Fred a wave.

“Oh, Blainey, good. Give me five minutes?” Fred nodded in my direction as he moved toward his office.

“Sure thing.” I shut the door again. My heart was banging so hard I had to sit down. I felt like a fifth grader who’d been called into the principal’s office for passing notes in class, but the principal didn’t know I’d just planted a bomb in the gym. A sad blue cloud of remorse engulfed me. Fred had been a champion for me and in my work here and this, all this chaos, is how I’d repaid him.

I closed my eyes and breathed, practicing what my counselor had taught me the last time my life was coming unglued, after I’d found out about Nate and Tari, and then Tari taking all those pills and dying, and then Nate and I coming apart, so hard and ugly it was still hard to believe.

With my eyes shut, I pictured Fred and I sitting together under a beautiful, flowering tree, with a soft breeze brushing our cheeks and sunlight glinting between the leaves. I imagined both of us calm. I heard the words between us being delivered with slow, careful kindness.

Just then the intercom on my phone buzzed, jolting me out of my small oasis of peace. “Fred will see you now,” Mavis announced.

I stood. “Okay. Here we go,” I said out loud and walked out of my office and past Mavis’s desk, into Fred’s office and toward the point of no return, with no idea what my life would be like on the other side of all my confessions, only that so many things would never be the same again.

(New subscriber? Like mysteries? Go here to read Dead Ringer from the beginning!)

Poor Blainey Blair. We left her hanging as she pondered how to break the news to her boss, the Director of Pastoral Care, Fred Moseley, that she’s been moonlighting as an assistant to a local P.I. and her current case involves the murder of a former patient at St. Regis Hospital. Can you say “conflict of interest”?

Let’s rejoin her and see where she is in the investigation into Rachel Roper’s untimely death.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I both dreaded and welcomed my afternoon meeting with Fred. It was way past time to come clean and get things out in the open, but as I drove along, I mulled over how best to tell him, and the longer I mulled the more I wanted to chicken out. Also, in the back of my mind was a ringing awareness of my ever-diminishing savings account. Big Eddie had left the door open for me to come back and pick up bartending at McGill’s, but I didn’t relish the thought of returning to that work. Although I will say, having a background in pastoral care came in handy. That thing about people crying in their beer? Yeah, it’s real.

The back of my neck felt pinched as I drove, as if a hard hand gripped me. I swiveled my head and stretched, feeling the weight of the meeting with Cathy Stearnes. She’d come at me with more teeth than I expected, and who would blame her? But she was just young enough and naive enough that she didn’t know the danger she was in. I grabbed my phone and dialed Mark’s number.

“Hey,” he answered.

I didn’t beat around the bush. “Hey, yourself. I need the number for your hot attorney friend. I have a feeling the cops are going to look pretty closely at the CNA who found Rachel. I’ll get Weston to pay for it,” I added.

“Oh,” he said. “Elizabeth Walker. Hold on.” I heard footsteps and the high pitch of Angie’s voice. I was still trying to wrap my head around Mark as a dad, and not doing it very successfully. I still pictured him as a secretive womanizer. This reframe was going to take me a while.

By the time I got to St. Regis, the parking lot was a flurry of morning shift change activity, cars backing out in a hurry, on their way home to collapse and get some sleep before it started all over again. As I eased into the spot marked Pastoral Care, Guy Trubiano stepped off the curb and strode past without even glancing in my direction. I watched him in my side mirror, noting with admiration those broad shoulders and marvelous glutes. I knew I’d missed a chance with him. I hoped it wasn’t the only one I’d have, but my front burners were plenty full right now.

I still couldn’t shake the feeling that Rachel’s killer was not that far away, and I knew her death couldn’t be a random attack. To be murdered at the beginning of your search for the daughter you lost to adoption as a sixteen-year-old kid? Somebody was so desperate to keep the truth from coming out that they were willing to take the life of the one who could name them. It would be someone who had a lot to lose. Someone who had knowledge of medical procedures. Someone who would know how to gain access to a hoity-toity private hospital without arousing interest or suspicion.

It would also be someone who’d lived in the area twenty-some years ago, when Rachel lived here in Brady with her mother — her stinking rich mother, who had trafficked her daughter to men in exchange for pharmaceuticals.

I was more convinced than ever of the strong likelihood the person I was looking for had been a med school student then. A sudden chill came over me. In the weirdest twist of events, I might even know this person. A killer. Hiding in plain sight, with a calm, professional exterior that hid a sociopathic monster — someone who’d used Rachel for his own pleasure, as if she was a toy.

Mavis was tippy-tapping on her computer when I swung open the door to Pastor Care, her lips pursed in an officious “I’m so very busy” expression, but instead of seeming defensive she seemed to exude a new kind of confidence. I’d bet dollars to doughnuts the security guard Sam Thompson who’d been hovering around our office had something to do with it, and bless his heart for that.

The surgery schedule was on my desk, along with a couple of other notes about patients who’d requested a pastoral visit. It would be a busy morning, which worked fine for me. That would help keep my mind occupied and the dread tamped down while I waited for my two o’clock meeting with Fred.

I shut my door so I could call Weston Roper. When it rolled to voicemail, I left a quick update and insisted he pony up attorney’s fees for Elizabeth Walker.

I dialed her number next and was all ready with a rehearsed message, but to my surprise she picked up on the second ring.

“This is Elizabeth. Who am I speaking with, please?” Her voice was warm, comforting.

“Hi, Elizabeth, I’m a friend of Mark Danner’s, “ I said. “I know a young woman who might need your help.”

“You’re the minister, aren’t you,” she said, leaving me to wonder what stories Mark had been sharing.

“That’s me.” I tried to sound jaunty and fun and not like an anxious wrapped-around-the-axle middle-aged woman with questionable sense and problematic ego needs.

“How can I help?” she said, and I was gratified to hear she sounded like she really meant it. I gave her the condensed version of Rachel’s story — woman returns to where as a girl she was raped by one of mom’s friends, became pregnant, surrendered her daughter to adoption, is hospitalized, murdered, and a young CNA discovers her unresponsive and lifeless. Elizabeth agreed it would be wise for Cathy to at least have a consultation.

“They’ll be looking for someone to pin it on,” she said. “There'll be lots of pressure from the moneyed folks attached to WindDancer to make it go away real fast. I know some of those board members. Complete douche bags.”

Oh, well, now. The lovely Elizabeth Walker had a potty-mouth. She and I were going to get along just fine. Also, she didn’t mention payment until the very end of the conversation, which made me like her even more.

When I opened my office door, Mavis was standing there with one hand in a raised fist like she was getting ready to knock. We both jumped, startled, and I saw her eyes were wet. “Here,” she said and handed me a note written in her neat script. “It says that Jenny Malone’s mom is at Duke hospital with an aneurysm. It’s bad,” she said.

Shit, shit, shit.

After the harrowing journey of Jenny’s heart transplant, that family deserved nothing more than peace and comfort and every possible joy for the rest of their lives. I felt my anger rise. Not for the first time I wondered why a loving God allowed so damn much suffering.

“Also, Fred called to confirm your two o’clock with him today,” Mavis said, blinking against the tears.

I nodded. “It’s on my calendar.”

My mind raced. My instinct was to get back in my car and head to Durham. The pastoral care schedule was full, but I could pull in Benny, the wayward intern. He’d never returned my call after his disappearing act during his last overnight ER shift, and he’d kept dodging our supervision meetings. I left him an ultimatum on his voicemail — either come in to sub for me, take thorough notes with reflection on each visit and leave them on my desk, or he could pack up and leave the program.

Next, I called Maria Shelbourne, the director of Pastoral Care for the hospital at Duke, and she brought me up to speed. There’d been abdominal pain chalked up to stress — what mother wouldn’t be coming out of her skin after months with twelve-year-old Jenny hospitalized, clinging to life and hoping a heart could be found before she ran out of time? Then the hypervigilance of bringing Jenny home, gauging every cough, every sneeze, every ache and pain, and counting out a barrage of daily meds.

When Nora had collapsed on the kitchen floor, David, prepped and ready on the cellular level to respond to any emergency, immediately called 911. Now in the ICU, his wife clung hard to life. I couldn’t imagine the stress on Jenny’s frail body, her surgical wound barely healed.

“I’d like to come visit,” I said. “I know your folks are on top of it, I don’t mean to get in the way. Jenny, the family — they mean a lot to me.”

“Of course,” Maria said. “Just come on up to my office and check in. I’ll have a pass for you. It’ll be good to see you.”

I was all out of prayers. Instead, all I had to offer on the half-hour drive to Durham was a muttered “Please, please, please, please…” on a loop. Maria kept our conversation brief and walked with me to the ICU unit and back to Nora’s room where the familiar soundtrack of life support whooshed and beeped and gurgled and clicked as Nora lay unconscious. David stood by her bed, completely stricken, his eyes swollen and face the color of ash. I went to stand beside him and he gathered me in a hug.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, and then whispered, “She can’t die, Blainey. She just can’t.”

I nodded. What could I say? Of course she couldn’t die, that was utterly absurd. But also it was more than likely that she would die. I knew the powerful tool of denial that comes with shock was keeping David sane right now.

“And Jenny?” I asked, taking his hand.

“Nora’s sister is with her now. She’s doing great, Blainey. She’s doing so great.” He choked back a sob, and we turned our attention to Nora. Somewhere underneath all the hardware and surgical tape and silicone tubing and IVs was his wife, his love. I found my praying voice, Maria came to stand beside us, and we bowed our heads and beseeched the Almighty.

“If you can, go home and get some rest,” I said to David as I was leaving. “Jenny needs you, you need sleep, and Nora is in the best possible hands here.”

“I will,” he said, and we both knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’ll check back later,” I said. “Tell Jenny I said hi?”

Maria walked me to the elevator. “It’s terribly serious, but the fact she’s still alive gives reason for hope,” she said, answering the question I hadn’t asked. “I promise to keep you posted.”

I was alone in the elevator leaning against the back wall when the cab slowed and the door opened and a young woman in dark green scrubs got on. I stared at her, my mouth open, and tried to breathe. Tall and slender with high cheekbones, cinnamon-colored hair, and eyes the blue of an October sky, as Guy had so eloquently put it, she was the spitting image of Rachel Roper. She nodded at me and gave me an odd look, obviously put off by my gawking.

I pulled my eyes away from her, but not before catching the name on her ID badge.

Mandy Wytheman. Oh, my God.

The words were out before I could stop them. “Is Miller Wytheman your father?”

…when last we saw poor Blainey Blair, she was on her way back to St. Regis, where she has been working as a chaplain, to break it to her boss, the Director of Pastoral Care, Fred Moseley, that she’s been moonlighting as an assistant to a local P.I. and her current case involved a former patient at their hospital, Rachel Roper. All kinds of potential conflicts of interest there. On top of that, she’d just had a meeting with Cathy Stearnes, the young CNA who was the first to discover that Rachel had died right under the nose of the staff at the tony private hospital WindDancer. That meeting had gone badly off the rails.

Things are a mess and Blainey isn’t completely sure what’s next. She’s hoping you can hang in there while she figures out just how she is going to approach Fred, how she can enlist her other boss, the secret one, the P.I. Mark Danner, in finding some legal help for CNA Cathy, who Blainey is pretty sure is going to get saddled with blame, since the CEO of WindDancer sure isn’t going to take it.

On top of all that, Blainey owes Rachel’s brother, the millionaire Weston Roper, an update about the case, which in spite of WindDancer’s efforts to gloss over a suspicious death that happened in their facility, has been officially ruled a homicide. But she doesn’t really have an update for Weston, except to tell him she pissed off Will Keating, the cranky chain-smoking pathologist he’d hired to do the autopsy, since Weston didn’t trust WindDancer with those arrangements. Blainey is working to get back in Will’s good graces — not just for the sake of the case but also because she really likes the guy and had hoped they could be pals. Or something.

Actually, the list of people who are pissed off at Blainey is fairly impressive. Chad Miller, the detective who warned her to stay the hell out of his way, Cathy Stearnes who, it’s true, Blainey had lied to in order to get a face to face, and Delma and Frankie, two of her oldest and dearest friends who think she has gone off the deep end with her investigations side gig. Mavis, the administrative assistant for Pastoral Care, makes no attempt to hide her dislike. She and the oily faux-Buddhist chaplain at WindDancer, Lamar Gustafson, hold each other in mutual contempt, having crossed paths before, and not in a good way.

And I think we can expect Blainey’s boss, Fred Moseley, will be added to the list in a matter of hours.

But things are going to be sorted out soon, don’t you worry. And Blainey Blair has her own list — people she’s looking at as possible suspects. She’s keeping that to herself, for now, but she knows she’s getting closer to finding Rachel’s killer. She can feel it in her bones.

New here? If you want to read from the beginning, go here for Chapter One!

Go here to read Chapter 30.

New subscriber? Like mysteries? Go here to read Dead Ringer from the beginning!

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Beams of sunlight pierced the early morning mist as I pulled up to Heavenly’s Doughnuts. Through my barely-open window I caught the aroma of deep-fried food, and my stomach responded with a low, excited rumble.

Behind Heavenly’s beige tile exterior the wide blue sky was dabbed with cotton-candy clouds of pink and lavender. Cathy Stearnes stood in front of the plate glass window with her arms crossed. I knew it was her, because the glare she gave matched the voice on the phone, and also the ultra-white polyester no-nonsense tunic top and pants gave her away. Also, just so you don’t mistake me for some super-sleuth, we were the only customers on the premises.

I got out of my car and walked around to her. “Good morning, Cathy, and thank you again for agreeing to meet.”

She ignored my extended hand and said, “Let’s get this over with.”

I followed her into the building like a meek child. From behind I could tell she didn’t mind a doughnut or two, and good for her, I thought. Life is short. Personally, I was salivating in anticipation of the apple fritter I was planning to wolf down.

We stepped up to the counter where a lanky dark-haired boy watched us through wary eyes, as if alarmed to see actual people approaching. Then he noticed Cathy and gave her curves a quick but thorough once-over, his face softening into an appreciative grin.

“G’mornin’” he said, leaning toward her, his hands on the metal counter. “What can I get you, miss?”

“I’ll take a dozen doughnuts,” she said, all business, not even glancing in my direction and missing completely the moony look in the boy’s eyes. “Two glazed, two apple cider, two chocolate-covered, two cinnamon, two plain with sprinkles, and two bear claws.”

He pulled a large piece of translucent bakery paper from a box on the table behind him. The delicious, dense smells of yeast and hot oil filled my head as he nestled the doughnuts in a bright pink box. “And what else?”

“That’s twelve,” she said a bit shortly.

“When you buy a dozen. You get a free one.”

“Oh,” she said. “Add another chocolate-covered one then.” Cathy turned to me and narrowed her eyes. “They’re for my co-workers.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Anything else?” That boy must have been born hopeful. You could see it in the wide-open sweetness of his slightly-pimpled face and his crooked smile. Cathy didn’t appear to notice any of it.

“A hot chocolate. With extra whipped cream,” she said. “And she’s buying.” She jerked her head in my direction. The boy handed her the box of doughnuts, making one last vain attempt to impart his admiration, but she walked away without making eye contact and took a seat at a table by the side window. He gazed after her for a second, then turned back and gave me a flat, annoyed look as if I’d thoroughly ruined his day by showing up.

“Black coffee and an apple fritter for me, please.”

He sighed and fished an apple fritter the size of a small kitten from the case, dropping the confection into a white paper bag that he handed to me. The heft of it made me weak in the knees. Then he splashed some coffee into a styrofoam cup, glancing in the direction of the fair Catherine. He handed me the coffee and turned to make her hot chocolate, whooshed a generous dollop of pressurized whipped cream on top, passing the cup to me. “That’ll be eleven dollars and seventeen cents.”

I gave him a ten and a five and joined Cathy Stearnes at the table. She pulled the box of doughnuts toward her as if I might try to filch one. “So what is it you want to know?” She made a show of glancing at her watch.

I took a good look at the young woman — her plump cheeks, pink and soft and the way her chin-length blond hair curved along her cheek, her bright blue eyes darting from me to the yellow formica table to the trees outside, noting how when she took a sip of hot chocolate, a small mustache of whipped cream laced the top of her pillowy upper lip, and it stabbed me. She was just a kid, really, a twenty-something whose teens were still in her rearview mirror.

I pulled out my pen and notebook and opened it, wondering how good she was at reading upside down. I turned to a clean page to save her the trouble. “This must be really hard for you, and I’m so terribly sorry,” I said.

She chewed on the inside of her lip for a second, then took a deep breath. “Just tell me what you want.”

“Cathy, I was a friend of Rachel’s.”

“So you said.”

“And her brother, Weston, hired…”

“I met him, yes…” She looked at her watch again, cuing me to get to the damned point.

“Look, we know someone injected fentanyl into Rachel’s IV. You are the one who discovered her. So anything you can tell me — anything at all — could help lead to finding out who did this.”

“I already told the police…”

“I know,” I said. “Indulge me.”

“Why should I?”

I fully understood and appreciated her anger at me. I let a moment of silence build before I asked, “Have you talked to an attorney yet?”

For the first time, she let her guard down. “Why? I didn’t do anything! I found her and reported it immediately!”

“I hear you. But don’t you think WindDancer has an attorney on retainer for just such eventualities as patients’ deaths in their facility? Because I can assure you they do. And that attorney’s job is to make sure the corporation doesn’t take responsibility for anything it can weasel out of. That attorney’s job is to make sure WindDancer stays out from under any suspicion of wrongdoing or negligence, and the best way to do that is to find a scapegoat, and that would be you and any other staff who provided care for Rachel. Because it sure as hell isn’t going to be the CEO, with his ginormous vacation house on the Outer Banks and his semi-annual golf trips to Scotland.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” she repeated, her voice rising.

“I know that. All I’m asking for is your help in giving me every detail you can think of.”

“I already told all this to the police,” she said.

“Without an attorney.”

“They told me I didn’t need one.”

“Yeah, they’ll say that. I’ll get you the name of a good one.” I was pretty sure Mark’s strawberry-blond knew what she was doing.

“I can’t afford one,” she said with a little catch in her voice.

“I’ll talk to Weston. I’m sure we can work something out with him. He wants the killer caught and brought to justice.” I saw how she winced at the word ‘killer’. “Cathy, someone planned and carried out the murder of a woman right under the allegedly watchful eye of an entire medical facility staff. Can you think what kind of person would do that? It chills me to the bone. We absolutely cannot let them get away with it. Please. Rachel deserved better.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said. “I was coming in after the night shift. I looked over her chart — someone had been in at 4:45 to switch out her IV bag, take her vitals. Everything looked normal. I said, ‘Good morning, Miss Roper,’ like I always do, I always announce that I’m there, because I didn’t want to startle her.”

“Okay, you said ‘someone’ had come in at 4:45. Do you know who?”

She nodded. “Yes, it was initialed ‘LD’ and signed ‘Larry Denton’, he’s part of the overnight staff.”

I scribbled ‘Larry Denton’ into my notebook and circled the name with a big question mark beside it. “Go on, please.”

“What I noticed first…I said, ‘Oh, Miss Roper, you got your hair done!’ because it had been combed out and arranged all nice. She had such long, beautiful hair. Then I saw her hands, and it was just wrong, all wrong. I touched her, and she was so cold, and that’s when I knew.”

“And then what?”

“I went right to the station and told the charge nurse I was pretty sure she had passed.”

“What happened next?” I asked as I jotted down the details.

“The charge nurse paged the on-call doctor and then she and I went back to Miss Roper’s room. No heartbeat, no discernible pulse. Lividity. We had to wait for the doctor to make the declaration, but we knew.”

“So no one called a code?”

“They told me we don’t call a code when somebody’s already dead,” she said with an edge in her voice.

“Right. I’m just asking what’s WindDancer’s protocol.” Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe they didn’t have one. Private hospitals for rich people can pretty much do what they want. I made a note to check anyway.

“So then?”

“The on call doc arrived and they told me I should leave,” she said.

“What?”

“They said it would be best if I left. They told me to pick up a report form at the nurses station and write it up and then I could go home for the day.”

“That seems odd,” I said, but Cathy made no response. “Okay, so you don’t know what happened after that?”

“I don’t, no. I completed the report — it was only a couple of pages, just basic yes-or-no boxes to check — and I went back to my agency, where I had to write it up for my supervisor and meet with her.” I didn’t mention that I knew on her way she’d stopped to chat with at least one guy from the transport team who would end up spilling details about Rachel’s death to Will.

“Let’s go back to when you found Rachel.”

“Okay, but my supervisor told me not to worry, I’m covered under their insurance? So I don’t really need a lawyer?”

Poor thing had no clue. Where were this kid’s parents? “Okay, well, back to the day Rachel died. Was there anything out of place? Anything you noticed that seemed unusual?”

“Nothing.”

“Anything at all.”

“I just said no.” Her voice shook with rising impatience.

“Okay. Can you tell me about her hands?”

That stopped her. “What?”

“I understand there was something unusual about her hands.”

“I guess, yeah,” she said with reluctance. “Formal-looking. Like they’d been arranged. Like, not something a person would do herself.”

“Can you show me?”

She stared at me. “Excuse me?”

“Do you mind showing me how her hands were?”

“They were crossed,” she said.

“I think I understand what you’re describing, but just to make sure…”

She shut her eyes and pressed her lips together, hard. Sitting up straight, she placed her hands on her chest with her right hand over the left.

Like how a body is laid out in a casket, I thought but didn’t say.

“And you’re sure the right hand was covering the left?”

She opened her eyes, clearly on the verge of tears. “What is wrong with you?!” She stood up and glared at me. “I know I shouldn’t have said anything about Miss Rachel to those guys, but I was very upset. I wasn’t thinking straight.” So she’d figured out what I knew and how. I imagined Cathy Stearnes had found at least one member of the transport team more than marginally attractive. I got it. That tingly sensation had made me do a lot of things I later regretted.

“Cathy, I certainly didn’t mean…”

“You shut up!” she said, kicking at her chair. “I only came here because Miss Rachel was so sweet and I felt so awful that she died.” She wiped tears off her cheeks with the back of one hand. “You are a terrible person. You lied to get me here, and now I don’t even know if anything you said is true, and oh, my God, I hope you die of something awful and go straight to hell.”

Well, now. The sweet young woman had certainly disappeared. And technically I hadn’t lied to get her to meet me, I’d lied to get her to return my call, but she’d made a fair point. “It’s ten to seven,” I said. “You’d better go. I’ll get you the name and number of that attorney.”

“Don’t bother,” she said, grabbing her box of doughnuts.

I didn’t want to freak her out even more than she already was, but it seemed pretty clear no one was looking out for her. “Listen to me when I tell you. Your agency’s legal protection is for their liability. It’ll be no help to you if you’re criminally charged.”

“Oh, my God,” she snapped. “Just fuck you!”

Abandoning her hot chocolate, she stormed out the door. I glanced over at the boy behind the counter, who shot me a look that said “You’re obviously a colossal asshole,” and I thought, yeah, I certainly can be. 

These mere twenty minutes had felt like an ominous precursor to my afternoon meeting with Fred Moseley, who would probably relieve me of my position as chaplain this very day. And honestly, I wouldn’t blame him one bit. 

I took a sip of weak coffee, bit an edge off the apple fritter, for which I’d lost all appetite, and grabbed Cathy’s hot chocolate, tossing everything into the trash. I couldn’t imagine there would be any charges coming from Detective Chad Miller and his gang, but I was fairly certain the attorneys for Cathy’s agency and for WindDancer would be more than happy to throw her and anyone else they could under the bus.

I’d call Mark on my way to St. Regis and get his lawyer’s number. My gut said Cathy Stearnes, CNA might just end up needing our help.

Okay, I’ve done what I hope will be a helpful thing and created headings to make it easier for readers to access the content you’re interested in. Check out the new Dead Ringer heading to catch up on previous chapters. New subscribers can scroll to the very beginning and click through. Happy July! Hope y’all are staying cool wherever you are! (Read Chapter 29 here.)

CHAPTER THIRTY

Will accepted my apology with a gruff, “Jesus Christ, I’m fine, let it go,” and then we slid right back into what had felt so easy right from the beginning.

“Let’s get together this week,” I said, “but you pick where this time.” I decided to tread lightly but honestly around his issues with alcohol.

“Yeah, whatever,” he said. I heard a deep inhale as he sucked on a Kool, and then a long release of smoke. “I’ll get back to you.”

“You do that,” I said. “I’m glad to know you’re still going to be a royal pain in my ass.”

“Go to hell,” he said, and then, “Maybe day after tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“I’m glad you called, Blainey,” he said. Before I could respond, he ended the call.

I hadn’t known Will for very long, but I had the impression he wasn’t glad about much. From the few things he’d told me, I knew life had dealt him some pretty hard blows, and I was deeply moved by what seemed a gesture of vulnerability from a man my counselor would have described as “well-defended.” I was really looking forward to seeing him again. I missed having friends.

My life back in Pennsylvania, married and pastoring a church, seemed light years away. After Nate and I split, most of our friends had picked him. I understood. It happens. Coming back to Brady had been surreal in so many ungrounding ways. I’d had to buy a map of the city where I’d grown up and relearn my way around. At the same time, being back in the town where I’d been part of a family, where I’d been rooted, where I’d once belonged, felt like the grace of a much-needed blessing for my battered heart. It had centered me in a way I hadn’t known I needed.

Which is why it pained me so much that I assumed Delma was judging me from afar. After our epic breakfast outing at the Copper Kettle last Saturday, I could tell she had something she wanted to talk about. She’d asked me to call, and I hadn’t. Frankie’s comment — “Delma thinks you’ve gone off the deep end” — stung badly, mostly because she had voiced my own innermost worries about the work I’d taken on, what it was doing to me. Or to be more truthful, what I was gladly allowing it to do to me. Working with Mark had unearthed an aspect of my personality that both stunned me and of which I was a little too proud. In one breath, I could chastise myself for how I could so easily lie to good people and also smugly pat myself on the back for what I’d gotten away with.

Which felt like a trajectory that wasn’t going to end well, and that ending might be coming tomorrow. I imagined myself sitting across from Fred in his office, his stunned expression giving way to anger. I’d lied. To him and to a whole lot of people, lies of both omission and commission. Well, it was past time to come clean. It would probably be a good idea to get in touch with Big Eddie and see if I could come back and pick up some shifts at McGill’s while I figured out what to do next, after Fred booted me out on my ass. Of course I’d stay on with Mark, but the work at Omega Investigations was nothing like a living wage, and I couldn’t chance hollowing out my savings any further.

The sudden jangling of the telephone made me jump about two feet and snapped me back into the present moment. I picked up the receiver on the second ring. It was the CNA, Cathy Stearnes. I caught myself just before I made the seamless shift into anxious, frazzled MaryLou Stephens with her poor dying Memaw. Enough with the lies.

I pleaded with Cathy not to hang up and told her the truth — that Rachel was a friend of mine and I’d been trying to help her find her daughter, that someone had killed Rachel and that she, Cathy Stearnes, could have valuable information and helpful insights that might help get justice for Rachel.

“You might be the one person who can help find whoever did this,” I pleaded.

She said nothing for what felt like a very long time; only her slow, measured breathing was audible and somewhere in the background the call of a bird, as if she stood near an open window.

At last she spoke, and in her voice was more steel than I would have anticipated. “Miss Blair is it? I wish to say first of all that I do not appreciate being manipulated. You may view me as just some naive young woman, but I’m certainly old enough to know what it means for a person to conduct oneself honorably, and you have not done so. Nevertheless, I will agree to meet and talk with you, not because I want to help you but because it is something I can do for sweet Miss Rachel.” Here, her voice caught on a suppressed sob.

I waited.

She continued. “I have time tomorrow morning at six-thirty and can give you fifteen minutes,” she said. “I have a new patient meeting at seven.”

“Thank you,” I said and added, “You are very kind to do this.”

She snorted at my lame attempt to smooth things over. “I like the doughnut place on Elm,” she said. “Heavenly’s. It’s on the far corner.”

“I know it,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. And thank you, really.”

“You’re buying,” she said and hung up.

(New folks, if you want to start at the beginning, go here to Chapter 1, and you can follow links to page through all the chapters!)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

With Mark doing a background check on the highly irritating and possibly criminal Lamar Gustafson, I could shift my attention elsewhere, like getting in touch with Weston Roper to update him with what I’d learned about his sister’s death. Which was basically nothing other than the name of the CNA who’d found Rachel. But I at least owed him the call. If it was my brother — I mean, Sean and I hadn’t spoken for a long time, but he was my brother and I still loved him — I’d be coming out of my skin not knowing, thinking someone out there had with malice and intent shot Fentanyl into my sibling’s IV and stuck around to watch them die.

Also, I could ask Weston if there was going to be a funeral or memorial service. I wondered, with a shudder, where Rachel’s body was now. It broke me to think she’d been stored in a drawer in the chilly, echoing halls of the morgue with none but a small circle to even note her death, much less mourn it. Life had dealt her a lousy hand. All the money in the world, which was apparently close to what her family possessed, hadn’t made a bit of difference in protecting her from the narcissistic mother who was happy to trade her fifteen-year-old daughter for pills. I couldn’t imagine the heartbreak and confusion when, drugged, raped, and impregnated by one of her mother’s suppliers, she then had given birth, still a child herself, and then surrendered her baby girl.

And, apparently, kept every last bit of it a secret for years.

“Please find my daughter” she’d pleaded with me, and the fact she’d died didn’t change my determination to do so. Before anything else, though, I burned with fury to find the person who had killed Rachel Roper. The oddly jarring detail about her hair being brushed and having been posed with her hands crossed, made me consider the possibility it was someone she knew, someone who, even in the twisted circumstance of taking her life, acted tenderly and respectfully toward her.

I had to find that CNA. There were a dozen different companies around here that contracted out independent nursing care staff. I’d call every single one until I found her. Cathy Stearnes.

There was plenty of work waiting for me at St. Regis, but I couldn’t make myself go back. The Pastoral Care office now seemed tainted with uncertainty, an imagined shadowy figure sneaking in and out, making off with my notebook, skulking back in with it — okay, maybe that hadn’t happened at all, maybe I just hadn’t looked hard enough and the notebook had been there all the time, tucked at the back of the drawer.

But the mystery of the unlocked door kept plaguing me, along with the feeling of something being way off. I called the office from my cell phone, practicing my most pathetically scratchy voice in case Mavis answered, which she did.

“Pastoral Care, how may I help you,” she said in a way that indicated she really did want to help, but you’d better be quick about getting to the point.

“Hi, Mavis, this is Blainey. I’m heading home. I don’t feel so great.” I added a little cough for effect.

“Okay, see you tomorrow,” she said. I heard her whisper to someone.

A male voice gave a quiet, “Sure.”

Well, that explained why I didn’t get her usual grilling along with the judgey voice. I envisioned the hunky security guard Samuel Thompson standing in front of her desk, winking and making eyes at her. Mavis had no time for me. She was far too busy getting swept off her feet.

“Oh, before you hang up…” I said.

“What.”

“Could you pencil me in for an appointment with Fred the next time he’s in the office?” Time to come clean with my moonlighting.

“That’ll be tomorrow afternoon,” Mavis said.

“How about 2:00?”

“That time is available. I’ll make a note of it,” she said, and hung up.

I padded around my house in a pair of ratty shorts and an old t-shirt, thinking I could definitely get used to working like this, in the comfort of my own home. I scrounged in the fridge and threw together a salad from the remnants of some bagged greens and a few sad looking veggies, then settled in with the phone book and my notebook and a pen.

I took a few minutes to practice in front of the mirror. “Hi,” I started, and offered myself a sympathetic smile. “This is MaryLou Stephens and I’m looking to hire one of your CNAs, Cathy Stearnes? My family would like to engage her very excellent services for our…” stop and sniff and regain my composure, “…Memaw. She’s…” another pause, “…she fell and can’t get out of bed and we need some help with her care.” Heck, it sounded true enough to me. I would say that Cathy had been recommended to us by the director of nursing at Green Hollows, one of the larger care facilities in the Brady area. I was taking a chance she’d worked there, but I couldn’t mention WindDancer. I didn’t want to spook her.

I called four different places and gave my spiel with no luck. The fifth call was to Brady Caregivers. I had to lie a whole lot to Louise, the really nice lady who answered the phone, telling her about my made-up Memaw and how sad she was to have to stay in her bed all day and how we all worked and couldn’t be with her until past dinnertime and also she was too proud and embarrassed to have us help her with the bedpan and sometimes she got mad enough to throw her pills at us when we tried to give her her medication, and I got so worked up that poor Louise had to calm me down.

“It’s such a hard time, dear, I know. I’m so terribly sorry.”

I was headed to hell, I was pretty sure of that. God, why was I so good at this? It momentarily disturbed me, until I remembered Rachel Roper, who was never going to get to meet her daughter.

“Let’s look at Cathy’s schedule, all right?” Louise said. “We’ll get it figured out. Cathy is really very good, people ask for her a lot. When would you need her to start? It sounds like right away, yes?”

“Well,” I hedged a bit. “We’d like to meet her first, if that’s possible.”

Louise hesitated, and her tone changed ever so slightly. “Oh, we don’t normally do that.”

I waited a second before responding. “I understand,” I said, letting my voice waver. “It’s just that…we really love Memaw and…”

I couldn’t go on. No, I mean, really. I was out of lies. They dried up just like that. Maybe it was God’s version of a mini-smiting. I sat silent, listening to Louise breathe at the other end of the phone.

Finally, she spoke. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll pass your information along to Cathy and include your request to meet with your family first. Now, I’ve taken down your phone number, so I’ll let her follow up with you. Does that sound okay?”

“Yes, thank you, Louise,” I said. “You’re very kind. Thank you.”

Straight. To. Hell.

“It’s just…if she could call me as soon as possible?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Louise.

“Thank you. We appreciate this so much.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, and hung up, leaving me with the distinct impression I’d used up every last bit of her patience. I couldn’t say I blamed her.

I’d done what I could. I hoped Cathy would call. In the meantime, I needed to clear my head, and the unseasonably pleasant summer day was beckoning me. Before I headed out for a walk, I changed the voicemail recording on my landline from “You’ve reached Blainey Blair” to a standard “Thank you for your call, etc.,” just in case she called looking for MaryLou Stephens. I threw on shorts that were slightly less ratty and headed out the door.

As I paced along I thought about Mark and how a little over a year ago he hadn’t even known he had a kid, and I wondered what that must do to the heart, to get the news and absorb the shock and then maybe followed by elation and then quite possibly grief at all the years missed. Or maybe that was just me projecting, as someone who’d never had any children, thinking that’s how I might react. I’d feel my way into asking him about it sometime.

I thought of Rachel, too, and her sad desperation, not knowing anything about what happened to her baby girl, not knowing if she’d had a good life, whether she’d been loved, if she’d been safe in all the ways Rachel never had been. “Please, please, please, let me find her.” I whispered my prayer out into the air and up into the tall pines and on up to the cloudless blue sky. I walked and walked, breathing that prayer the whole way.

When I got home, there was a voicemail from Will. “Call me, you jerk,” was all he said, and I shouted with relief. Maybe he and I were going to be okay after all.

Go here to read Chapter 28. Go here for Chapter 30.

⬅ Go here to read Chapter 27.

CHAPTER 28

All of a sudden, I was pissed. Maybe it was the young woman in hospital security acting like I’d shown up and asked for one of her kidneys, or maybe it was whatever stuck in my craw every time I laid eyes on that poser Lamar. For sure, I was frustrated about the Will situation.

I pointed my Civic toward Mark’s office, churning a head of steam on the way. Honestly, the whole “cloaked in secrecy” thing with him was getting old. If he wasn’t back by now, I’d leave a short but pointed note taped to his front door. Finding out what happened to Rachel Roper was important to me, and I thought it would be important to him. The “I’m leaving you in charge of this case” that at first seemed like a vote of confidence now felt like he’d off-loaded an inconvenience.

I’d held off calling Weston until I had something to report, but I owed him a contact. The man had lost his sister in the most terrible way, and I knew he must be beside himself with grief, along with feeling a sense of urgency to find out who killed her and why. Still, I wanted to speak with Mark first. And I wanted to talk to him about doing a thorough background check on Lamar. Something was way off with that man, I could feel it in my bones.

Also, there was the pesky little thing of giving Mark the heads up that he might be hearing from Chad, since I’d fibbed to Lamar about working alongside Brady PD and the Sheriff’s office. Whoopsie. Not the first time my mouth would get me in trouble, and one hundred percent likely it wouldn’t be the last. Still, in hindsight it was a stupidly bad decision.

I was half a block from Mark’s when I caught sight of him standing with a woman in front of his office. I slowed to a crawl, checking in my rearview mirror to make sure no one was behind me. I’d seen her before. She was the woman from last week, the tall, well-dressed strawberry blonde who tooled around in a white Lincoln. Mark gathered her in a hug that lasted longer than it might have. I slowed down and watched as she got into her car. He waved as she drove away.

He was just turning to head back into his office as I pulled up. “Oh, hi, Blainey,” he said as I got out.

“Oh, hi? That’s it? You disappear and I have no idea how to reach you?”

“Did you need to reach me?”

“No, not till today, but…”

“I told you I’d be back in a couple of days. Here I am. What’s up?”

I hated it when he was calm and reasonable. “Can we go inside?”

He hesitated and flicked his eyes back toward the house. Then he shrugged and sighed. “Sure, okay.”

I bit down hard on the words that wanted to come out and followed him in through his front door.

“Bring me up to speed,” he said. His leather chair crunched agreeably as he sank into it, but the breezy question hit me right in the “oh, no, you don’t” area.

I sat in one of the wingbacks and fired from the hip. “Have you been working another case you’re not telling me about?”

That stopped him. “Oh,” he said. “Um…okay…well, sort of…”

“Does it involve the woman who just left?” I hated how the question sounded coming out of my mouth.

After a moment he said, “Yeah. In a way.”

“So do you mind my asking who she is?”

“I mind, because it’s my business, but I’ll tell you. She’s my attorney.”

“Oh,” I said. I wanted to ask if he always hugged his attorneys, or just the graceful, elegant ones, but for once, that little voice telling me to shut it won out.

“So what’s the latest with the Rachel Roper case?”

“Well, I got the name of the CNA who found her. Cathy Stearnes. But I’ll need to track down the agency she works for. I’ll make some calls this afternoon and see if I can talk to her today.”

“Okay, sounds like a plan. Anything else?”

Just then from the back of the house came the sound of something metal being dropped and a high, soft laugh.

I let out a long sigh and counted to ten. “Okay, I think it’s time for me to go and leave you to…whatever.”

But Mark’s eyes weren’t on me. His gaze was aimed just past my shoulder with such an expression of tenderness that it nearly took my breath away, and when I turned, peeking around from the hallway was a small, freckled face with a button nose and ice-blue eyes set in a cloud of dark curls.

“You can come in, Angie,” Mark said softly, and the girl stepped into the room. She wore blue-and-white striped bib overalls and a yellow t-shirt. I guessed she was around eight years old.

“Angie, this is Miss Blainey. Blainey, this is my daughter. Angie.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said in a timid voice, her eyes trained on her slim, bare feet, toes curling into the Persian rug.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Angie,” I said, and she raised her eyes and offered a sweet smile. I looked from the girl to Mark, trying not to gape. I’d never seen him so unguarded, completely naked in his adoration.

“Sweetie, Miss Blainey and I have some things to talk about. Could you go play in your room for a little while, and then we’ll go get ice cream?”

“Okay,” she said and gave me a shy wave as she disappeared around the corner, her feet padding quietly down the hallway.

I turned back to face him. For once, I had no words.

“Yeah,” he said, and I could hear how he tried to get the better of his emotions, but his voice was thick with love and something else. Sadness, maybe. He took a few minutes to collect himself. Outside, nearby traffic waved like a distant ocean.

“I met someone when I was an MP up in Maryland.” He stopped and glanced toward the hallway, listening.

“Mark, you don’t owe me any…”

“I only found out I had a daughter last year,” he said.

I waited for him to go on.

“When Serena found out she was pregnant, I told her we could get married. Or not. I said I’d do whatever she wanted, whatever it took. Then one morning her father shows up with a $10,000 check and instructions to never to contact her. He said the pregnancy would be terminated and she was going to go on with her life and move past this mistake. I tore up the check and threw it at him. But I didn’t try to get in touch, and I never heard from her again. I just figured that was that.

“Then two years ago Serena — that’s Angie’s mom — called me out of the blue and told me that she’d had the baby after all. I asked why she didn’t reach out when Angie was born. She said her father had told her about the $10,000. ‘That hurt me worse than anything you could have done,’ she said. ‘Any man who would take that kind of bribe could never be dad material.’”

“Ouch.”

“But she said Angie kept asking about me. ‘I felt she had a right to know,’ she said. In the perfect irony, she hired a private investigator to track me down.”

“God, Mark.”

“At first Serena didn’t believe me when I told her I hadn’t taken the money. Then she broke down and cried. We had a long talk and I said I wanted to meet Angie but that I’d respect whatever she wanted. We both decided to get attorneys to help hammer out visitation. After all this time, we really don’t know each other. Maybe we never did. Maybe we were in love. It doesn’t matter now.” Mark leaned forward in his chair. “I was up in Maryland for a few days, signing the last of the paperwork and spending some time with Angie and Serena. Personal business. Deeply personal.”

My face burned. I’d been an idiot.“I’m sorry, Mark. I should have trusted you.”

“It would be great if you just would from now on,” he said.

I nodded. Of course, I wanted to ask if there was a Mr. Serena, but I didn’t.

“Anything else before you go?” I was being dismissed. The man had a date with his adorable kid.

“Just a quick request — I think Lamar Gustafson is worth looking into. I can’t get rid of the feeling there’s something in his background we should know about. Things just seem…confusing and dark with him.

“I can do that,” he said and got up from his chair. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“Good, thanks,” I said. “And I'll bring Weston up to date.” In the moment we stood looking at each other, I felt Mark’s guard come back up like an invisible shield.

“Okay, well, I’ll talk to you later,” I said, moving to the front door. “I’m so glad to meet your daughter. I’m wishing you all good things. You both deserve that.” The words sounded lame coming out of my mouth, and Mark gave a cursory nod.

In the car, I realized I hadn’t mentioned Chad or the phone call that might come, but that would have to wait, and maybe Lamar wouldn’t tattle on me after all. Still, I felt the need to unburden from my other transgressions.

I dialed Will’s number and got his terse voicemail greeting — Yeah, you know what to do, so do it. “Will. Please call me. I’m so sorry. I’ve been a complete ass. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Now to get something scheduled for a face to face with my boss and come clean. Fred might fire me on the spot — if I was in his shoes, I might do the same — but the weight of lies, half-truths, and omissions had been sitting on me like a stone.

Who the hell was I becoming? Or was this who I’d always been?

Go here to read Chapter 29.

Go here to read Chapter 26.

The girl at the front desk of St. Regis Hospital Security shrugged her shoulders when I explained the situation with the door that kept refusing to stay locked, and she met my concern that someone had let themselves in to our Pastoral Care office with a blank stare. When I asked about the possibility of viewing any footage the hallway camera had captured, she spent an extra couple of seconds working on the wad of gum in her mouth before saying, “I don’t know anything about that.” She flipped a hank of long, stringy blonde hair off one shoulder and, as if to make a point, tapped an index finger on the cover of the fashion magazine I’d clearly taken her away from.

I had that sinking feeling when you know you’re going to be set at opposite purposes with someone, and that’s just how it’s going to go. I would try to persuade her to give me any information at all that could help, and she would steadfastly cling to the bureaucratic life raft of saying, “No,” to any and all requests.

Surely there was someone else I could speak with.

No. They were all out of the office today for a training.

Then, could I leave a note?

No. The director won’t read them.

“I guess I could send an email and explain my request that way,” I said.

“Suit yourself,” she said. “All those emails come to me.”

“So, is there any way for me to get a look at the recording so I can see who might have come into the offices of Pastoral Care, where hundreds of confidential files are kept and where a breach of any such confidentiality could result in a very costly lawsuit for St. Regis?”

She shrugged again, rolled her gum around in her mouth, and opened a side drawer, pulling out a brown file folder. Inside was a stack of blank forms. She peeled one off the top and handed it to me. “You could fill out this request form,” she said.

“What happens to the form after I fill it out?”

“You bring it back to me,” she said, and I thought I saw a flicker of amusement in her pale blue eyes.

“Okay,” I said with a laugh. “Thanks.” I took the form, imagining the deep, dark chasm the completed page would most likely disappear into, but figured I may as well try. I folded it in half and tucked it into my tote bag.

In the meantime, I still wanted to track down the CNA who’d discovered Rachel Roper, allegedly with hair brushed and hands folded in a way that looked totally staged. Will Keating had said he thought her first name was Cathy. I checked my watch — if I left now I could get out to WindDancer and back to St. Regis in plenty of time to take a second look at some updates on the chaplains scheduling software.

I wanted to hear Cathy describe exactly what she had seen. I needed to hear it. Rachel’s lonely death lurked nonstop in the back of my mind, like a heavy cloud, along with the weight of how I felt I’d failed her.

Also weighing — how I’d pissed off Will. I hated to think I’d burned a bridge to a potentially good friendship before I’d even gotten to know the guy. Maybe I’d try to reach out to him later this afternoon. I was guessing he was back at his regular post in Durham. In any event, Weston was expecting us to work together, so I had to make peace somehow.

Every once in a while, amid a string of beastly hot summer days in eastern North Carolina, some wayward wind from Canada wends its way down to us and graces us with sometimes as much as twenty-four hours of unseasonably cooler weather. Today was one of those days. The usual filmy summer haze had lifted, leaving turquoise blue skies and deliciously dry air. I turned off the AC and opened my car windows, drinking it all in.

The doors at WindDancer slid open, and I stepped through into the lobby. I asked for Lamar Gustafson right away. “Tell him it’s Chaplain Blair,” I said. No subterfuge this time. I was guessing he’d weigh the inconvenience of leaving his office to come speak to me alongside an opportunity to condescendingly put me in my place in front of staff and residents.

I’d guessed right. First, his footsteps muffled by the carpet and then his lanky frame ascending the winding staircase.

“Chaplain Blair, I thought you had been banned from these premises,” he said loudly. I felt, rather than saw, several heads turn in my direction.

I matched his volume, calling out as I walked toward him, “Weston Roper sends his greetings with a reminder he’s paying me to look into the murder that happened here last week.”

There was utter silence, and then, like a detonation wave, a series of gasps and cries. Lamar’s heel caught, and he grabbed the gleaming walnut bannister just in time.

I moved to meet him at the bottom of the stairs where I couldn’t help but notice all the color had drained from his face. Before he could say anything — and I suspected it was going to be a moment before his brain reengaged — I said, “I need to speak with the CNA who discovered Rachel. I think her first name is Cathy.”

Lamar had found his voice, and it trembled with barely controlled fury. “I think you’d better…” he began, but I stopped him.

“I think you’d better,” I said, and lowered my voice. “Mr. Roper expects full cooperation, and I can’t imagine why you’d want to prevent him from finding out who killed his sister. Unless you’re engaged in some sort of cover-up for WindDancer, which, as I think of it, could definitely make you personally and criminally liable.”

I worried the angry vein on his temple might blow. “Lamar, this is serious. Weston Roper has unlimited resources and he means to get justice for Rachel. And can you blame him? I would think a spiritual leader such as yourself would abhor being part of any efforts to suppress or hide the truth.”

His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

“Now, I’ve spoken with Chad Miller and he’s given the okay for me to move forward with making inquiries about the events surrounding Rachel’s death, and I’ve agreed to share whatever I learn with him.”

That bald-faced lie would almost certainly get me in some big old trouble, but if I did come up with something useful maybe Chad wouldn’t land on me too hard.

“Cathy doesn’t work here,” Lamar said through clenched teeth. “She was a temporary hire.”

I fished my notebook and pen out of my tote. “Last name?”

“Stearnes. Cathy Stearnes.” He was speaking to me but looking over my head, maybe imagining what he could do to me if there weren’t so many pesky witnesses.

“And what’s the name of the temp agency?”

“I’ve no idea,” Lamar said, and then he did look at me, and what I saw in his eyes sent a jolt of cold fear down my legs. Something dark lurked in that man. I’d sensed it the first time we met, but seeing it aimed at me like that took my breath away. I didn’t want him to know that, though, and hoped I hadn’t appeared too startled for him to think he had the upper hand.

“Thanks, Lamar, I really appreciate it,” I said and wrestled a tight smile onto my face. “Weston will be so grateful to hear of your cooperation. In fact, I think I’ll call to tell him right now!”

I scrolled to my speed dial buttons, pressed one, and put the phone up to my ear, leaving him standing at the foot of the stairs, feeling his eyes boring holes in my back the whole way out the front doors.

As soon as my feet hit the sidewalk, I left a whispered voicemail. “Hey, Mark, are you back yet…from…wherever you’ve been?! Listen, I really, really need to talk to you!”

Go here to read Chapter 28.

CHAPTER 26

Miller Wytheman and I had known each other a good deal longer and a whole lot better than we should have. I was a junior at NC State when we met at the campus dive bar I frequented. I was ostensibly majoring in psychology but mostly majoring in how to avoid despair, having lost both mother and father in the previous year. I thought enough alcohol and the occasional one-night stand would help.

Miller, a newly-minted neurosurgeon, was young and blue-eyed and absurdly golden, ridiculously handsome. He swore up and down he was separated from his wife. He’d snaked an arm around my waist and pulled me close. Through his starched white dress shirt I felt the hard iron of his biceps, and I didn’t hate it. “Paperwork’s been filed,” he said. “Just waiting for the attorneys to hash things out.”

I wanted to ask him what he was doing in a campus bar, but I already knew. I let him buy me a beer, and then I let him buy me another, and then...well, I let a lot of things happened over the next three months that today I look back on with a good deal of regret. I was desperate and needy and angry at the world and thoroughly lost. No excuses, just context.

Now, with Dr. Miller Wytheman the only other passenger in the elevator and standing a matter of feet away from me, my mouth went dry. I remembered his smell — sandalwood and something sharply citrus. I remembered his touch, lingering and hot. And I remembered his voice. Like deep brown velvet soaked in a dangerous drizzle of bourbon and honey that left me wondering if his patients ever actually needed anesthesia, or if he just talked to them so soothingly that they obediently went off to sleep so he could slice into their skulls.

He took a step toward me but didn’t come too close, probably still carrying the memory of the last time we’d seen each other when I’d thrown a hard roll at him at a tony French restaurant, making a scene right out of a bad romcom and leaving a small cut on his chiseled cheek.

“Blainey Blair,” he said, and I hated how hearing him speak my name set up some vibration in my blood. I hated how easily I remembered the mind-blowing sex. Most of all, I hated that I’d been so willfully naive that I’d let the affair go on even after I discovered he’d lied about a pending divorce. The divorce did come later, of course, because, duh, I wasn’t the only one Miller kept on the side.

It was never my hope he’d ditch his wife and turn to me. I had no desire to be showered with diamond tennis bracelets, had no interest in being taken to conferences in St. Lucia and Stockholm. I wasn’t looking for anything permanent.

He helped me…pass the time, is the best I can say it. Until I got my feet back under me. Father Jerry helped me with that, but that’s another story for another day.

I could see from his forehead’s glossy patina and uplifted eyebrows that he’d had work done, and I confess, it pleased me greatly to think of him as that insecure. “Hi, Miller,” I said. “What brings you to St. Regis? The last I heard, you’d gone to Michigan?”

Look at me, making small talk. Also, please, Jesus, don’t let him say he’s taken a position here.

“Oh, yes. We were in Detroit for quite a while. We moved back to North Carolina several years ago and I’m now at Duke. I’m consulting on a case today. And you…” He trailed off as I watched him take in the lettering on my name tag, stumbling over the words.

I wondered who ‘we’ referred to these days but didn’t ask. “I’m a chaplain, yes,” I said to help him out. I angled myself toward the door that, according to the subtle shift I felt from the elevator car slowing, should open any moment now.

“And you work here?” he asked.

A soft chime announced our arrival on the first floor. “I do, yes. In the Pastoral Care department while the director is on leave.”

“How interesting,” he said. I ground my teeth as the door took its sweet time opening. For a brief, terrifying moment panic roared through me — what if the Universe chose right now for a little cosmic joke and left me stuck in an elevator with a man who’d made the top five list of people I wished I’d never set eyes on again?

“It is interesting!” I spoke too loudly, too brightly because of said panic, and then, as if a motor somewhere had been engaged, my mouth started to run. “I was in Pennsylvania but I moved back here and Fred, that’s the director, Fred Moseley, had to take a leave of absence to care for his wife because she’s dealing with a recurrence of breast cancer, and he asked me…”

The look on Miller’s face stopped me, and thank God for that because I was starting to feel like a semi that had lost its brakes on a very steep hill.

“Good old Fred,” Miller said, but his eyes seemed to relay something shadowy and unreadable. The door slid open and we stepped out into the lobby together. “He and I briefly crossed paths in med school.”

“Yeah, I forget how small the medical community really is,” I said. He’d unnerved me with the momentary reaction that I was beginning to wonder if I’d imagined. I peered up at him for a moment, searching his face for a sign of…well, anything, but his expression remained utterly impassive. Botox or a very accomplished recovery. Or both.

He reached out and briefly put a hand on my arm. “Listen, let’s get a drink sometime and catch up. Do you have a business card?” and I realized he’d misread, as vain men will, my upward gaze as interest and attraction.

I thought of all the things I could say, that I’d love to say, but in my ear was my counselor’s voice urging me to remember the sanity-preserving wisdom that I was paying actual dollars for: Do. Not. Engage. I took a deep breath and a step back.

“Oh, golly, there goes my pager!” I pulled it out and faked peering at the message that wasn’t there. “Gotta run.” I walked past him toward the ER and didn’t look back even once.

Go here for Chapter 27.

Go here to read Chapter 24.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I’d worked up a nice sweat from my mad dash out to the car to look for that danged notebook, and let’s just say the surprise of running into Guy Trubiano, with his innocently sexy smile, certainly hadn’t lowered my body temperature. I could still see the puzzled look on his face as I turned and ran. Later, I’d have to find him and explain. But how much could I really tell him?

Hustling up the stairwell had left me breathless, reminding me how badly I’d neglected my exercise routine. Also, can you call it a routine if you haven’t really done it in weeks? I stood outside the door to Pastoral Care panting and did some deep inhales and slow exhales to regulate my breathing. It’d be great to avoid glances and questions from Mavis.

I was reaching for the doorknob when I heard a noise from behind and to my right, as if someone had just disappeared around the corner at the end of the hall. The thing is, the hallway had been empty when I came out of the stairwell. Or at least I’d thought so.

“Shake it off, kid,” I muttered to myself. “Stop imagining things and find that notebook.” I turned the doorknob…only to find it was locked. “Oh, come on!” I yelled. I was so rattled I forgot for a moment that I was holding a wad of keys in my hand.

“Mavis?” I called out as I walked in. Papers were scattered across her desk. Clearly, she’d left in a hurry. Sort of odd but also maybe not. Maybe right now she was down in maintenance or medical records chewing someone’s ass right off.

I went into my office and sank down in my chair with my head in my hands. That notebook contained everything about my work with Omega from the very beginning, and in particular my notes from my meeting with Weston. I’m a really good note-taker, but that didn’t matter now. For a few seconds, I indulged in berating myself for not taking Mark’s suggestion and buying a digital recorder to have on hand. Of course he’d been right, damn it.

Mark. Oh, geez. I would have to call and let him know about this possible breach, but I had no idea where he’d gone or how to reach him.

In frustration I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek and winced. I tried not to imagine someone — maybe Rachel Roper’s killer, because who else would take it and why? — reading page after page, knowing what I know about what he — or she — did.

A momentary thought jolted me. Would Mavis go through my stuff? I couldn’t imagine it. It wasn’t her style to go snooping around. When Mavis wanted to know something, she’d come right out and ask it in that tone she used that scared just about everybody except Fred.

I repeated my steps from earlier, opening the drawer and pulling out my tote bag. I went through it again, rechecked the side pocket just because.

Shit, shit, shit.

And then something dark blue caught my eye and I bent down to look and there was my notebook, wedged at the very back of the drawer. I grabbed it, flipped it open and scanned the pages as if it might be a fake. “How?” I said out loud, and again, “How?”

Had I missed it earlier in my hurry and panic ? Bigger than a pack of index cards but smaller than a standard notebook, I supposed I could have overlooked it. But I could swear it hadn’t been there. The drawer wasn’t that big and the only thing I kept in it was my bag, so there’d been no clutter to obscure it.

Occam’s Razor, that sharp little principle, says the answer requiring the fewest assumptions is usually correct. In other words, the likelihood of my overlooking the errant notebook in my hurry vs. the likelihood of someone sneaking into the office, going right to the drawer with my tote bag, opening the drawer and pulling out the notebook, sneaking back out, going somewhere to rifle through the pages, then sneaking back into the office and putting the missing notebook back in the drawer, meanwhile avoiding Mavis and me and counting on the door being unlocked or else having access to a key — I mean, yeah. Seems implausible. At the same time, it’s not unheard of to slice your pinky finger on Occam’s Razor.

Ergo, implausible but not impossible. Or maybe I just didn’t want to face the fact I’d been jangly and overreactive and if I told all this to my counselor, she’d ask in that way she had in a higher-pitched voice with a slightly tilted head and beginnings of a concerned frown, “So, Blainey, what’s going on with you right now?”

What’s going on? Hovering in the back of my mind, like an ever-present shadow, was the knowledge someone had cold-bloodedly planned and plotted and taken the life of a person I knew and cared about and felt some responsibility toward. How do you just let that go? I couldn’t.

So now what?

That’s when I remembered the security camera in the hall, the one I sometimes gave a shy wave to. Anyone coming and going from Pastoral Care would have been captured. Now, I just had to figure out who to talk to about getting a look at any recorded footage. I decided I’d start with Hospital Security. I slid the notebook back into the pocket of my tote bag and returned the bag to the drawer. This time I closed my office door and locked it. I locked the main door and double-checked to make sure the latch had caught, leaning against it a couple of times.

I headed for the stairs but some kind of weird paranoia was needling around in my brain. The thought of being alone in the stairwell made my heart race. Instead, I went to the elevator and pressed the down button.

The doors slid open and I stepped in and nodded briefly at the only other passenger, a man leaning against the back wall. I didn’t recognize him at first. Tall and slender with smooth, tanned cheeks and sandy hair, one hand was thrust in the pocket of his white coat and from the other dangled a blue surgical cap.

Then that voice, the one I knew, sent a little shiver along my spine. “Blainey Blair,” he said, lingering over each syllable.

At that moment I deeply regretted not taking the stairs. I turned and looked at him. “Oh,” I said. “It’s you.”

Chapter 26.

Go here to read Chapter Twenty-three.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

If I’d been paying attention, I would have remembered whether or not I locked the door to the Pastoral Care office. I was rattled all the way down to my toes about too many things — my falling-out with Will; Mark’s sudden and unexplained departure; my anxiety about how my boss Fred was going to react when I told him I’d been moonlighting as an assistant to a private investigator; the low thrum of awareness that Rachel Roper’s killer was still out there somewhere; and guilt at neglecting Jenny Malone, who, by the way, was doing great for a kid who’d just had someone else’s heart put into her thirteen-year-old body.

When I returned from my visit with her, I found the office door unlocked, which would be fine if Mavis was back from lunch. But she wasn’t.

Something along the back of my neck twitched. I let the door swing open and stayed in the hall. “Hello?” I called out. Shit, shit, shit. Our file cabinets were crammed full of confidential information. If I’d left the door unlocked, a lot of people’s private concerns could have been put at risk, and my ass would be on the line. And if I hadn’t, then who had been in here? And for what reason? We didn’t keep petty cash. And how had they gotten in?

I stood at the doorway and listened, mentally marking the direction I’d run if I had to, down the long hallway and around the corner to the first door my keycard would let me into, Respiratory Diseases.

The only sounds were the soft ding of a far-off elevator and the quiet whoosh of refrigerated air moving through the HVAC ceiling ducts.

“Hello?” I tried again, and this time I walked inside, leaving the door open behind me. I looked around. Mavis’s desk was maniacally neat, as she’d left it. Fred’s office door was open, the lights off, just as when I’d gone up to see Jenny. Feeling like a third grader, I tiptoed over and peered in, peeking behind his door just in case.

Right then, Mavis returned from lunch. I swiveled around to see her standing by her desk, looking at me. “What are you doing?” I’d expected her tone to be accusatory, but she seemed more perplexed than anything.

“When I came back from my visit with Jenny Malone, I found our main office door unlocked,” I said. “I was afraid someone was in here. Irrational, I know, but I thought I’d better check. I feel terrible. I must have forgotten to lock it.”

“Oh, it’s been sticking a lot lately,” she said, setting her purse on her desk. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“But there are all these files in here,” I said, my head spinning. I’d been ready for her to jump down my throat. I couldn’t imagine she’d miss a chance.

She shrugged. “I’ve sent requisition forms to maintenance several times for a new deadbolt, but Fred doesn’t seem worried, so…” Her nonchalance was unnerving.

“Could you please send another requisition? And I’ll double-check to make sure the door is securely locked next time,” I said, but she already had her back to me, dropping in her chair and firing up her computer. I thought maybe she hadn’t heard me. “Mavis?”

“Yup, doing it right now,” she said, typing away.

My “Thanks!” was dismissed with a wave of one hand that almost seemed friendly.

I’d left my office door open, as I always did. Whatever it was at the back of my neck twitched again. Something was off. A smell. A feeling. The way the air changes when someone comes into and leaves a room.

I did a quick scan, trying to spot anything out of place. My computer was still off. No file or desk drawers open, the top of my desk as I’d left it, with a stack of grant reporting paperwork on the right, a yellow legal pad with random notes on the left, at the front a blue stapler, a green ceramic mug with “My Blood Type is Coffee” stamped on it that held a handful of pens, a small white bowl full of yellow sticky note pads, and the multi-line telephone. Next to it, the Rolodex, flipped open to the card with the number I’d last looked up. WindDancer.

The leather chair crunched beneath me as I sat and surveyed the room, feeling an agitation I couldn’t tamp down. Everything looked the same, but I couldn’t shake the sense someone had been in here. I opened the large right-hand desk drawer, pulled out my tote bag, and methodically went through it. Wallet still there with the ten dollar bill I’d gotten back as change from Kroger, two credit cards, my North Carolina driver’s license, a faded photo of Sean and me when we were young, back before our mother got sick and things started falling apart. The plaid cloth makeup bag I carry for the few times I actually care enough to wear any, intact with mascara, a small container of powdered taupe eye shadow, and a tube of Summer Rose cheek tint. The small blue zippered bag with the tampons I needed less and less, check. Loose at the bottom were several pens and paper clips, a wad of folded Kleenex, and a scattering of store receipts. 

I reached my hand into the side pocket where I kept the notebook I used for Omega Investigations, but it wasn’t there. A slow panic began to rise. In that way you do when your brain won’t accept what it doesn’t find, I snaked my hand back and forth in the pocket, hoping the notebook would magically appear from whatever parallel dimension it might have slipped into. Nothing.

Unbelieving, I took the bag over to the window where there was better light and opened the pocket to look inside. Still nothing.

So. Someone had either broken in or waltzed in through an unlocked door and not bothered anything else but had made a beeline to my office and opened the drawer where I kept my tote bag and had looked in the side pocket in order to steal the notebook where I’d recorded everything I’d done for Omega Investigations?

It seemed utterly implausible, even absurd. But then where the hell was my notebook?

I grabbed my keys. “Mavis, I’ll be back in a minute,” I called as I sailed into the hallway. Maybe it was in my car. On any given morning in Brady traffic, I’d have to hit the brakes hard more than once. It could have slid out of the side pocket, I reasoned, willing the lost item to surface as I rode down in the elevator.

A wall of heat smacked me as I exited the cool lobby of the hospital. The sun gleamed in the trees, and tufts of clouds floated in the pale blue sky. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” I muttered, as I hurried toward my car.

But the notebook wasn’t there. I looked on the front and back floors, under the seats. I even opened the trunk and stuck my head in, thinking I might have gone momentarily crazy and tossed it in there.

“Hey, Blainey.” A man’s voice came from behind, and I jumped and hit the top of my head on the trunk latch.

“Ow!” I muttered, and swung around to see Guy Trubiano standing behind me. “Oh, hi,” I said, putting a hand to my head. “Hi,” I said again, like a nitwit.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.

“You didn’t,” I lied, which he clearly knew.

“You bonked your head pretty hard. Lemme take a look.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” I said, trying to wave him off, but he’d already moved to stand in front of me. He tilted my head forward, so that it nearly rested against his chest. I stared down at his white Nikes, feeling the fool while thinking he smelled like something delicious and spicy that had just come out of the oven. His fingers were in my hair, gently feeling around. He pressed lightly, and I whimpered as a hot jolt shot through me.

“There’s no blood,” he said, letting go, “but you’re going to have a nice lump there. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said, gathering myself and taking a step back from him. “It wasn’t your fault. I’m fine.”

“Well, you ought to get some ice on it,” he said. “Should help keep the swelling down. You might take some ibuprofen, too.”

“Thanks,” I said. I slammed the trunk shut and moved past him and around my car to close the driver’s side door.

“I haven’t seen you in the ER for a while,” he said.

“Yeah, I’m on a rotating schedule with some other chaplains. I’ll be there this weekend, though,” I added.

“Ah,” he said. “I’m out of town.”

An awkward silence grew, one cavernous enough that you could drive a truck through it.

Finally, Guy spoke. “Hey, do you wanna get coffee some time?”  

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. I noticed he’d stayed where he was rather than following me to the front of the car, which I appreciated. Maybe a man who understood boundaries?

“Just coffee,” he said. “No pressure. But I’m guessing it’s kind of obvious that I think you’re pretty swell.”

Pretty swell? Had he parachuted in from the 1950s? I had to admit, though, he was pretty swell himself, with his copper-colored hair and big smile and even the serpent tails of two matching dragon tattoos that snaked down both arms. He squinted against the sunlight and tilted his head.

“Sure, let’s do it,” I said.

“Great,” he said, and after a beat, “When?”

“No pressure,” I said, laughing.

He laughed, too. “Just don’t wanna miss my chance,” he said.

I took a good long look at Guy Trubiano — at the slight jut of his hip as he stood looking at me, and the hands that had so expertly explored the wound on my head, at his neck, how had I never noticed before, the man had a really lovely neck for such a big, muscular dude, and the way he smiled halfway while using those dark eyes to see right through me.

“I have some time now,” I said. God. What was I doing?

He looked at his watch. “I have exactly fifteen minutes and seventeen seconds before my shift begins.”

“You’ll need to buy. My wallet is upstairs.”

“Let’s go,” he said, and without thinking, I let him take my elbow and steer me toward the hospital entrance.

In the back of my mind, while noticing I didn’t at all mind Guy’s hand on me, was that missing notebook. Losing it would be a disaster. It contained all my notes, which I didn’t want floating around, and also that I especially needed right now. Everything from details about Rachel to my interactions with Weston was in there. I could recreate a lot of it from memory, but not all of it. I’d jot down details about people’s reactions, which was part of how I recorded things, not just the information but getting the person down on the page. Like when Gina came to Mark’s office for the first meeting about Paolo, I’d put a little note in the margin: “She licks her lips a lot, what’s that about?” Sometimes, these side notes are meaningless. Sometimes, later I’ll see how they fit into a bigger picture, clues that had been dropped, like breadcrumbs, along the way.

Was there a possibility I’d left the notebook at home, that I was getting all spun up about nothing, when the whole time it was sitting innocently on my bedside table or kitchen counter, or minding its own business on the sofa in my den?

But if not, if someone actually had broken into our Pastoral Care office and stolen my notebook, who had done it and why? I could only imagine one person, and that would be whoever took a hypodermic needle, filled it with enough fentanyl to fell a bull elephant, and quietly injected the drug into Rachel Roper’s IV, taking the time after she’d stopped breathing to brush her hair and place her beautiful hands in a horrible mimicry of eternal rest. Someone who had surveilled the Pastoral Care office looking for an opportunity — like a door with a malfunctioning lock — or who had managed to get access to a master key. In other words, a stone-cold killer.

“Are you okay?” Guy asked, and I realized I’d stopped dead in my tracks, holding my breath and staring at the marble floor of the hospital lobby.

I had to find that notebook.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, looking up at him, taking in his confused expression and knowing there was no time to explain. “I have to go.”

I took off running toward the stairs without looking back.

Chapter Twenty-five.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I felt like the worst kind of heel about how things had gone with Will. I stressed about it all the way home, almost missing the turn into my own street and thought about calling him but decided I’d probably done enough damage for one day.

The thing is, picturing Will as a young med student had triggered the idea that a group of guys training to be doctors might have access to some very nice prescription drugs, like the ones Rachel’s mother was happy to trade her then-fifteen-year-old daughter for. And I suspected her moneyed mother would prefer that kind of company to some sad scrawny bunch of men from the far side of Raleigh. With the needle-in-a-haystack challenge of figuring out who the father of Rachel’s child might be, here at least might be a place to start. So my mouth went flapping before my brain caught up, and Will had heard the shift in my voice, from a conversation between friends to an inquiry tinged with suspicion.

I had a shitty night’s sleep filled with anxiety dreams. Though I couldn’t remember what they were about, I woke feeling hungover and a little sad. A steamy shower and some smoky black coffee barely served to revive me.

Thick, hot summer air swirled off the busy roadways and through the breeze-starved trees. My sweet old Civic’s air conditioner struggled to keep up, and I knew how it felt. Honestly, by mid-June in Brady I’d already be pining for the cool of October days. Just walking from St. Regis’s parking lot to the sliding front doors had me wiping sweat from my forehead.

I cut through the ER looking for Benny, who should have been finishing an overnight shift. “Hi, Molly, I’m looking for the intern chaplain.”

“Benny? Haven’t seen him,” she said without looking up from the chart that had her full attention.

That stopped me. “At all? Like, he wasn’t here during the night?”

She sighed and put her finger on the chart to hold her place and met my eyes with a frustrated glance. “If he was here, I didn’t see him. But it’s been pretty quiet.”

“Molly, what the hell?!” shouted one of the nurses from a back office.

“Uh-oh,” I said and backed away from the counter. Everybody knows, you never, ever use the “Q” word. That’s just inviting complete mayhem to break out.

Molly offered a raised middle finger to the nurse in the office, and stuck her tongue out at me. “See what you made me go and do? Scram, get outta here. You’re bad juju.”

“I love you, too,” I said and blew her a kiss. I couldn’t help noticing there was a Guy Trubiano-sized gap in that room, and then I couldn’t help noticing I felt a little sad about that. I scurried toward the back stairs, trying to tamp down the hot feelings that had briefly flared, and shifted my attention to the supervisory problem at hand.

Benny had either not shown up at all last night or he’d found a place to hide out and avoid any interactions with human beings. Either way, it was all going to blow back on me.

I used my key card to open the door to the stairway up to the second floor, fuming with each step. Who had even let Benny into the program? I was more and more convinced he had no real interest in being here. Maybe his rich dad was on the hospital board or something like that. All I knew was, he irritated the shit out of me.

I opened the door to the Pastoral Care office to see a very blonde, very broad-shouldered security guard perched on one corner of Mavis’s desk, his head tilted toward her as she offered a series of small, bleating laughs.

“Good morning!” I announced a little too loudly.

“Ms. Blair!” Mavis blurted, nearly upsetting her rolling chair. I confess to enjoying mightily the little warble in her voice.

The guard took his time standing, all 6’4” of him, and swiveled to offer me a sideways grin, a dimple appearing in one smooth, tanned cheek.

I grinned back at him. “And you are?”  

“Just leaving,” he said, and laughed as he shook my extended hand. “Samuel Thompson, ma’am.”

Jesus Christ. Did he just “ma’am” me? What am I, a fossil? Some old relic?

“Chaplain Blair,” I said, sighing. His hand was warm and firm, and the crinkles at the corners of his blue-green eyes promised a lot of fun. I looked from him to Mavis, who sat blushing furiously.

“Well, Samuel Thompson, we have work to do and I’m sure you do, too.”

“Nope,” he said. “I’m off duty. But I’ll let y’all get back to it.” He winked at Mavis and nodded at me. Mavis’s eyes, full of something exceedingly bright, followed his impressive frame until the door closed behind him. In the moment of silence that followed, she heaved a deep sigh, forgetting, it seemed, there was anyone else in the room.

When she remembered, she came back with a vengeance, drawing her mouth into a thin line. “There are three mistakes on your grant reports. I corrected them but marked them on your copies. Please be more attentive in the future,” she said, holding a sheaf of papers out to me. “Also, The Reverend Moseley called. He wondered where you were. I told him I had no idea.”

It was clear she’d relished tattling on me to Fred. I resolved to tell him about my work with Omega the next time he was in the office, which according to the loose schedule he was following, should be next Monday. Sunday I’d be doing my on-call overnight shift, but I could stick around to meet with him in the morning.

“Thank you, Mavis,” I said, biting the inside of my cheek to keep my tone even. I took the grant report copies from her, went into my office, and shut myself in. I tossed the papers on the credenza behind the desk and plopped down in my chair, swiveling in a slow circle. I was busting a gut to call WindDancer and track down the CNA, Cathy Somebody, but I needed to get the chaplains’ scheduling finalized and still had to get up with the errant Benny for supervision. And there was the dreaded call to Chad Miller that I couldn’t put off any longer. I pulled up my big girl panties, picked up the phone, and dialed.

I got the reception from him that I’d imagined. “I can’t stop you from snooping around,” Chad said, “but if you so much as put a pinky toe over the line, if you screw up this investigation in any way, I will come after you.”

Pinky toe? I resisted the urge to snicker.

I thought I might as well plow on, since he was already pissed. “Are there any updates that you’re able to share?” I was fishing, in part, to see what he knew about how the killer had left Rachel’s body, hoping I could get to Cathy Somebody first.

There was a pause during which I thought he might be counting to ten. “I guess I haven’t made myself clear,” he said. “Brady PD won’t be sharing any information with you or your boss.” He said boss like he was spitting out something nasty.

He continued. “We have a strict policy about keeping our investigations confidential, strictly on a need to know basis, and civilians do not need to know.”

“Got it,” I said, and then just to poke the bear, I followed with, “I understand the county sheriff’s office has jurisdiction, and therefore is taking the lead. So it’s not really your investigation, is it?”

From the sharp intake of breath, I knew I'd scored a hit. I’m petty enough that I marked it in the air with a 1. “Not that I owe you an explanation, far from it, Ms. Blair, but the Sheriff has asked for Brady PD to assist. So just stay the hell out of everyone’s way. Or I’ll arrest you and have you charged with obstruction and anything else I can come up with.”

“I understand, Detective,” I said. “Can you at least give me the name of the person at the Sheriff’s Office who is heading up the investigation?” I mean, why not?

The noise that was delivered to my ear left me wondering if Chad had cracked the phone handset when he slammed it down. Well, that was out of the way. Unpleasant, and I suspected not the last such interaction between us, but I could check it off my list.

I shifted my attention to the tasks at hand. The chaplain’s schedule sorted itself pretty neatly, thanks to the magic of a pricey database the hospital had agreed to pay up for.

I paged Benny and then returned three phone calls. The first was to a pastor from Charlotte asking if I could visit one of his parishioners who’d ended up at St. Regis after the sudden onset of appendicitis during a business meeting at a biotech company. The second call was to politely decline an invitation from a small congregation to be their guest preacher, something I’d stopped doing when I started my work with Omega. The last call was to the administrator of one of our faith-based grants who had a question about some previous budget reports.

With the first two calls I’d been able to speak with actual humans, but I had to leave voicemail for the grants administrator. Who knew? Maybe our recordings could carry on without us and get things resolved.

Next, I called Mark. I wanted to tell him about the CNA finding Rachel.

He answered sounding out of breath. “Oh, hey, I’m glad it’s you,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I’m having to go out of town unexpectedly, be gone for a couple days, so I wanted to make sure you have what you need for the Roper case.” His voice sounded odd, like if I was in the room with him I’d see raised eyebrows and a forced smile.

“Well, I do have some news. Will Keating has information about a nurse who found Rachel, and she said Rachel’s hair had been combed and her hands were…”

Mark interrupted me. “Okay, good. When I get back you can let me know what you find out.”

Curiosity edged out a sudden irritation. “Is everything okay over there?”

He paused before answering, and I could have sworn I heard a whispered who’s that? before he said, “Oh, sure, sure. All good here. Fine. Good.”

“You’re a really terrible liar,” I said, and at that he laughed, and when he spoke again he sounded a bit more like himself.

“No need to worry, Blainey. I leave in the morning and will be back Sunday or Monday. We’ll catch up then, okay?” A muffled crash echoed in the background, a chair or something falling. “Listen, I’ve got to go. Talk to you later.” The phone went dead before I could say anything else.

I briefly considered getting in my car and driving over there to see what the hell was going on, but the wild urge to find Cathy Somebody overrode my curiosity about what Mark was up to, and besides, I reminded myself, this was my case now.

I had a tentative plan in place. I’d go find Will and apologize and get the name of the outfit that had transported Rachel’s body, find the guy who’d spilled about the CNA, and head out to WindDancer to see if I could talk to her. Along the way, I’d catch up by phone with Weston Roper and give him an update. All of this I’d write up in a report for Mark to approve and sign, documentation of the supervised hours that were required for the P.I. license I wasn’t even sure I wanted. But even so, if I were Mark I’d want to know everything that was being done in my agency’s name.

And all of this, everything, I had to accomplish before my Sunday night shift, and before I met with Fred Moseley and confessed all, because I might have a hard decision to make if he didn’t fire me on the spot.

In the meantime, I needed to check in on Jenny Malone. It was now a week since her heart transplant, and by all reports she was doing well. While I’d been skulking around in my secret other life, one of the part-time chaplains, Maureen Long, had been covering pastoral care visits. But Jenny and her folks were special to me, and my conscience was guilting me pretty hard with the feeling I’d abandoned them.

I emerged from my cocoon to find Mavis had left for lunch. The office was blessedly quiet. I grabbed a prayer book and headed out with the plan to spend some quality time with the Malones.

Go here to read Chapter 24.

From the end of Chapter Twenty-One: (Go here to read the full chapter.)

I gave Will Keating the address for McGill’s. “Meet me there in an hour,” I said.

Catching glimpses of my body in the mirror as I changed into jeans and a tank top, I paused to look myself in the eye. “Stop it,” I said.

“Mind your own beeswax,” the reflection snapped back.

The sun was still high when I backed out of my driveway, although shadows were beginning to lengthen. I’d left some outside lights on. I planned to be home well after dark.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

At the dim doorway of McGill’s a slender, brown-haired boy, who looked about seventeen, stood checking IDs. He barely glanced at the driver’s license I fished out of my wallet and waved me in with a bored look.

Fleetwood Mac’s “Rhiannon” blared from the jukebox. Some bars, like McGill’s, are places of perpetual twilight, with dark paneling and few windows, places that promise to keep your secrets. Will was already at a small round wooden table over against the far wall, perched sideways in a chair with a wooden cane across his lap, different from the metal one I’d seen earlier. He looked different out of his hospital scrubs, in khakis and a faded blue t-shirt. On the wall above him was a faded black and white photograph of some baseball team from some other time.

He slid an open bottle of Rolling Rock toward me. “The guy said this is what you’d want,” he said, nodding toward Big Eddie who offered a distracted half-wave from behind the bar.

“Thanks,” I said, noting the absence of glass or bottle in front of him. “You’re not having anything?”

“I’m one of those people, I drink, I end up like this,” he said and lifted his cane with both hands.

“Ah,” I said.

“Yeah. One of the many nights I crawled inside a bottle of bourbon, tossed in some Ludes, and then got on my Harley, believing I was Mr. Invincible. Turns out, physics doesn’t give a shit what you believe. Turns out, a body meeting a semi and some asphalt is really quite breakable.”

“Good Lord, Will,” I said. “I’m really sorry.”

“Why the fuck are you sorry? You didn’t do anything.” He seemed suddenly irritated, drummed the table with his fingers and stared past me toward the open door.

“We could’ve met somewhere else,” I said, feeling defensive. “You could’ve said.”

“It’s fine,” he said.

“It doesn’t seem fine.” I narrowed my eyes and took a long drink of beer, letting the ice-cold liquid slide down my throat while I waited him out.

“Seriously. I’d rather talk about anything else in the universe right now than have an impromptu pity party with you over my self-inflicted wounds. Okay?” For a brief moment, his face twisted into a grimacing mix of fury and grief. Then he recovered himself, giving a wry half-smile, and it was like watching a mask reappear.

I leaned back in my chair and paid some more attention to my beer. “Sure,” I said. “Okay.”

After a moment, he spoke. “I’m in recovery. It’s not easy.”

“I get that.” I was beginning to understand what it was in him that seemed magnetic to me, that way those of us from dysfunctional families are drawn like moths to flame to those that throw out sparks that remind us somehow of people we’ve known and loved. The attraction of what is kept hidden, the juicy “fix” the inevitable drama gives us, and always the certainty that we can help save them. I felt a shift, as if a door quietly closed down some far hallway.

“So what did you want to know about Rachel Roper?” Will asked.

“Yeah, thanks for being willing to meet and talk with me about it,” I said.

He shrugged. “That’s what Weston’s paying us for, right?”

I nodded. “So is there something more you can tell me about her death? You said fentanyl overdose most likely administered through her IV. Did the autopsy reveal anything else?”

Will sat back and let out a long exhale. “No. But you should talk to the CNA who found her.”

“Why? What will she tell me?”

“You should talk to her,” he said and pressed his lips together.

I said nothing, letting the silence build between us, hoping I wasn’t imagining that he wanted to say more. His eyes met mine, flicked away, came back.

“Christ. Wouldja stop looking at me like that?” he snapped.

“I seem to recall Weston directed you to share everything with me.”

“You really need to talk to her. Cathy something.”

I drained my beer, all the while drilling holes in Will with my eyes.

“When she found Rachel dead, she noticed someone had combed her hair.”

An electric jolt shot through me, and I sat forward. “What?”

Big Eddie appeared and grabbed my empty bottle, replacing it with a full one. “Thought you might want another,” he grumbled. He gave the barest nod toward Will and looked at me with a Who the hell is this guy? question in his eyes. “Thanks, Eddie,” I said, and answered him with an I’ll tell you later glance. He shuffled off in the direction of the bar.

“See, I’m not explaining it right,” Will said, his voice brittle. He scooted his chair close, leaning his cane against the table. The large handle was a carved lizard head with turquoise stones eyes that stared at me.

“Somebody combed her hair, and it wasn’t any of the nursing staff,” he said. “And apparently her hands were folded onto her chest.”

“Oh, my God,” I said.

He nodded.

“How did you find out?”

“Smoke break with one of the guys who transported the body,” he said. “Apparently, there was already buzz about who to pin Rachel’s death on. There was an orderly they let go recently. They’re looking at him, like maybe he did it for revenge.”

“Right,” I said and recounted to him Rachel’s middle of the night phone call to me that had been interrupted by a man shouting at her. I told him, too, about Weston saying the next day it was an orderly who’d overreacted when he’d noticed that Rachel had pulled out her IV. Telling it again, his explanation sounded as hollow and lame as when Weston had related it in person.

Will continued. “The thing WindDancer is terrified of is one of those ‘Death Angel’ killers, you know the ones who say they’re just putting people out of their suffering.”

“Good Lord,” I said. “Any deaths that happened there will have to be investigated now, right?”

Will nodded. “One-hundred percent. So the muckety-mucks are moving fast to blame someone and make it all go away. I guess the guy has already been hauled in for questioning.”

“What’s his name?”

“No idea. That’s your job anyway, right? Stop trying to get me to do your dirty work.”

“Well, can you tell me the name of your smoke break buddy?”

“Nope.”

“A description?”

He shrugged. “Twenties. Average height, average weight, brown hair.”

“So, basically, average.”

He shrugged again.

“Okay, well thanks for the info.” I gulped down half of my second Rolling Rock and pulled some bills from my wallet, leaving enough money on the table to cover a cheap beer and generous tip.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” I asked. “There’s a short trail to a lake not too far. We can go sit and talk.”

I could tell I’d startled him with my suggestion. “Uh, okay. Sure. Why not.”

The way Big Eddie watched us go made me wonder what kind of interaction had taken place before I arrived. I was pretty sure I’d have some explaining to do the next time I darkened the doorstep of McGill’s. When you work for Eddie, you’re family, which means his big red nose often shows up in your business with no apology. Even though my time as his barmaid was brief, he let me know I was in. It was a nice feeling, to tell you the truth.

I slowed my pace for Will, and we crossed the street and walked down the block to a small gate that led to a smooth dirt path bordered on either side by ferns and ground cover of all manner, wild and cultivated. Will pulled a pack of Kools from his pocket and tapped a cigarette out, rolling it between his fingers before he lit it with a yellow plastic lighter. His first exhale hit me, and it smelled like warm toast in the morning.

“Give me one,” I said. He raised his eyebrows but handed me the pack along with his lighter. I lit up and took a deep drag on my first cigarette in twenty years, failing to suppress a cough that drew a loud guffaw from him.

“You should probably put that out now,” he said, laughing.

“You’re probably right.” I took another long drag, coughed again, and stubbed the thing out in the dirt, rolling the hot coal out and stepping on it. I put the remains of the cigarette in a back pocket. I felt the slightest bit dizzy and was keenly aware of the beer sloshing around in my stomach.

We walked the rest of the way in silence, pointing out to each other the occasional cluster of the ever-persistent poison ivy trying to see whose day it could ruin. Tall, dark loblolly pines rose up, the trunks overrun with strands of emerald-green Carolina creeper. Somewhere a wood thrush called. We made our way to the lake without speaking, the thumping sound of Will’s cane like an uneven pulse on the ground.

The water was glassy and still, reflecting the waning daylight in undulating blue lines, except for a mirrored white jet trail that floated on the surface like wavy string.

“Over here,” I said, and gestured to the right where a wide wooden bench overlooked the lake.

We sat for a while without speaking, listening to the muffled sounds of cars and the quiet lapping of water against the grassy edge.

Finally, I said, “So tell me more about Will Keating.”

He removed his skullcap and ran his fingers through looping gray curls, and I noted a significant bald spot on top of his head before he snugged the cap back on. He set his hands in his lap in a way that looked nonchalant, but I could see him holding onto his fingers to keep them from shaking.

“Grew up in Trenton, New Jersey. Grew up fast. Interesting home life,” he said.

“How did you get into medicine? And why pathology? How’d you get to North Carolina?”

“Well, I got on I-95, and then after a while…” he said, but I socked him in the arm.

“Stop it,” I said. “Tell me.”

“You first,” he said.

“Nope. You first.”

He sighed. “Okay. Grew up in Trenton, New Jersey. My dad, who was an abusive asshole and regularly beat the shit out of all of us, killed my mom when I was thirteen.” He delivered this information as if he was telling me his car needed new spark plugs and he’d take it to the shop on Friday. I kept my mouth shut and listened.

After a moment, Will went on. “His lawyer convinced the court I wasn’t a credible witness. In fairness, I was huffing a shit-ton of stuff then, and rarely on Planet Earth.”

“And then?”

“The DA brought in this pathologist,” he said. “Nerdy type, bow tie and everything. And that guy blew my jerk of a father out of the water and sent him to prison, where, by the way, I fervently hope he is rotting as we speak.”

“Does that feel like justice?”

“Fucking justice,” Will responded. “Sorta. My mom was still dead. And I was sent to live with my dad’s brother, so you can do the math on that family system.”

“And from Trenton to North Carolina?”

“Turns out I had serious skills when it came to the sciences. Chemistry, of course, I mean, how poetic for a druggie. Crazy about bio. Ate physics for lunch. I ended up getting a full ride to undergrad and then med school at Chapel Hill. And the whole time I was remembering how that scrawny little doctor put my dad away.”

I was briefly aware of a tiny detonation going off in some far corner of my brain. “Oh, really? UNC? When was that?”

“Let’s see, I came down here…oh, I guess it’s been twenty-five years ago now.”

“So you must know some of the docs around here?”

“Sure,” he said. “Some of them, yeah.”

“And when was your accident?”

Will cocked his head then and gave me a long sidewise look. “Why do I get the feeling I’m suddenly being interrogated?” He clenched and unclenched his hands and patted them on his legs. “What’s going on, Blainey?”

“Nothing!” I said way too quickly. “Really, nothing, I’m sorry, it’s a bad habit. Chaplains learn how to listen and then fish for details, and P.I.s, well I guess they just listen differently to everything. Afraid I might be falling into that trap, too.”

He squinted his eyes and shook his head, and I could tell he didn’t believe a word I’d just said. “Okay, well this has been swell, let’s never do it again,” he said and grabbed his cane, using it to stand.

I stood, too. “Will,” I said, but he waved me away.

“Fuck you,” he snarled, and took off toward the pathway. As he disappeared into the trees, the furious thumping of his cane echoed back at me like a continual rebuke.

Chapter Twenty-three.

Go here to read Chapter Twenty.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I left Weston Roper a badly shaken man and called Mark from the car, threading my way through early evening traffic.

“Hey,” he said.

“Have you talked to Will?”

“I haven’t.”

“He confirms Rachel’s death as a homicide.”

Mark let out a long, slow breath. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

“Fentanyl overdose most likely administered through her IV.”

“God, that’s awful. How is Weston taking it?”

“About how you’d imagine. I think he’s pretty blown apart,” I said.

“So what are you thinking?”

“Well, I feel like the key to all this is probably Rachel’s daughter, you know? And I’m thinking someone didn’t want the truth about her coming out.”

“You mean someone who fathered a child with a drugged-up fifteen-year-old he’d raped,” Mark said.

“Or somebody close to him? Whoever it is would have a lot to lose if the truth comes out. And it’s definitely someone who knows their way around medical procedures.”

“So…doctor, nurse, EMT,” he said.

“Yeah, although not necessarily. An orderly or custodian could learn just by watching. I mean, I could probably do it, stick a needle into the silicone port and push. But this was also someone who had access to fentanyl, that might be another story. There’s extremely strict protocol with those controlled substances.”

“Unless it was gotten illegally.”

“True,” I said.

“What’s your plan?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m going to catch up with Will and see if he has any other discoveries or insights. And I want to at least touch base with Chad Miller. Not looking forward to that conversation. And then I guess I start looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack and see if I can find Rachel’s daughter.” 

“Yeah, I don’t know what to tell you about that. Those adoption records are kept sealed tighter than Fort Knox. And, sorry about Chad. We had a bit of a run-in last year. But be sure to let me know if you need anything from me. And good luck. You’ve got this, Blainey,” he added.

I don’t mind saying I was grateful for his ‘atta girl.’ I was having a hard time keeping my emotions from interfering with any rational thought processes. Rachel’s death had triggered a whole truckload of guilt about Tari’s suicide, which in turn was connected to feelings of guilt about my parents dying and my brother’s addictions. I know, I know, but it doesn’t have to make sense, right? Rationally, I was fully aware those feelings were in part due to the magical thinking that we are somehow in control and can stop bad things from happening to people we care about. I should know better by now.

And yet, I remained stubbornly haunted by the suspicion I could have, should have done more — for my mom and dad, for my brother Sean. For Tari. I knew what Weston was feeling, because I’d felt it, too. “If I’d only…”

It was nearly six-thirty and too late to call Chad Miller. I’d have to catch up with him in the morning, a task I was glad to put off. In the meantime, I had some questions for Will Keating. Nothing that couldn’t keep, but…I had to admit, I wanted to see him again. He carried some kind of spark, some energy I wanted to be next to. It wasn’t sexual. Well, at least not totally, not like what happened when Guy Trubiano turned his warm gaze on me.

No, Will Keating didn’t generate body heat. But he did set something humming. I slid the Civic into the garage and decided to call him before I lost my nerve.

Dropping my tote bag and a handful of mail on the kitchen table, I dialed his number and stood twirling the phone cord through my fingers like a schoolgirl as I pressed the handset against my ear.

“Hey,” he answered on the third ring.

“Hey, it’s Blainey. Where are you?” I asked.

“None of your goddamn business,” he said, and I could hear the wicked little smile on his face.

“Are you free right now? Can you meet me for a drink?”

“Fuck off.” He revved a motor that sounded like a drill or a saw blade.

I laughed. “Okay, Sicko, I’m going to take that as a yes.”

“Where and when?” He did not sound disappointed to hear from me.

I gave him the address for McGill’s. “Meet me there in an hour,” I said.

Catching glimpses of my body in the mirror as I changed into jeans and a tank top, I paused to look myself in the eye. “Stop it,” I said.

“Mind your own beeswax,” the reflection snapped back.

The sun was still high when I backed out of my driveway, although shadows were beginning to lengthen. I’d left some outside lights on. I planned to be home well after dark.

Chapter Twenty-two.

From the end of Chapter Nineteen.

Weston’s gray-blue eyes widened and his face flushed, and he choked on a response that seemed to want out real bad. Then he took a deep breath and answered. “Ms. Blair, I loved my sister very much. We went through a lot together. Life had certainly wounded her, and I did what I could to protect her. But I assure you, there was nothing untoward about our relationship. I’m hoping you can come to trust me, but if submitting to a DNA test will satisfy your apparent suspicions, I have no objection whatsoever.”

“Good,” I said. “I’ll set it up.”

Weston nodded, his eyes suddenly glistening. I shoved down the pastoral urge to reach out and pat his arm and instead dug around in my bag for my notebook and a pen.

“Start at the beginning,” I said. “Tell me everything.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

They’d grown up rich. Sarah, their mother, had been the only child of a shipyard owner, Charles Baker. The moment her trust fund became available, Sarah married Weston’s father, Matthew Roper.

According to Weston, an aunt had described his father as a devastatingly handsome alcoholic who was dead broke, an irresistible combination to Sarah, it seems, because after Matthew died crashing his Jaguar into an unyielding oak, she promptly turned around and married his similarly minted brother, Jonathan. Rachel had been born four years later.

“I was in third grade,” Weston said, “and I never thought I’d seen anything so perfect. Rachel was quiet and sweet with these eyes that you just wanted to fall into. Uncle Jonathan doted on her,” Weston said, adding,“insofar as an habitual drunk can love another person.”

Fulfilling the paternal role of stepfather to Weston hadn’t been on Uncle Jonathan’s agenda, though, and Sarah, with her own issues with booze and pills, was never going to be up for Mother of the Year for either of her children. At eighteen, Weston enlisted in the Army, which triggered — his words, not mine — his interest in munitions and the money it could bring in.

“My own money,” he’d said in response to my raised eyebrows.

“What about when Rachel and your mom moved to North Carolina?” I asked.

“Ah,” he said, his face darkening. “That was a bad period for everyone.”

I thought it the understatement of the year. Uncle Jonathan had collected enough DUIs that he’d been mandated into rehab, and astonishingly enough, it took. He’d quit drinking altogether and “sort of found God,” as Weston put it. That made him not nearly as much fun for Sarah to be around, and the marriage became strained. The more sober Jonathan became, the more out of control was Sarah’s drinking and pill-popping.

“Mother lied and told Jonathan she was coming here to Brady to get cleaned up. She threatened to cut him off from the money if he protested to her bringing Rachel. Of course, she did it to punish him.” And finding God hadn’t changed Uncle Jonathan from being a weak and shallow man. He’d made no protest to his daughter being taken away from him. “He liked nice things,” said Weston, shrugging.

“Rachel told me you visited here,” I said.

He nodded. “Yes. I had a very alarming call from her. Knowing our mother, I thought I’d better come check up on my sister.”

“And?”

“In retrospect, I should have believed things were as bad as Rachel said, but I’d never seen my mother look healthier or seem calmer.”

I suppressed an eye-roll. Who among us, steeped in family dysfunction, hasn’t been guilty of seeing what we want to see?

“And Rachel?”

“Her behavior was appalling,” he said. “She was rude to me, dismissive and cruel. She said she wished I’d never come, she wished I wasn’t her brother. She told me she’d always hated me and that she wished I was dead. I attributed the whole thing to teen girl drama.”

An uncomfortable silence grew around us. At last, Weston spoke. “I should have believed her,” he said, and I knew he was peering down that road not taken, the one where believing his sister could have altered the future’s tragic path.

I could have explained to Weston the twisted way some abusive and disordered people can switch their crazy on and off, and how effectively they can manipulate us into seeing the victim as the disturbed one, but I didn’t. It was too late for that anyway. Cancer had taken Sarah’s life years ago, and it seemed more and more likely someone had taken Rachel’s.

“I only heard about the pregnancy after the fact,” Weston said with a tremble in his voice. All his mother had said was that it had been handled, and for a long time Weston thought there’d been an abortion. Any mention of “the baby” he’d chalked up as mental instability compounded by delayed grief.

“It was when Mother was diagnosed that she and Rachel came back to Connecticut,” he said.

“And Rachel never married?”

Weston shook his head. “She became a bit of a recluse,” he said. “I suppose I encouraged that. I worried about how fragile she’d become.”

“When did you start believing Rachel about her daughter?” I asked.

He took a deep breath. “Last year. I thought she was just cycling through another one of her spells, disappearing into this fantasy world where she’d find her baby girl and there would be a happy reunion. She kept urging me to bring her back here. She was convinced she could find her.”

Weston frowned. “When I pressed her for details, things got fuzzy. She ignored any conversation about who the father was and claimed she remembered little about what happened after the baby was born, only that our mother told her the baby was going to a good home. I asked if she’d signed any paperwork. She didn’t remember.”

I bit back the things I wanted to say, about memory and trauma and the way devastating loss can rewire your brain. Instead, I simply asked, “So what changed your mind?”

She had her…female doctor call me.”

“Her gynecologist?”

He winced at the word. “Yes.”

“And?”

“Her doctor confirmed that upon examination Rachel bore evidence of having birthed a child.” Weston stared at the floor. His emotions must have been a wild roiling tide, but the only sign I saw was his jaw, clenching and unclenching in rhythmic tics.

“So why did you continue the charade here of not believing her story?”

He looked up at me, his eyes full of pain. “I was trying to protect her,” he said. “I thought if we handled it privately…I thought no one else needed to know.”

“Bet you were glad when you met me, then.” I failed at keeping the edge out of my voice, Weston turned his attention back to the floor.

“I thought it unfortunate,” he said.

Just then my cell phone rang. “I’m sorry, I’ll have to take this,” I said, edging toward the door. Weston gave a half nod as I stepped out into the hall.

“Hi, Will. What’s up?”

“Where are you?”

“Still at the hotel with Weston,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve been trying to reach him. I’ve got some preliminary results.”

“What did you find?”

“I think I should speak to Weston first.”

“Oh, okay,” I said, a sick feeling spreading through my stomach. I knocked, and when Weston opened the hotel room door, I said, “It’s Dr. Keating. For you,” and handed him my phone.

I couldn’t hear any of what Will said, but watching the color drain from Weston’s face, it most certainly wasn’t anything good. The next moment, Weston thrust my phone at me.

“Dr. Keating wants to speak with you,” he said and stumbled over to the chair by the window, sinking down with a groan, his head falling into his hands.

I angled my body away from him. “Will?”

“Fentanyl overdose,” Will said.

“What?”

“That’s what killed Rachel. Fentanyl. Like morphine, but times a hundred. Like fifty hits of heroin in one dose.”

“Why would the docs at WindDancer have prescribed her that?”

“They wouldn’t have,” Will said. “They didn’t. Medically, it’s used very sparingly for physical pain. There would’ve been no reason for her to be given it, and it wasn’t indicated in her chart.”

“Jesus, Will,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “It was almost certainly delivered through her IV. There’s not another mark on her body.”

My breath caught in my throat. “So…”

“So, someone clearly meant for her to die,” Will said. “Someone who knew exactly what they were doing.”

Chapter Twenty-One.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I stood in the hotel hallway with my mouth open. Mark offered something that looked like a half-wave.

Weston reached out a hand toward me. “Please, Ms. Blair, come in. We’ll explain everything.” I ignored him, staring jagged, rusty daggers at Mark. His face was unreadable, but it seemed he’d gotten over the shock of seeing me.

“Come in, Blainey,” he said. I could feel my cheeks growing hotter by the second. I put out one hand to steady myself against the door jamb, fury and confusion rooting me to the spot.

“Please,” Weston said again, and then his hand was on my shoulder, steadying me as he guided me inside, a much lighter touch than just days ago, when he’d steered me out of Rachel’s room and away from what she was about to tell me.

Behind us, the door closed with a thump. The room was the standard, nondescript two-queen-beds-green-carpet-one-window hotel room where mostly businessmen came from out of town to attend heartstoppingly dull meetings and then barhop afterwards in the hopes of picking up a stranger for meaningless sex. I always have to take a deep breath and shake off the feeling that a black light would set the whole room aglow with leftover bodily fluids.

Weston removed his hand. Still stunned, I sort of skated over to stand in front of Mark. It might have been my imagination, but it seemed he leaned away from me ever so slightly. He pointed to a large chair by the window. “Have a seat?”

“No,” I said.

“Blainey” he said.

“Fuck you,” I said.

In that moment a slight smile seemed to tug at one corner of his mouth, and I hauled off and slugged his arm hard. “Don’t you dare,” I said.

His hand went to his arm, and he shot Weston a look. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t you pat me on the head and tell me to settle down.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he said.

“You were. I could see it.”

“Look, we owe you an explanation, and it sure looks like you want one. So could you just listen for a minute?”

I had half a mind to kick him. I was feeling childish and mad and would have liked to stomp around the room and jump on the beds and throw pillows if Weston hadn’t been there. “This better be good,” I said and crossed my arms to keep from slugging him again.

Mark began, “After Rachel died, the attending physician seemed in a real hurry to fill out the medical certificate of cause of death with ‘heart failure.’ Weston…well, I think I’ll let him tell you. After all, it’s your case now.”

I snorted and made a face at Mark. “What are you talking about?”

“Weston’s your client,” Mark said. “He specifically requested you.”

I’m not going to describe all the times I turned and goggled at each of them with a befuddled “What?” but it was more than you would think. I was having trouble processing the information, is all I’m saying.

“But, why?” I asked, finally taking a good look at Weston. “Mark has all the experience. I’m shockingly new at this.”

“I’m sure Mr. Danner is very good at what he does,” said Weston. “But you cared deeply about my sister. I could tell. And I believe if there has been foul play involved in her death, you will find out. Mr. Danner — Mark — has assured me he is required to closely supervise your work,” Weston continued. “I’m counting on you to find out the truth.”

“So how does Will Keating fit into this?” I asked. After all, Will was the one who had connected the final dot for me, handing over Weston’s whereabouts on a silver platter.

“I called the Chief Medical Examiner’s office to relay my request for an autopsy. Dr. Keating is one of the pathologists they have on call. I insisted on meeting and interviewing Will, and he answered all of my questions to my satisfaction.”

Oh, the things money can get you. I wondered if Weston had offered to pony up the funds for the rest of those pesky building and lab renovations. I imagined the Chief M.E. lovingly stroking a new, handcrafted African Blackwood desk and fondling upgraded top-of-the-line microscopes and spectrometers and chromatographs and MRI equipment.

Weston continued, “I told Dr. Keating I’d procured the services of Omega Investigations and that you, Blainey, were to have full access to all information and any findings. He’s got the paperwork, it’s all in order.”

“So Dr. Keating was already expecting me to come by and speak with him.” I made a mental note to slug Will the next time I saw him.

Weston nodded. “Yes. I’d hoped Mark would have had time to be in touch with you and explain these new circumstances before you found us, but…” Weston stopped and offered a sideways smile. “I believe the word Mr. Danner used when referring to you was ‘tenacious.’”

I thought that was a nice step up from ‘stubborn little cuss.’

I thought of my phone call with Chad, the one that had ended with a small explosion in my ear when he’d slammed down the receiver.

“Have either of you, by any chance, spoken with Detective Chad Miller at the Brady Police Department about Omega’s involvement?”

“No,” Weston said. “The M.E. directed us to the county sheriff’s office. He told us they’d have jurisdiction over any criminal investigation outside Brady city limits.”

“Okay,” I said. Still, I was convinced Chad had heard the news somehow. Then I remembered the big lug of a security guard at WindDancer, the one who’d almost had to throw me out. A lot of private security jobs were done by moonlighting cops, and law enforcement communities are notoriously small anyway. Chad definitely knew, I’d put money on that.

Mark looked at me, then at Weston. “Okay,” he said. “Well, I guess I’ll head out then. Blainey, give me a call later? Weston, we appreciate you putting your trust in us. She won’t let you down.”

“Weston, could you excuse us for a moment?” I didn’t wait around for an answer. I grabbed Mark by one arm and pushed him toward the door.

Out in the hall, I tried to keep my voice down. “Are you insane?”

“Nope.”

“You do realize he could be using us, right? Using me?”

“I do realize that, but I don’t think it’s likely.”

“Why not?”

“Think about it. He wouldn’t have asked for you if he’s involved in his sister’s death. He already knows you’ll crawl up anybody’s tailpipe to get the truth.”

“He might want to stay close to the investigation, keep tabs,” I said.

“Blainey, without Weston there wouldn’t be an investigation. Without Weston calling the M.E. there’d be no autopsy. Rachel’s body would probably already be on the way to being embalmed or cremated.”

He had a point there.

“Mark, please tell me you’re not swayed by all his money. Please tell me you’re thinking straight.”

“I’m not swayed by all his money. I’m thinking straight.”

“Just out of curiosity, how much is he paying you?”

“You mean paying us? The going rate,” said Mark, then stammering out “and incidentals.”

That seemed a bit manipulative, dangling Weston’s money in front of me. “I still think he could be the father of Rachel’s daughter,” I said.

Mark shrugged. “Ask him to do a DNA test with Dr. Keating,” he said. “To keep on file.”

“He doesn’t even believe her story,” I said. “He called it ‘one of her fantasies.’”

“He knows it’s true,” Mark said. “He admitted as much to me.”

“Then why the fuck was he gaslighting his sister? That’s just cruel.” My voice was rising, and Mark put a finger to his lips.

“Anyway, DNA only matters if we find Rachel’s kid and if she agrees to give a sample. That’s a lot of ifs,” I said.

“But if he refuses, you likely have your answer, yeah?”

“Probably true,” I said.

“But I’m betting you’ll find her,” Mark said with a smile. “Anyway, you’d better get back in there and get started. And call me later?”

“Okay, whatever,” I said, still a bit miffed, and knocked again on the door to Room 518. As I walked in, I heard Mark’s footsteps scuffing away down the carpeted hall.

Weston and I looked at each other for a moment as an uncomfortable silence welled up. I was on my own, and it was freaking me out more than a little. My brain kept wanting to return to Weston as The Bad Guy in the story, which was now unlikely, since he’d demanded an autopsy and hired us. Hired me, even though I hadn’t hidden my distaste or mistrust of him.

He cleared his throat and said, “You must be wondering…” but I cut him off with a wave of one hand.

“Do you mind if we sit?” I asked.

“Of course, I apologize, please.”

I sat on the edge of one of the beds, and he perched on the corner of the other. It rattled me to see him nervous, like an anxious schoolboy having to explain a complicated problem he hadn’t studied for and didn’t fully understand. His broad shoulders slumped, as if he was folding inward, and his face was pale and drawn. Then I remembered. His sister had died. His sister who he loved. And then I remembered the other thing: his sister, whose child he might have fathered.

Something about him still bothered me. Maybe it was that visceral reaction I always have when I come into contact with very rich people who are used to throwing dollars at their problems and seeing them melt into vapor. I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees, peering into his face. I was going to have to figure out a way to work with him, or not take the job. Those were my clear options.

I decided to just go for it. “First of all,” I said, “if someone killed your sister, I give you my word, we’ll find out who and why. Second, I made a promise to Rachel to look for her daughter. I intend to keep that promise. Do you object?”

He shook his head. “No,” he said.

“Finally, would you be willing to let Dr. Keating take a sample of your DNA to keep on file in the event we do find her? I’d want to rule you out as the father.”

His gray-blue eyes widened and his face flushed, and he choked on a response that seemed to want out real bad. Then he took a deep breath and answered. “Ms. Blair, I loved my sister very much. We went through a lot together. Life had certainly wounded her, and I did what I could to protect her. But I assure you, there was nothing untoward about our relationship. I’m hoping you can come to trust me, but if submitting to a DNA test will satisfy your apparent suspicions, I have no objection whatsoever.”

“Good,” I said. “I’ll set it up.”

He nodded, his eyes suddenly glistening. I shoved down the pastoral urge to reach out and pat his arm and instead dug around in my bag for my notebook and a pen.

“Start at the beginning,” I said. “Tell me everything.”

Chapter Twenty.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I called Mark’s office and cell on the way over but still got his answering machine and voicemail. So it was not a surprise when I got to the bungalow and banged on his front door with no response, and after all, it was mid-afternoon. He could be having a late lunch somewhere. I couldn’t help feeling he was avoiding me, though.

I peeked in through the windows because of course I did. All dark inside. I peered up and down the street and walked around the side of the house. His Saab was nowhere in sight.

No matter. I’d track down Weston myself. The months of training, if you could call it that, had at least taught me one thing — don’t give up. There’s always a way to figure things out. As Mark had instructed, “Just be the stubborn little cuss you are. That ought to do it.”

At home, I made a cup of chamomile tea and sat myself down over an air conditioning vent while I drew up a short list of who could help me track down Weston Roper before he zipped out of town. Not one bone in my body accepted Rachel’s death as due to natural causes.

First I called Chad Miller.

“Hey, Chad, this is Blainey Blair. Do you by any chance have a number for Weston Roper, or know how I can get in touch with him?”

“You’re kidding, right?” The vitriol in his voice stunned me for a moment.

“I’m not kidding. I’d hoped to speak with him before he left town.”

“Go to hell,” he said, and the slam of the receiver rattled into my eardrum.

“Ouch,” I said to the empty room, and “Jesus, what was that about?” I mean, we weren’t BFFs or anything, but he’d always been at least professionally cordial. Something had apparently shifted. But what?

I steeled myself for the next call, to Lamar Gustafson, because why not get hung up on twice? The receptionist on duty at WindDancer clearly was not aware that he wouldn’t want to speak with me, so she put me right through.

“You’ve got one hell of a nerve,” he hissed into the phone. “Rachel Roper is most likely deceased because of you. Mr. Roper is utterly heartsick at the loss of his dear sister. Under no circumstances will I ever provide you with any means of contact for him, nor will I provide any details as to his whereabouts. Shame on you.”

“A simple no would have sufficed, Lamar,” but I hung up before he laid any more guilt on me.

Now what? I sat and thought a minute, then Evil Blainey had an idea.

I picked up the phone and dialed again. The same receptionist answered. “WindDancer. How may I direct your call?”

Putting on my heaviest North Carolina accent, I honeyed, “Hey, there, this is Lucille Davis, secretary over at Living Waters Church? And I’m callin’ on behalf of our pastor? He’s wonderin’ if y’all can share the name of the funeral home y’all use? Last funeral he did, there was some mix-up with the bodies and Pastor says now he wouldn’t trust those people with his cat. He asked if I could check with y’all.” I lowered my voice to a high whisper. “He told me one of his friend’s boys stayed there for his, you know, problem, and said it was real nice, said y’all were real good people.”

“Of course,” she said after a pause. “Let me get that information for you.” She put me on hold leaving me to grind my teeth to “The Wind Beneath My Wings” in my ears. It seemed like she’d been gone a long time, and I started to worry that I’d laid it on too thick, but then her voice came back on the line.

“Sorry for the wait,” she said. “Here it is. It’s Eden’s Grove, over off 64.” She read the address, followed by the phone number and the name of the funeral director and owner, Sam Eden.

“That’s perfect!” I said. “I thank you! Pastor thanks you!”

“You’re more than welcome,” she said.

There are times when I scare myself a little.

I called Eden’s Grove to see if there was any information about the arrangements for a Rachel Roper. I said I was Mr. Roper’s secretary, following up for him. The receptionist told me she had no record of a Rachel Roper. I asked to speak with Mr. Eden. She said he was unavailable. I asked to speak to another one of the directors, and she put me through to him. He’d never heard of Rachel, either.

Shit, shit, shit.

I got out the Yellow Pages and started rifling through, looking for the funeral homes I knew were the most expensive, the ones peddling the mahogany and copper and gold-plated coffins, and called every one of them. There were six in all. Not one of them seemed to have heard of Rachel Roper.

None of it made any sense. Whether the body would be cremated or prepared for burial, it had to be somewhere.

Unless.

My mind whirled. What if there was going to be an autopsy after all?

I called the Chief Medical Examiner’s office and got a frosty reception from a woman who clearly hated her job. Even though her voice said, “I don’t have time for this crap,” when I asked her where the M.E. would do an autopsy, she answered, “It’s a system, not just one person. This isn’t TV.”

“Ah, okay,” I said. “I obviously don’t know how this works.”

She sighed. “Each county has their own appointed medical examiner. Then the Chief M.E. can also appoint qualified pathologists as assistant M.E.s.” It sounded like she was reading off a card. I briefly felt sorry for her.

“And are the autopsies done there?” I imagined her in a long, echoing hallway that smelled faintly of formaldehyde and flickered with dying fluorescent lights.

“Not right now. We’re undergoing a major renovation. The Chief has designated some Regional Autopsy Centers at area hospitals.”

“I don’t suppose there are any designated centers in Brady,” I said, laughing.

“Sure,” she said.

“Really? Where?”

“St. Regis is our newest one.”

You could have knocked me over with a feather. “Thanks!” I very nearly shouted as I hung up. Mysterious ways, and all that. I grabbed my keys and tote bag and headed back to the the hospital.

At St. Regis, I rode alone down to the basement, to pathology and the morgue. I’d been down here before, once as part of staff orientation after I’d been hired as a chaplain and again with a grieving wife who’d insisted on seeing where her husband’s body had been brought after his sudden death in the Cardiac Care Unit.

It was quiet down here, and cold. The stark white walls repeated my footsteps back to me. No one was in the front office. On the secretary’s desk was a small vase holding a few plastic daffodils badly in need of dusting, a telephone that may or may not have been plugged into a jack, and a small notepad with the complicated name of some drug printed in blue lettering at the top.

The door was open to the long hallway I knew led to the morgue. I called out, “Hello?” and took a few steps forward. Maybe no one was here. But what was my plan anyway? To saunter into the morgue and check all the bodies? I shook my head to rid myself of the image.

“Hello?” I called out again.

From somewhere down the hall I heard movement, and in the next moments I could make out the form of a slight man walking toward me, slowed by his obvious need for the cane in his right hand. The smell of cigarette smoke hit well before he arrived to stand in front of me. I guessed him to be early fifties, with curly salt and pepper hair, patchy three-day stubble, and sharp, gray-green eyes. A black skull cap sat on his head, with “Question Authority” stitched in bright yellow letters on the front. In his pierced left ear lobe was a silver ankh stud earring. He wore green scrubs, so he looked like a doctor, but on his feet were faded huarache sandals. Definitely not protocol.

He looked me up and down and squinted at my ID badge. “Who the hell are you?” he asked, with a mean little smirk that was tempered by the twinkle in his eye, “and what the hell do you want?” God help me. I liked him right away.

“Who the hell are you?” I said, laughing, and I sort of wished I could give him a little shove, but we weren’t on those terms yet.

“Will Keating,” he said. “Pathologist. Your turn.”

“Blainey Blair. Chaplain.”

He bobbed his head up and down. “Sure, sure. Chaplain,” he said, emphasizing the word.

“Yup. That’s me.”

“Listen, don’t come down here peddling any of that religious bullshit to me.”

“Not my intent.”

“Ah,” he said. “So what is your intent? What brings you to our lovely office here in the catacombs?” He gestured around him with an open hand as if we were in a showroom with gleaming new cars.

I forgot to play it cool and craned my neck to look past him down the hallway.

“Looking for someone?” he asked.

“Actually, I am.”

He leaned forward and frowned. “And now I am interested.” His lips twitched ever so slightly.

With little hope of actually getting any information out of him, I gave a brief non-specific explanation of my connection to a deceased woman, her mention of a missing relative, and my concerns for her well-being, leaving me to wonder about the manner of her death.

“Oh, you mean Rachel Roper,” he said.

I stood with my mouth hanging so far open that Will reached out and chucked my chin to shut it for me. “Yeah, I’m getting ready to do the autopsy right now.”

“How…” I started but couldn’t find any more words.

“Those smarmy quacks at WindDancer couldn’t get the death certificate printed fast enough. Somebody fucked up there bad, pardon my French, and they damn well knew it.”

“But how…” I tried again.

“Her brother,” he said. “He was convinced there was more to the story. He called the M.E.’s office and they called me.”

“So, he’s still in town?”

“Of course,” he said. “Are you an idiot? He believes someone killed his sister. He’s not going anywhere.”

“And what do you think?”

“Ma’am, I just got here. Do you mind if I have a cigarette first?”

“Uh, you’re not really supposed to do that…” but without taking his eyes from me, he pulled a silver lighter out of one pocket and a pack of Kools out of the other and lit up as I was speaking, then took a long drag and blew the smoke in my face. Goddammit, but I liked him a lot.

“Okay, smartass, how can I get in touch with Weston?”

“You definitely should go talk to him. He’s in Room 518 at the Marriott out near Research Triangle Park,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work.”

Apparently, I was destined to spend my day going up and down in elevators. I rode to the Marriott’s fifth floor next to a young woman with a tear-streaked face. She wore a tan jacket and skirt and carried a brown leather briefcase, and every so often she gave a wet sniff. I fished in my tote and handed her a tissue.

“Thanks,” she said without looking at me. She got off on the third floor, and as the doors slid shut, I heard her muttering, “Those jerks. Those goddamn jerks.”

Arriving at the fifth floor, I stepped out still trying to wrap my head around the whole thing — that according to Will Keating, Weston had insisted on the autopsy, that the world’s most peculiar pathologist was performing it, that said pathologist had breezily committed about a dozen HIPAA violations and then handed over Weston’s whereabouts without any questions whatsoever. Everything felt too weird, too easy, like I was feeling my way along blindfolded while a room full of people watched from the other side of a large window.

Walking down the long, carpeted hotel hallway, I passed a teenaged boy in swim trunks with a towel slung over one shoulder who stared at the floor as he walked by. Room 518 was second from the end on the left. I stopped in front of the door to gather myself. I had no idea what I was going to say.

From inside the room I heard voices, what sounded like two men talking, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Taking a deep breath, I muttered, “Here goes,” and knocked three times. There was silence for a moment, and then a rustling as someone moved toward the heavy door, then it swung open, and there stood Weston Roper.

Behind him in the middle of the room gaping back at me was Mark.

Chapter Nineteen.

Okay, here we go with the next chapter. (Here is a link to Chapter Sixteen.)

Buckle up.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Chad sat quietly as I reached for a box of tissues, blew my nose and wiped my eyes. He carefully looked toward the window as if to give me a moment of privacy while I collected myself.

Then he turned his attention back to me. I saw he held a notepad and pen. “So you knew Ms. Roper well, then?”

“No,” I said, grabbing a fresh tissue. “That’s the thing. I really didn’t. But there was something…I don’t know, she was such a wounded bird, you know?” I looked at him.

Apparently he didn’t know, as his face remained an unreadable blank.

“How did she die?” I asked. “And when?”

“A nurse found her unresponsive around 11:00 a.m. That’s all we know at this point. I’m curious, though, why you went out there this morning. And what time was that?”

I shook my head, still a bit dazed. “I got there just before 9:30,” I said. “I wanted to speak with her again. I just felt so unsettled. I felt like she didn’t want to be there.”

“Well, most people don’t really want to be in a hospital,” he said.

“No, it was more than that. She was afraid of something. Or someone.”

“She said that?”

“Yes. When I saw her Monday afternoon.”

“What exactly did she say?”

“I asked her why she’d called me in the middle of the night, and she said, ‘Because I was afraid,’ and I said, ‘Of what?’ and then Weston interrupted us.”

He scribbled something on his notepad.

I wanted to say more about Weston, to reiterate my suspicions, but I bit my tongue.

“And that phone call was when?”

“I spoke with her early Sunday morning,” I said. “That’s when I came to see you.”

“Right.” Chad sat with the point of his pen on the notepad and gave a few taps.

An awkward silence was building. I broke it with, “Look, I ordered a pizza last night. And I spoke with Mark Danner. Both calls from my landline. The pizza around 7:15, Mark five minutes later. And the pizza delivery guy can attest he handed me the pizza a little after 8:00.”

“The call to Mr. Danner was to his landline?”

“Yes,” I said. But the instant I’d spoken I realized that right then I couldn’t exactly recall whether I’d called him on his cell or at his office, and I remembered my certainty someone had been with him. I didn’t edit my response, though.

“And after that?” Chad leaned forward ever so slightly.

“After that I was home all evening.”

“Okay,” he said. “Anything else you’d like to tell me?”

 Actually, I’m wondering if there’s anything you’d like to tell me. Like what happened to Rachel? And why are you here asking me all these questions?”

He seemed surprised. “Well, at this point it does appear she died of natural causes,” he said. “And I’m here in part because you were concerned enough about her well-being to come speak with me in person when you believed she was in some kind of trouble, you called to let me know you’d located her and told me…” he flipped through his notebook and read, “‘she was safe with her brother.’ And then you stopped by just this morning and according to Lilly and a couple officers, you definitely seemed agitated. So you can understand my curiosity.”

In that moment, I fervently wished I’d never met Chad Miller.

“You said you’re here in part.”

“I’m also here becauseI wanted you to hear the news from me,” he said.

Wanting to be the one to tell me was far less likely about Chad’s deep well of compassion and more about wanting to gauge my reaction to the news. Cops are wired different. Was there a test and had I passed?

“I appreciate that,” I said. “Will there be an autopsy?”

“I wouldn’t think so,” he said. “If she died of natural causes at a hospital, the attending will sign all the paperwork.”

“But how can they be sure?”

“Above my pay grade,” he said and closed the notepad and stood, reaching into the breast pocket of his shirt and brought out a business card. “If you think of anything, please don’t hesitate to call.” He paused a moment and gave me a pointed look. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I sat staring through the open door for several minutes after he left. My loss. What exactly was my loss?

What was it about Rachel that had gotten to me? Of course, the story she’d told me was tragic enough. But there was more. Was it Sean and the always-sticky Velcro of family dysfunction with its multiple hooks, resulting in the Savior complex we were warned against in seminary by our pastoral theology professors? The woundedness of our own families we feel compelled to go around trying to heal in others?

But I knew what it was. I still carried the weight all those pills Tari took after the truth came out about her affair with Nathan, the pills she took because I’d shut her out, or at least that’s how it felt. My counselor had told me over and over again I was not to blame for Tari ending her own life, but I did blame myself. I did. I still do.

And something about Rachel’s search for her daughter, which I fully believed to be based in truth, felt similar to Tari’s continual search for love and connection, a sort of desperation she’d clung to as long as I’d known her, ever since college days. After her death, I could even feel a sort of understanding for her and Nate getting together. In so many ways it made perfect sense.

I raked my fingers through my hair, shook my head and tried to center myself, then walked to the outer office and said, “Mavis, we can pick up the scheduling calendar another time, yeah?”

She nodded. “Is everything okay?” She asked it like she meant it, but I was pretty sure she also wanted to hear more about Chad Miller.

“Everything’s fine,” I said. “Thanks. And could you forward any calls to my voicemail?”

She nodded. “Of course. Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of.”

Mavis waited a beat. “Did I see a badge clipped to his belt?”

I sighed. She wasn’t going to let it go, and skirting the issue was only going to pique her interest more. “Okay, so here’s the deal. A woman I provided pastoral care to here at St. Regis has died under…unusual circumstances. Detective Miller wanted me to know.” I’d explained nothing, but that was all she was going to get. Anyway, it would be enough for her to feast on for a while. “Now, I’m going back into my office and I’d like my calls forwarded to…”

“Voicemail, I got it the first time.” Mavis said it with a little edge in her voice.

I shut the door behind me and called Mark. No answer. I made a split-second decision to not leave a message. I had no words anyway. I tried his cellphone with the same result. I’d make some pastoral care visits here and then drive over to his office. Maybe he could help with the agitation that had overtaken me.

I felt like I had to do something, I just didn’t know what. I thought about calling Lamar Gustafson, but we hadn’t left on the most congenial terms. I could still hear his accusatory voice, telling me Rachel had to be given additional sedation because of how much I’d upset her. And now she was dead.

I wanted to drive out to WindDancer, to confront Weston. To ask him what happened, maybe to heap coals of blame onto him, but I knew that I’d just be transferring my own feelings of guilt. And anyway, Weston wouldn’t still be at WindDancer, would he? Arrangements would have already been made, paperwork signed. His sister’s body would likely already be in a drawer in a mortuary somewhere.

I imagined the somber scene. Two men wheeling a gurney down a back hallway and out through a tastefully concealed side door that led to a private loading area. I envisioned the blue body bag on the gurney with Rachel inside, heard the clank of metal as they collapsed the gurney and slid it into the back of the hearse. Tears welled in my eyes again. Just goddammit. The end of poor Rachel Roper who never got to meet her daughter.

The question was, where would Weston be now? And what if he was getting ready to leave town? A sudden urgency came over me. I had to find him. I needed to know what had happened.

The idea of never getting any answers stirred me to action. I could visit my St. Regis patients later, or even assign them to one of the rotating chaplains or Benny the Intern. After all, I was sort of the boss now. I grabbed my tote bag and headed out, giving Mavis the barest wave as I hurried past her desk.

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Fifteen

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Detective Miller is not here right now. Is there someone else who can help you?” 

So, it’s detective, then. I wished the tiny blond receptionist had kept her voice down. Two officers looked up from their paperwork and stared in my direction. 

“No, that’s fine, I’ll just catch up with him later.” I zipped out of there before there were any more questions. 

That put me a half hour early for a lunch meeting with Fred. He was already in his office, and when I walked in he called out, “Oh, good, you’re here! Let’s try and beat the rush.”

Lest you think our working lunches were anything cushy, let me disabuse you of that idea. We rode the elevator down to the ground floor where we joined about twelve other people in a line at the busy hospital cafeteria. For $7.00 you could get a hot lunch — today it was fake mashed potatoes with fake gravy, something called Salisbury Steak but that could have been the remains of any life form, and green beans straight out of a can. There were also wan looking sandwiches with some kind of pressed meat and thin slices of what my mom used to call polyester cheese. Ostracized in their own stainless-steel bin were some oddly-shaped chicken nuggets I’d once overheard a nurse refer to as McTumors. 

I opted for a salad and treated myself to a cookie. Fred got a hamburger that came with half-done fries on the side. I thought it very brave of him. That hamburger looked like it had been places. 

We found a table over by a window that looked out into a small courtyard filled with lush, flowering shrubs and billowing ostrich ferns. 

“So,” Fred said. “Have you had a chance to look over the denominational grants?” He took a giant bite of his burger.

“I have,” I said. “Looks pretty straightforward. I set up a calendar for the due dates for reports and grant renewal applications, so I won’t miss anything.”

Fred nodded and dabbed with his napkin at a smear of ketchup on his chin. “It’s not that complicated. Just gotta keep on top of the budget and track those expenses. The Presbyterians in particular like to see every penny accounted for.” He laughed.

I poked at my salad with my fork. Some of the iceberg lettuce looked a bit frayed around the edges, and the few pieces of spinach someone had thrown in were papery thin and sad. The tomatoes were fresh, though, and I confess to a little excitement at how generous they’d been with the croutons. I added some salt and pepper and squeezed a packet of ranch dressing over the whole mess. 

“So, how is Maxine, Fred? How are the treatments going?”

“Fine,” he said much too quickly. “Everything’s going fine.” 

“That’s great,” I said. “I’m glad to hear it.” But there was something brittle in his voice, and I thought for a moment how haggard and pale he looked, and thought, too, that since we were here, together, I should tell him about my work with Omega, but what a shitty time to drop it on him. And to what end? Was I really going to do any more work for Mark? He seemed to have shut me out as far as any new cases he had taken on, if there even were any. Paolo and Gina seemed old history, and I wasn’t sure if Rachel had ever actually been a client.

“I’m just glad you’re here, Blainey,” Fred said. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me to know our Pastoral Care office is in good hands.” 

I nodded. “Of course, Fred. Whatever you need.”

“We haven’t talked yet about you doing all the scheduling, have we? And it would help greatly if you could take over supervision of Benny as well.” I stifled a groan and told it to go back where it came from. Scheduling three other part-time chaplains and supervising a rabbity little intern were not on my list of ways to have a good time, but it came with the territory. 

“Mavis can walk you through the new digital system we set up. Should make things a whole lot easier,” Fred said. Then he looked up at me, the remnants of the hamburger in his hands dripping pickle juice onto the plate. “Things better between you two?”

“Yes,” I said. “I think they are. Please don’t worry about that, Fred. We’ll get it worked out.” I wasn’t just blowing smoke. I believed the chill between us was beginning to thaw.

“You’ve barely touched your salad,” he said, peering over his glasses at the bowl in front of me. 

“Guess I’m not really that hungry,” I said. Fred looked at the bowl and up at my face and at the bowl again. I looked at him, noting the gray shock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. Then I caught on.

“Oh!” I said. “Do you want the rest of it?”

“Sure. Slide it over here.” 

Okay. A little unexpected, but, okay. 

In that moment, I realized I didn’t actually know Fred, or much about him. He was married to Maxine. He’d been at St. Regis for at least a decade. He drove a white Ford Explorer. He played golf. Beyond that, nothing.

“So where did you go to seminary?” I asked.

“A small nondenominational school in Virginia,” he said, shoving lettuce into his mouth.

“What led you there? To seminary, I mean.”

He held up a finger for a moment while he chewed. “Ah. The pastor’s origin story,” he said, and took a gulp of water. “I grew up in Charlotte, son of a physician who expected me to follow in his footsteps. So I did. Until I couldn’t. I made it all the way to residency, and then realized I didn’t want to be a doctor.”

“Oh,” I said, genuinely surprised. I had no idea he’d gone to med school. “Where was that?”

“Chapel Hill,” he said.

“So from there to seminary. How did that happen?”

“I took a year to get my head together and realized I actually did want to help make people’s lives better, but let’s just say my gifts did not lie in the medical arena.”

“And how did you end up at St. Regis?”

Fred put his fork down. “Why all the questions, Blainey? Is there something you want to know?”

The defensiveness in his voice jolted me a bit. “Oh, I’m sorry!” I said. “I don’t mean to pry. I’m just always curious about, as you put it, the pastor’s origin story.”

“Do you mind if I finish my salad?” There was a little flash of anger that reminded me of how Sean used to fly off the handle. 

“Well, technically my salad,” I said with a laugh, hoping to break the tension, but he picked up his fork and jabbed it into the remaining pile of greens, shooting me a look that was hard to decipher. I sat back in my chair and watched as he speared a tomato wedge and used it to scoop the last puddle of dressing, then he pushed the bowl away. 

I nibbled around the edges of my cookie, which was peanut butter with chocolate chips and actually quite good, chewy and dense. We sat in silence for a while.

Then he said, “Have I bragged to you about my grandkids?” He pulled his wallet from a back pocket and opened it to show me photos of two little boys, both with light brown hair and dimples. “They’re six and eight now. My daughter and son-in-law live up in the mountains. Maxine and I go up there and take them on hikes and fishing and things like that,” he said.

“They’re adorable.” 

“Listen, Blainey, I’m sorry for snapping at you like that. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He gave me a searching look. “Please. Forgive me.”

“Don’t give it a second thought,” I said. “I know you’ve been under tremendous pressure.” I was giving it a second thought, though, and later probably a third. 

Thus far our dealings had been cordial and professional. I couldn’t think of anything else that had changed, except, of course, the fact that his wife was likely dying of cancer. Still, it felt like an odd interchange. We bussed our table and then rode the elevator upstairs in silence. 

Back in the office, Fred asked Mavis to walk me through the scheduling system, then left, saying he’d check in at the beginning of next week. 

The system wasn’t difficult, and I would’ve figured it out on my own, but I could tell Mavis was relishing being in a position to tell me stuff I didn’t know and talking to me like I was a third-grader. I mean, c’mon, how could I deprive her of that?

We were just wrapping up when the door opened. In walked Chad Miller. My mouth dropped.

Mavis gave him an approving once-over, spending more time than necessary on the bulging muscles peeking out from his short-sleeved dress shirt, which, honestly I hadn’t noticed before, but there they were, and as a sidebar, he had some really nice biceps.

“Good afternoon! What may I help you with, sir?” Mavis used a little sing-song voice that made me look at her with narrowed eyes.

Chad nodded at me. “Ms. Blair, if I could have a moment of your time, it’s important I speak with you.” 

I was completely unnerved. Was he here because I’d made a scene at WindDancer? Had Lamar filed a complaint? Was I going to be charged with something? Jesus Christ, was he here to arrest me? Visions of being escorted out in handcuffs, to Mavis’s wild applause, made my knees nearly buckle.

I didn’t bother with introductions, since what I wanted most of all was to get Chad into my office and behind a closed door. 

“Mavis, thanks, we can pick this up later,” I said and turned to him. “This way.” I felt her eyes on us all the way down the hall.

I shut the door and gestured to the chairs in front of my desk. “Please,” I said, and went around behind my desk and sat, folding my hands and setting them on my lap like a good little girl and waited for whatever hammer was going to fall.

After a moment’s silence, during which he got out a notebook and pen, Chad finally spoke. “Can you tell me your whereabouts last night?” 

“What?”

“Where were you last night?”

His question put me right off balance. “Home,” I said.

“Anyone with you?”

“I live alone.”

“Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts? A neighbor who saw you? A conversation on your landline, for example?”

I shook my head. Something eely crawled in my gut. 

“When was the last time you saw Ms. Roper?” he asked.

“Day before yesterday,” I said, “at WindDancer. What’s this about? Is Rachel okay?”

“So Monday?”

“Yes.”

“So, you didn’t see her this morning?”

Shit, shit, shit. “I had hoped to, but when I got to WindDancer, I was informed I was on the restricted list.”

“And why is that?”

Here it was. The moment. Why, indeed? 

“Detective Miller, I wasn’t completely forthright in our prior conversation.” Galaxy-sized understatement.

He set down his pen and leaned forward, the chair creaking as his weight shifted. “Oh?”

“Rachel Roper actually was a high school classmate of mine,” I said, choosing my words as if picking my way through a minefield. “However, my interest in her situation is also connected with some extracurricular work I do with regard to private investigation.”

I let that sink in. 

“Wait. You’re a PI?” He choked on a laugh, which pissed me off a little.

“No, of course not.” I still don’t know why I said it like that. “No, I’m not, but I do some contract work with a PI here in Brady. And Ms. Roper had contacted us about helping her locate the daughter she’d surrendered to adoption some years ago.” 

Chad widened his eyes and shook his head. “You gotta be kidding me.” 

I didn’t respond.

“Who do you work for?”

“Omega Investigations. Mark Danner,” I said.

“That guy?!”

“Yes, that guy. Why?”

“Well, he’s got a bit of a reputation around town. Been known to bend the rules from time to time.”

I thought of us breaking into Weston’s vacated rental house, remembered how we’d stood in the kitchen pulling numbers from the answering machine.

If only Chad hadn’t laughed. “I’ve always found him to be above board,” I said, looking at him evenly. “Anyway, Weston Roper doesn’t want me to see Rachel because he says the baby never existed. And I believe Rachel. And I’m coming to think Weston could very well be the father of his half-sister’s child, so no wonder he wants me to go away!” I hadn’t meant to spill that part, but, oops, there it was.

Chad sat up in the chair, pen in hand again. “Okay, so the last time you saw Ms. Roper was Monday afternoon,” he said, already writing.

“Correct.”

“How about Mr. Danner? Was he there with you?”

“No,” I said.

“And to your knowledge, has he had any other recent contact with her?”

“To my knowledge, no. Detective Miller, please, what is this all about?” 

He stood then and put his notebook and pen in a back pocket. “Ms. Blair, I’m sorry to inform you that Rachel Roper has passed.” 

“What do you mean?” I said, confused and unsure of what I’d heard. “Passed what?”

“Passed away,” he said. “She’s dead.”

That time I got it. “Oh, my God,” I said. “Oh, my God, oh, my God.” Because those were the only words I had. Then I began to weep.

Chapter Seventeen

Catch up with a reread of Chapter Fourteen, or if you’re new here you can find chapter links and summaries here.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I felt awful showing up to Jenny’s party without a gift or even a card. I’d been so consumed with Rachel Roper, I’d forgotten all about the birthday party. Before heading to Pediatric ICU, I ran downstairs to the lobby gift shop and bought a silver mylar helium balloon bearing a rainbow-colored unicorn and the words “Congratulations!” printed in sweeping calligraphy. I hurried back upstairs, grabbing a mask at the nurses’ station, and slid in behind three women in green scrubs just in time for the final, muffled, drawn-out notes of  “Happy Birthday to youuuu…”

Jenny took a deep breath — because she finally could — and blew out all thirteen candles on a white sheet cake iced with pink and blue roses, and we all burst into raucous applause. The room was wall-to-wall with flowers and balloons and palpable joy. Masked nurses and respiratory techs, surgeons and anesthesiologists, folks from radiology, the pharmacy, and even the custodial staff lined up to wish her all good things, many of them wiping their eyes as they did so.

I waited until everyone had gone. “Hey, kiddo,” I said and handed her the balloon, taking both her hands in mine. “You made it. You’re a rock star.”

Jenny nodded. “I did,” she said. “I really did.” She reached her arms up for a hug, which I gladly gave.

I went around to the other side of the bed and hugged Nora and then David, both of them openly weeping.

Nora said through tears, “You know, thirteen years ago there was the most enormous electrical storm the night I went into labor with her.” She reached out to smooth Jenny’s bangs away from her forehead. “The sky just lit up like it was daytime, and I knew then, someone really special was about to make her entrance.”

Jenny put her hand over the fresh scar on her chest and said, “I’m the lucky one. I got to join the best mom and dad anyone could ever have. And I mean this from the very bottom of my brand new appropriately-beating heart.” With that I had to reach for the box of tissues. Who says miracles don’t happen anymore?

At home I cranked up the air conditioning and changed into the uniform I wear when I clean my house — raggedy blue sweats, a decades-old white Hang Ten t-shirt from a Wrightsville Beach surf shop, and a bright green paisley bandana to keep the mop of hair out of my face.

I like order, and Rachel’s mysterious situation had left me feeling at sixes and sevens. I took the opportunity wherever I could, to take my stand against chaos, even if it just meant being able to walk around my freshly sparkling house feeling momentarily serene. I attacked the kitchen first.

Two hours later, I stepped out of the shower, tired but happy, and put on clean pajamas. I picked up the phone and ordered a pizza from Leaning Tower, checking in my fridge as I did so — “Yes, pepperoni. Sure, extra cheese is fine.” — to make sure I still had that one Pilsner tucked in the back. Then I called Mark.

“Yo,” he said.

“Tomorrow still good to head out to WindDancer? 9:15 work?”

“Nope, can’t,” he said. “Unavoidable conflict came up.”

“Ah. Okay. Would later work? I have until noon.”

“Afraid I’m tied up for the rest of the day.”

“Okay,” I said again. “Well, I’m going out there to see if I can talk to Rachel again, get a little more info.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Mark said. I was pretty sure I heard someone whispering to him in the background. “Hang on a sec.” It sounded like he covered the mouthpiece with his hand while he spoke to someone. “Okay, I’m back,” he said.

“Hey, I won’t keep you,” I said. “Hope you have a great day tomorrow, whatever you’re doing.” I thought I did a pretty good job of keeping the frustration out of my voice.

“Gonna try,” Mark said and hung up.

I was definitely going to need that beer.

The next morning I walked into WindDancer’s lobby as an instrumental version of “The Wind Beneath My Wings” drifted quietly from invisible speakers. To be honest, that song has always irritated the hell out of me.

There was a different receptionist at the desk this time.

“Chaplain Blair to see Rachel Roper, please,” I told the slight, blonde woman who then tap-tap-tapped on her computer keyboard and peered at her screen, using a long pink fingernail as a guide while she read. The nametag clipped onto her beige blouse read “Melanie.”

Her blue eyes went back and forth, then flicked to me, then back to her screen again. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but per Mr. Roper’s request, you are on a restricted list from seeing Ms. Roper.”

Her words hit like a slap. “Excuse me?”

She repeated herself verbatim, like a little automaton.

“Is Mr. Roper here?” I asked.

She didn’t answer, just pressed her lips together.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Roper, please,” I said.

“Again, I’m sorry, but your name is on the restricted list,” she began.

“I heard you the first time. I’d like to speak with Weston — Mr. Roper — and hear his reasons directly.” I could hear my voice rising but could do nothing to stop it. “I have cause to believe his sister is being held here against her will,” I said and added, “I’ve already spoken to law enforcement about my concerns.” Not completely true, but when under pressure don’t we often go to ‘I’m gonna tell mom and dad and then you’ll really be sorry’?

That’s when I felt a hand on my arm, and turned to look up at a burly security guard. With excruciating politeness, he said, “Miss,” and began steering me toward the front door.

“Hey,” I said to him. By now the three other people in the lobby were openly gawking. I took a deep breath and lowered my voice. “I don’t mean to cause trouble, all I want to know is if my…” Oops. I’d almost said client. “My friend, Rachel, who I’ve been providing pastoral care and support to, is all right.” My eyes scanned the lobby and then locked on a figure coming down the fancy staircase.

Lamar Gustafson.

“It’s okay,” he said to the guard as he walked over to us. “I know Ms. Blair. I’m happy to speak with her.” All the while, he looked past me as if I was a small, annoying child to be ignored, and I had never wanted so badly to punch someone in the face.

The guard let go of my arm with a shrug. Melanie at the receptionist’s desk sat down and did not look at me again. I followed Lamar over to a long, moss-green velvet sofa and sat with him.

“Blainey,” he started in a cloying voice.

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t bullshit me. Just tell me what’s going on. How is Rachel? I’m seriously concerned that she doesn’t want to be here. Why can’t I see her?”

“You can’t see her because after your last visit she became very agitated and upset and had to be sedated. Weston doesn’t want you bringing up this ridiculous story of hers about a lost daughter. First of all, it’s just not true, and second any mention of it leaves her in deep distress. It’s part of her illness, that she clings to this fabricated notion of a missing child.”

He was lying, of course. I could see it in his eyes and in the anxious way he’d begun kneading his knuckles.

“Rachel has approached me more than once asking for my support,” I said. “It should be her choice.”

“I’m serving as her chaplain now,” he said.

“Is that what she wants?”

“It’s what Weston wants, and therefore it’s what Rachel wants. Weston has the legal right to make these decisions for her, and Rachel wants what makes Weston happy.”

What the hell, I decided to just go for it, asking in a voice loud enough that a couple of people turned and stared, “What if Weston is the father of this daughter he says doesn’t exist?”

“You can’t be serious,” Lamar said, and he stood abruptly, his knobby knees trembling. I thought of how cushy a job he had here among the rich, and how much he loved cruising around in that Mercedes.

I stood up, too, and moved to stand right in front of him. “When you give Weston a full report of our conversation, please be sure you clearly communicate my suspicions,” I said.

“I’ll do nothing of the kind. I’ve tried to be understanding, Ms. Blair, intuiting that you yourself seem to be suffering from undue stress, but I think it’s past time for you to leave.”

“It’s Chaplain Blair, you epic tool,” I said. “And this isn’t over.”

“Oh, but it is,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me. “Now, please leave before Russell here has to see you out.” He nodded toward the security guard who nodded back at him.

I hustled out of there with as much dignity as I could muster and got into my car and drove toward town, intending to go to the Brady Police Department.

Later, I’d have to reach out to my counselor and confess my embarrassment and shame at how badly I’d lost my cool. I’d make the call when I got to the hospital, since I was due in at noon.

But right now I desperately needed to speak with Chad Miller.

Chapter Sixteen