Chapter 11
ELEVEN
He just needed a moment of fresh air.
Conrad sat at the kitchen island, holding his cell phone, staring at Weston Winter’s video image as he explained attorney-client privilege and the pro hac vice admission law that let West practice in Minnesota, should things go south. And yes, Conrad had anonymously called 911.
“You definitely need to make yourself available for the police to question you, but let me negotiate an immunity from your B & E before you jump in.”
Jack sat at a stool, arms folded, wearing a King’s Inn hat backward on his head, a sweatshirt covered in woodchips from this morning’s refilling of the firewood to the fireplaces in the King’s Inn houses. He’d been the one to suggest Conrad call his lawyer.
Penny also sat at the island, listening, drinking a cup of coffee, picking apart a muffin Conrad’s mother had offered her when they’d arrived an hour ago.
Conrad had lost his appetite, his stomach still roiling.
“I’ll be in touch,” Weston said. “Jack was right to tell you to call me. Just sit tight and let me figure this out.”
“Thanks, bro.” Conrad hung up. Set his phone down. Looked at Jack, who had escaped to the coffee station on the far side of the kitchen.
“It wouldn’t be the first dead-body discovery he’s handled,” he said as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
“I still think you need to call the police, Conrad.”
Conrad spotted his mother backing into the kitchen, carrying a tray of dirty breakfast dishes used by the guests sitting in the dining room of the inn. She wore her blonde hair short, pulled back in a handkerchief, and a full-body apron with the words The King’s Inn across the front.
She set the tray on the stainless-steel counter next to the dishwasher. “It’s always the right time to do the right thing.”
“Of course,” Jack said. “But it’s more complicated than that.” He headed toward the door, back to his job as King’s Inn’s handyman. “Con’s a public figure. He’s got his image on the team to sort, as well as . . .” He glanced at Conrad. “Well, the last thing he wants is for the press to go hunting into his past.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, ‘ that past ’”—she finger quoted the words—“happened when he was seventeen years old. It’s buried.”
“Not deep enough,” Conrad said. He glanced at Penny, who was reading her phone. She was probably okay.
And he needed air.
Jack had left, and now Conrad grabbed his coat from the hook by the door and stepped outside onto the apron porch that wrapped the old Victorian. Snow lay crisp and bright on the yard under an uncluttered blue sky, creamy-white snow stretching from the shoreline, marred only by the rectangular ice rink the family had carved out weeks ago for a late-night broomball game.
Guests probably used it also, as his mother kept a supply of used skates.
Conrad spotted Jack driving away on the four-wheeler they used to go between houses. Conrad pulled on a hat, his gloves, ducked his head against the sweep of wind, and stepped off the porch onto a worn path that led from the house to the garage, a newer building that housed the inn’s summer furniture, lawn equipment, and snowplow.
And, more importantly, his grandfather’s old daysailer, the one Conrad had been restoring for the better part of a decade.
The scent of woodchips and oil stirred as he walked inside. The garage held his father’s woodshop, along with storage, and in the center of the room, the Catalina sixteen-footer, turned over on sawhorses, its hull up, the centerboard removed.
His fault. The last time he’d taken out the boat, he’d hit a rock, torn the centerboard in half. He and his father had pulled the boat from the water, and he’d decided to overhaul it, bow to stern.
The last time he’d worked on it eluded him.
The local news lifted from an old transistor, and he turned, spotting his father in the woodshop, holding a chisel and scraping a scrolled piano leg clamped in a wood vice.
He walked over. “Hey, Dad.”
His dad jerked, looked up. “Hey, son. I didn’t know you were here.”
Conrad shoved his hands into his pockets. “Had a thing happen.”
His father had stopped chiseling and now blew out the chips, stood up. They’d landed on his flannel work jacket, a few on his gray wool hat. Putting down the chisel, he walked over to a thermos and poured himself a cup of coffee. Gestured to the boat. “Anytime you want to finish sanding her, I’m ready to help.”
“I got embroiled in Jack’s new project.”
“Me too.” He took a sip.
“And frankly, I keep looking at all the mistakes I’ve made, trying to repair the boat.” Conrad walked over, started running his hand over the hull. “I should have seen this rot earlier, but I just varnished over it. I’ll have to rip out these boards and redo it.”
His father lifted a shoulder. “So you redo it. More time for us to chat.”
He let a smile free. “I hadn’t thought about that.”
“That’s because you’re only looking at your mistakes. From my point of view, the longer it takes for you to get her in the water, the more time I get to spend with my son. Which, from my point of view, isn’t nearly enough time.”
“Sorry.”
“No need to apologize for your life, Conrad. I’m a fan. But I do enjoy it when you show up.” He set his coffee down. “What thing happened?”
Aw. “Penelope and I are investigating a murder for her podcast, and . . . well . . .” He ran a hand behind his neck. “We sort of uncovered a dead body.”
His father’s mouth opened.
“I called Jack’s lawyer friend, and he’s sorting it out. But . . .” He shook his head. “I’m not sure how I got this far into trouble.”
“With the murder investigation, or with Penelope Pepper?”
Conrad had been scrutinizing the sailboat and now glanced at his father. Raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve been showing up with her a lot recently. Your mother keeps track of your social media.”
Oh. That. But, “Yes. We’re . . . friends.”
“Looks like more than that. She was wearing your jersey at the last game.”
“You saw that, huh?”
“You didn’t seem to mind.” He winked.
Conrad nodded, found a smile. “I like her. She’s . . . smart. Fun . . .”
“And exciting.”
Oh. “I hadn’t thought about that.”
“Maybe not. Maybe you don’t see it, but you like excitement. You’re a guy who just jumps in first, thinks second.”
“I try not to. I’m working on that.”
“Oh, I know. Because then you spend years trying to untangle your past.” Grover walked back to the piano leg. “You can’t do anything about the past, son. You just have to learn from it and keep moving.” He pointed to his project. “I repaired this years ago, but it was still weak, and it nearly broke on a guest. So now I need to go back and fix it again.” He picked up a piece of sandpaper. “The thing is, when I first fixed it, I didn’t have the skills I do now, so now I can go back and redo it, make it stronger. And now I’m repairing the entire bench, restaining, varnishing. It’ll be like new, only sturdier.” He looked up at Conrad. “I know you spend way too much time in your head, son. It might be genetic, because I’ve spent hours out here ruminating as I’m sanding. But what you’re forgetting is that all things are used by God for good in your life, if you trust Him. He’s in the process of making you stronger.”
Conrad walked over, spotted the unfinished piano-bench parts. “I don’t know. I keep making wrong turns, finding myself back where I was?—”
“You talking about the panic attacks?”
He looked over at his father.
“Please. I’m your father.”
Right . “Yes. They’re still happening. And my worst fear is that it will hit me during a game. Which only makes it worse because the more you panic about a panic attack, the more likely it’ll happen.”
He looked away, unwilling to see that truth land on his father’s face.
But his dad bent back over the piano leg. “I’m not going to pretend that you don’t have a good reason for them. But the reason you feel so panicked now is that you still care what people think about you. Let’s be honest—that’s superficial. The only person whose opinion should matter is God’s. So what does he say about you?”
Conrad picked up a piano leg, found a rough spot, and found a scrap of sandpaper. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. He’s already shown you. He loves you. And he doesn’t love you less today than he did when you were first saved. You’ve already walked into God’s love. Are already living in the abundance of it. So stop acting like you’re going to lose it.”
“In other words, stop panicking?”
His father looked up and met his eyes. “In a word, yes, although I know that’s easy for me to say. I don’t step out on the ice two or three times a week for a game, playing my heart out so that people can yell at me when I mess up.”
Conrad shrugged.
“Good game on Sunday, by the way. When’s your next game?”
“Wednesday. No physical practice today, but we’re reviewing tape later. Then I need to head back out for tonight’s practice with the Ice Hawks.”
“The EmPowerPlay team.”
“I’m helping out.”
“Good for you. I wasn’t sure you’d ever coach again after . . .” He made a face. “Well, good for you.”
“Yeah, well, Jeremy Johnson is on the team, although I haven’t seen him yet.”
His father’s smile dimmed. “Joe is in the hospital. Infection in his leg. Got a staph infection. Our church is praying.”
Conrad stilled.
His father put down the sandpaper. Walked over and put his hands on Conrad’s shoulders. “This is not your fault.”
“It is, actually.”
“The initial accident, sure—you had a role to play. But Joe has forgiven you, and so has God. I was there, Conrad. I remember you going in to apologize.”
“I mouthed words, but I remember being pretty angry, mostly at myself.”
“Defensive. I remember.” His father considered him. “I know it doesn’t feel right to forgive yourself, but you should . . . and then let it make you a better person.”
“It just feels like I can’t untangle myself from the guilt.”
His father nodded. “Like Reuben.”
“Reuben?”
“Joseph’s oldest brother.”
“Joseph from the Bible? As in the coat of many colors?”
“The very one. His oldest brother, Reuben, fought with his other brothers when they sold Joseph into slavery. And you know, it burned inside him for years, because twenty years later, when they went to Egypt to buy grain and Joseph tested their hearts by threatening to throw them into prison, Reuben offered himself as tribute. He still carried that guilt.”
“And rightly so. They sold him into slavery.”
“And that is what guilt does. Sells us into slavery. Only mercy, only forgiveness, sets us free.”
Conrad was repentant. But maybe Joe Johnson didn’t know that. Not really.
“Listen. You can’t fix the past. Only God can do that. Consider Peter on the shore after he betrayed Jesus. He couldn’t look at him. But Jesus forgave him, restored him. And this mercy impacted the entire church for the rest of time.” Grover slapped Conrad’s shoulder, turned away. “You don’t need to unravel everything—you just need to put your reputation and your actions into God’s hands and follow his voice. Learn, yes, but don’t keep looking behind. Let mercy abound.”
“Sometimes mercy just feels too big in the face of the fallout.”
“That’s exactly the point. Because to paraphrase my favorite Jack Nicholson line—‘We can’t handle the truth.’ Now, can I get you to take this thermos in and get me more coffee?”
Conrad grinned. “Sure.” He took the thermos. “Thanks, Dad.”
“I expect a couple tickets at will call next time in I’m in town.” He picked up the sander.
Conrad headed outside, back up the trail. Frowned when he spotted Penelope on the porch, coat on, pacing, talking on the phone.
He looked at her, but she was turned slightly away, her jaw tight.
Huh.
He stepped inside and walked over to the coffeepot. His mother had vanished. He filled his dad’s thermos, then wrapped a leftover bran muffin in a napkin and was about to head back outside when Penny pushed open the door.
She wore darkness in her expression, a sort of panicked, horrified set to her jaw.
“What?” He set the thermos back on the counter.
“That was the arson investigator.” She set the phone on the counter. Pressed her hand over it. “They found a body in my garage.”
It took a second. Then, “Your burnt garage?”
“That’s the one. The body was in a bag in my old potato bin. He wanted to ask me some questions to add to my statement.”
“Who was the victim?”
She closed her eyes, almost pained, and then took a deep breath. “They just identified him as Holden Walsh.”
And he simply followed the impulse to walk over, wrap his arms around her, and hold her tight.
* * *
Maybe she should just walk away.
The thought washed through her, turned Penelope to stone as Conrad held her. Even her breaths had stopped, caught inside her.
“Did the investigator say anything about how they found him or what the medical examiner said?” He let her go, leaned away, so much emotion in his blue eyes it sort of melted through her, into her bones, put a dent in the terrible chill inside.
“No. He just said they found him in a bag in my bin. It’s an old garage, and I used the bin for firewood, except after the remodel, I installed a gas fireplace, so I haven’t used it for . . . well, since last year.”
“So he could have been in there?—”
“Since he left—or didn’t leave—for Barbados. He was frozen through, so he might have been there for a while.”
His mouth made a grim line.
She nodded, backed away, her arms around herself. “I don’t know, but I was sort of thinking that Walsh might have killed Swindle . . .” She frowned, “But of course, why?”
“Maybe Swindle killed Sarah—you had thought that before . . .”
“I did, but I couldn’t figure out a motive. I still don’t have one—unless she knew that Swindle was involved in Edward’s death.” She pressed her hand against her stomach. Maybe she shouldn’t have eaten that muffin, except how was she supposed to turn down one of Mama Em’s baked goods? The woman possessed the skills of a French baker.
As if conjured up, Mama Em came into the kitchen, holding a half-eaten lemon-blueberry cake on a cake stand. She set it on the island. Looked at Conrad, then Penelope. “You okay?”
Conrad raised an eyebrow at Penny.
“Yes,” Penny said.
“I have to run this out to Dad.” Conrad left his gaze on her, a question in his eyes, long enough for her to nod. Sweet.
He picked up the thermos and a muffin wrapped in a napkin and headed outside.
Mama Em —the name that Harper had called Conrad’s mom during the wedding—just felt right. The woman possessed enough mom in her to share with the entire county. No wonder she made such a good hostess.
Now it seemed she activated her inner mom as she walked over to Penelope. She pulled out a stool and patted it.
Penelope didn’t have a bone to resist with.
“What has you so spooked?” She took a stool for herself, and her gaze went to the closed door. “My son hasn’t done anything?—”
“No. Of course not. He’s . . . absolutely fantastic.”
Her blue eyes warmed. “I had a feeling about you two at the wedding. And I’ve been seeing all the posts on social media.”
Oh. Those. Yes. “We’ve been working on the Ice Hawks team together.”
“I’m so glad he’s coaching again. He carried his shame around too terribly long.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t even his idea to fool around with that Zamboni. It was out on the ice, and one of the other players got on it and started it up. He climbed up because the kid lost control. And then, of course, it all went terribly out of control.” Her mouth made a grim line. “I think he sometimes feels like his life is still skidding along the ice.”
And Penelope sure wasn’t helping stop that feeling.
“What’s that face?” She touched Penelope’s hand. Warm, firm.
“I think I’ve gotten us into big trouble.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“It’s not . . . personal. But I’ve been investigating this case for my murder podcast, and I just lost my last lead.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. I’ve been listening ever since the wedding. It’s quite interesting. I love how you use Agatha Christie quotes.”
“I was a huge AC fan growing up. My callers sometimes use her quotes too. There’s this one caller who always signs off with ‘If the fact will not fit the theory—let the theory go.’”
“That’s a good quote. I was thinking of calling in, but I don’t have anything useful to add.” She gave Penelope a wry smile. “But I did agree with the caller you put up last week who said that it was probably someone close to Sarah. There was no forced entry, so she probably trusted him. Like her friend Kyle.”
“He claimed all the way to the end that he was innocent.” Penelope didn’t want to add that he’d been found murdered too.
“Yes, well, I’ve read enough Agatha Christie novels to know it’s the person you least expect.”
“At this point, I don’t expect anyone.” Penelope folded her arms on the island and put her head down on them. “I just want to go back to the beginning and become a house flipper.”
Conrad’s mother laughed. “Why did you get into murder podcasting?”
“I don’t know. I got sort of obsessed with true-crime novels as a kid, and then in college I thought about being a lawyer, but really, I liked telling stories. And of course, there was my own sense of justice, which probably started when I was a kid.”
“When you were kidnapped by your nanny.”
She looked up at Mama Em. “You know about that?”
Mama Em got up. “Coffee?”
“Always.”
She headed to the coffee station. “I remember the story. I had my own kids at the time, and your mother’s plea on television, for the kidnapper to give you back, really touched me. I prayed for you. And then when your nanny and her boyfriend were killed during the ransom handoff, I was so angry. We’d never know why they did it.”
“For the money.”
“Right. But to have the trust of a family, only to betray it . . . Wicked.”
Penelope shrugged. “That’s why my dad has multiple generations of the same family working for us. My bodyguard, Franco, is the son of my father’s bodyguard, now retired. And our housekeeper stayed with us until she passed away. My sister was going to marry her son. But he was . . . killed.” She didn’t know why she kept the murder out of her story, but maybe she simply couldn’t face how many bodies were dropping around her.
You, Penelope Pepper, are the connection.
No. She didn’t even know Derek Swindle. Had never met him. And had only met Holden by phone, never in person, so there went that theory. Still, she didn’t have to meet someone to be connected to their death . . .
“I know my mother was terribly hurt by Carmen’s betrayal.”
Mama Em put the mug of coffee in front of her. Pulled over a condiment tray. “Carmen?”
“My nanny.” Penny doctored the coffee. “She started as a foreign exchange student and then ended up staying after my father sponsored her. She was with us for seven years before she . . . well, before she kidnapped me.”
“Oh, that’s awful.”
“It might have been worse if I hadn’t gotten away and then hidden until my parents got home, with the help of the housekeeper’s boy, Edward. And then my father’s bodyguard, Vincent, came to get me. I’ll never forget seeing the light pour in as the dumbwaiter door cracked open, and then there was Mr. Vincent, holding his arms open for me. I’d never felt so safe. He carried me upstairs to my mom, and she just held me and cried. I’ll never forget that. She was always so put together, so . . .” She sighed. “Anyway, I hated that I put them through that.”
Silence, and Mama Em frowned at her. “ You put them through that?”
She nodded. “I heard my parents fighting maybe a few days later. My mother sounded furious. She was yelling at my dad—I could hear them through the bedroom door. She said that he’d let it get too far, that I could have gotten killed.”
She took a sip of coffee. Perfect . “I think it was because he refused to pay the ransom.”
“He refused?”
“That’s what Edward overheard from the nanny and her accomplice, Nicolai, one of the guys on the security team. But I never had the courage to ask my dad.”
“Oh, honey.”
“I don’t know. Edward could have misheard. I did hear my dad tell my mom that if I hadn’t run away and hid, they would have found me and it would have all been over earlier, so my guess is that maybe there are things I don’t know.” She took a deep breath. “It did make me aware of the danger of having money. And how I needed to be careful.”
“That’s a hard way to live your life. Always fearing someone is going to betray you.”
Penelope looked away.
“And no amount of trying to understand the darkness that lurks in the human heart will make you feel safe.”
She met Mama Em’s gaze.
“I’ll bet you were terrified.”
She nodded.
“But you don’t look terrified now. In fact, I remember you at the wedding, after Kyle hurt you, and I kept thinking, She’s one brave woman .” Mama Em covered Penelope’s hand. “And you are, Penelope. And smart, and determined to find justice. But the truth is that finding answers isn’t going to give you peace. You think it will, but it won’t erase what has been done to you. And it won’t erase the crimes committed.
“The only thing that brings peace is knowing that, whatever happens, you are loved. You are carried. Worry—or even the relentless pursuit of justice—is just a form of control. You want to figure it all out, make sure none of this happens again. But really what you are saying is, ‘God, I think your intent is to leave me unprotected and vulnerable, so I need to make sure that doesn’t happen.’”
Penelope stared at her coffee. “My mother is a woman of faith. And we went to the local Episcopal church all my life, but . . . yeah. I’m not sure where God was when I was kidnapped and locked in the basement cellar.”
“Right there with you.”
She looked up. And somehow heard her own voice. “I ate some apples and then opened a jar of pickles. Two days in, the door unlocked. It was Edward.”
She had been warm, and fed, and spared.
“It’s hard to see in the midst of the darkness, but when we need Him most, God doesn’t abandon us. But we often don’t look for Him. We keep our eyes on the darkness. God is the light that shines in the darkness, and not even evil can overcome it.”
Steps on the porch. Conrad.
“Out of the depths I have cried to You, for with the Lord there is lovingkindness and abundant salvation. Paraphrase mine, from Psalm 130.” Mama Em winked. “Don’t let circumstances dictate the quality of your life.”
Then she got up as Conrad came into the house.
It was like sunshine and heat pouring into the room, the way he walked, his gaze going right to Penelope’s. And though his mother moved away to the sink, she could still hear Mama Em’s words.
“That’s a hard way to live your life. Always fearing someone is going to betray you.”
Yes, it was.
But maybe not anymore.
“We need to get going,” he said. “I have practice.”
She slid off the stool. Walked over to Mama Em, who stood at the sink, her arms in the suds, and gave her a hug. “Thank you.”
“Make sure you take a muffin on your way out.”
Conrad held out her jacket, and she grabbed her gloves and hat.
“What was that about?” He hit his fob and unlocked his door.
She said nothing as she got into the truck. Then, “You can drop me at my house.”
He actually laughed. “Sweetheart, until we figure out who put a dead man in your potato bin, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
His gaze landed on hers.
And she couldn’t have walked away if she’d wanted to.
* * *
He didn’t know if Avery McMillan had done it on purpose or by accident, but either way, Steinbeck saw the entire thing in slow motion as he stood in the curtained bay inside the emergency room of the Hospital Clínic de Barcelona, watching doctors stitch up his bloodied boss.
Two seconds earlier and Stein would have been able to fully rescue Declan from traffic, keep the bicyclist from smashing into him.
As it was, he’d had a hold on Declan, managed to jerk him back, kept him from flying into the motorized traffic. The bicyclist had hit him, however, and managed to slice open Declan’s shin, send him flying into a light pole, which he bounced off, landing on the pavement with a wicked bonk to his head.
Which was why Stein had insisted on the CT, just to make sure Stone’s brains were intact.
Now they were stitching up his shin where the EMTs had taped on gauze pads, his blood saturating them as well as the ones packed on his damaged nose. He’d sport a couple raccoon eyes tomorrow, given the blood flow. In the tiled hallway, a few voices lifted, announcements made over the speakers, and the smells of antiseptic and bleach burned into Steinbeck’s nose.
Memories. He shook them away, but he didn’t know what was worse—the churn that always stirred in his gut over his own medical trauma so many years ago or . . . well, or his current epic fail.
He shouldn’t have let the woman get that close. But she’d seemed . . . well, he’d just kept remembering the woman he’d danced with, and her smile might have hypnotized him a little, stirring to life the memory of Phoenix, and he’d been off his game.
And nearly gotten his boss killed.
Maybe he should resign.
“Calm down, Steinbeck. I’m fine.”
He raised his head to look at Declan—his nose taped, his hands bandaged, a tech working on his leg. The gathered bloody gauze piled in a hazardous-material bin next to him.
“You’re not fine.”
“Please. I’m more worried about Avery. Have you checked on her?”
His mouth pinched. “Not since the EMTs put her in an ambulance.”
Declan raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, sir,” Stein said.
“Can you get me some water too?”
Stein stepped through the curtain and walked down the hall, past the other bays, some of them with their curtains drawn. A toddler with his mother in one bay, a teenage girl in another. He didn’t see the blonde anywhere.
The nurses’ station was empty, and he had to wait a long moment for a nurse to arrive—a woman, her dark hair pulled back, wearing a pair of teal scrubs, a stethoscope around her neck. She addressed him in Spanish and then changed to English. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for the woman brought in earlier—blonde, American, petite.”
“And you are?—”
“A friend. We were together.” Close enough.
“Yeah, ah, she was sent to imaging and, I believe, orthopedics for casting.”
“She broke something?”
“I’m not sure, sir.”
He could still see her flying through the air, the hard slam into the pavement, right in front of oncoming traffic.
He’d nearly run to her, but Declan lay broken too?—
A couple Vespas had stopped in front of her, one of the men getting off. And by the time the EMS had shown up, she’d been sitting up, holding her arm. Had glanced at him at least once with an expression he couldn’t place. Almost desperation. Or maybe pain.
He nodded, ran his hands down his face. “Vending machine anywhere?”
“Down the hall.” She pointed out of the ER area, into a hallway, and he headed out, into the austere waiting room with the orange formed seating, the windows that overlooked the stately courtyard. Of course the hospital had to be a historical building, with columns that cordoned off the monastic style, and inside, a grand staircase to the second floor, travertine tile flooring, a renaissance feel that suggested learning and grandeur alongside new technology.
He stopped at a vending machine tucked into a corner, dropped in a euro, and a bottled water fell to the gap. He scooped it up and headed back to the ER.
No more conference. He didn’t know why, but the accident sat like a burr under his skin. Something felt off, not random . . .
He entered the ER, glanced at the nurses’ station. The tech who’d been cleaning up his boss stood at the desk, talking with the nurse. Stein nodded at him—good, maybe now they could go home—and then turned toward Declan’s bay at the end.
Slowed. What ? —
Avery stepped out of the curtained area, her satchel slung over her shoulder, holding a plastic bag. She wore a cast in a sling but seemed to be moving just fine.
But wait, wait —was that . . . bloody gauze? What ? —
“Avery!” He lifted his voice and she jerked, turned.
And just like that, memory slammed into him. Those green eyes—had they been green all along?—and the scrape on her jaw, the set of her mouth. “Are you with me?”
The sense of it punched him in the sternum, and he froze.
Her eyes widened.
No—
She whirled around and took off.
What—
He dropped the bottle and sprinted after her. “Hey!”
She hit the doors, the ones to the street, and exited.
He caught them just as they closed, pushed out.
The wide plaza in front of the hospital teemed with university students.
Beyond, on the street, traffic whizzed by, and he spotted her entering the crosswalk, still at a run.
Sort of a run. Her sling pushed her off-balance. Except, even as he watched, she flung off the sling, left it on the sidewalk, and disappeared into the shadows.
Why was she running? For a second, he debated. Follow her?—
Or stay with Declan.
He stopped, his fist clenched, glanced back at the hospital. What had she been doing in Stone’s cubicle?
What if ? —
He spun and took off back to the ER, breathing hard as he pushed back through the doors into the secured area?—
He alerted a couple security guards, but he nearly took out the curtain as he skidded into Declan’s bay.
His boss sat on the gurney, working his running pants back on, his hospital gown discarded in a hamper. “You ready to go?” Declan’s eyes widened. “You okay, Stein?”
Stein’s breaths shoved out hard, and he put a hand to his mouth, glanced around the room.
Had she really stolen the hazardous waste from Declan’s injury? “Was Avery here?”
“Yeah. She stopped in to see how I was doing.”
“Did you see her take something?”
He shook his head. “No. I don’t think?—”
“The plastic bag with all the hazardous waste. Your blood—did she take that?”
Declan frowned. “I don’t know. I thought the tech took that when he left.”
Stein nodded, walked out of the room.
A bin sat across the hallway marked with the Unicode biohazard symbol.
Maybe he’d mis-seen.
Yes. It had to have been her bloody sweatshirt, or the handkerchief she’d used on Declan.
Still, the whole thing sat inside him, a fist.
He turned just as Declan pulled back the curtain. “They discharged me. Let’s go.”
“Yes, sir.” Then he paused. “Is there any reason why someone would want your blood?”
Declan frowned. “My blood?”
“I don’t know. For . . . DNA? Or some other reason?”
Declan blinked, then ran his hand across his mouth. “Yes. Yes, there is.” He shook his head. “Wow. I didn’t see that.”
“See what?”
“Get me back to the hotel. Conference is over. I need to make some calls.” He seemed almost shaken. “And then call my pilot. I need a flight out, to Montelena.”
Stein nodded, pulled out his phone, his mouth tight as he dialed.
He didn’t expect Declan to look over at him, frown. “You okay, Steinbeck? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He raised an eyebrow. Maybe. Yes. That was it .
Because in his heart, he knew?—
Call Me Phoenix was very, very much alive.
And he was very, very much in trouble.