Chapter 6
Six
HARPER BLINKED. Tay couldn’t be dead. She was Harper’s age. A year younger, actually, and the healthiest person she knew. The thought of a car accident slipped through her mind, but she cast it aside.
“Did you hear me, sweetie?”
“I’m sorry, but it sounded like you said Taylor’s dead. . . .” But she’d certainly misheard.
Her body left her feet, the world swirling around her as she rose up, floating again—seemingly detached from her body. But her feet remained on the porch. It was the most disconcerting sensation—one she had no control over.
“Harp? Did you hear what I just said?”
“Tay’s dead, but she can’t be.” It made no sense. She was so young.
“I know. It doesn’t seem real. I’m still in shock.”
“She can’t be dead.”
Deck stepped closer, then reached out and took her hand.
She yanked it back, and hurt filled his eyes.
“Sorry,” he coughed out. “I didn’t mean to . . . I was just trying to comfort you.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. What was wrong with her? She knew what was wrong, but admitting it, explaining it, was too painful. She redirected her shaky attention to Susan. “Are you saying she’s really dead?” First Amanda and Tracey, now one of her dearest friends?
“Yes, sweetie. She had a heart attack.”
“A heart attack? How is that possible?”
“I’m afraid it’s true. She died on the nineteenth.”
“Five days ago?” A hollow ache gnawed in the pit of her stomach.
Five days? That explained why Susan couldn’t reach her.
She’d been half a world away, fleeing for her life, then sitting through debriefing after debriefing.
Her heart sped up, her pulse throbbing at the mere memory, her skin lathered in sweat despite the chilled temperatures.
“Nick sounded in utter shock when I called to talk to Taylor that night, and he told me then. Poor guy is a mess. The heart attack was so sudden. . . . He’s just trying to wrap his head around it.”
“A heart attack. At thirty-four? She’s so fit.” Always off on one adventure or another—hiking, tennis, swimming. The girl never stopped.
“I know,” Susan said. “One minute she was alive and playing tennis, the next she was dead.”
“She died playing tennis?” Like some young athletes have on the field?
“No, later that night.”
“But . . . she was far more athletic than me.”
“Me too,” Susan said. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
Harper shook her head, feeling like she was trapped in an episode of The Twilight Zone—everything eerie and surreal.
“But that’s what the ME said?” Harper continued, wanting concrete facts.
That was, if the ME even had time to get to Taylor’s autopsy yet.
They were always slammed. “I can call my friend Cassie. She’s an autopsy assistant at the ME’s office. She can tell us what’s going on.”
Susan cleared her throat. “There was no ME.”
Heat flushed Harper’s bruised face. “What do you mean no ME?”
“Nick said he found her collapsed at the base of the stairs, all sweaty, clutching her chest and gasping for breath. He called for an ambulance. They came, but she didn’t make it. They said it looked like a heart attack.”
“Looked like? Why didn’t Nick have the ME make certain?” If she had a husband who died at thirty-four, she’d want to know beyond a shadow of a doubt what had killed him.
“Nick said he couldn’t stand to see Taylor all cut up like that and forwent the autopsy.”
Harper swiped the tears from her cheeks, then winced as her hand brushed a swollen bruise. “When’s the funeral?” She could at least say good-bye . . . in a way.
“On Sunday, but it’s a life remembrance ceremony at the house.”
Taylor’s funeral. Her sweet friend’s funeral.
Shock riddled through her—the kind that holds your body tight and steals your mind.
“Wh-what about the graveside ceremony?” Harper wrapped one arm around her waist, seeking comfort.
How she longed to be wrapped in Deckard’s strong arms during this excruciating conversation, but her body wouldn’t allow it.
It shrank back the minute anyone got close.
Susan’s tear-filled voice strengthened. “I’m afraid there isn’t one.”
Harper narrowed her eyes. Had she heard Susan wrong? “No graveside ceremony? Why not?”
“Nick had her cremated.”
“Cremated? It’s been less than a week. I mean, there’s paperwork to be filled out and a permit to be given, and by law you have to wait at least forty-eight hours to cremate in most states. He must have filed the paperwork right away if she died on the nineteenth.”
“I guess.”
“If he filled out the paperwork on the twentieth, he couldn’t cremate her until the twenty-second at the earliest.”
“That’s when he did it. On the twenty-second.”
“That seems like a snap decision, and worst of all, it isn’t what Taylor wanted.”
“Nick insisted it was, but Steve thought she wanted to be buried in the family plot with their parents. There are already gravestones placed there for her and Steve—the death dates just have to be filled in.”
“Then why did Nick cremate her?” she asked, charley horses gripping her legs as she clutched the phone. Not now. The stupid things came on as fast as they left—a reminder of the night of her escape—racing for the river so hard despite the spasms seizing her legs. Yet she’d made it.
“Nick said Taylor changed her mind not long ago.”
She fixed her flighty concentration on Susan—focusing on the sound of her voice rather than the terror of that night, though this terror didn’t seem much better. How? Why . . . ? “Why would she even be thinking about her death in the first place, being so young?”
“I have no idea, but Nick said it’s comforting to have her at home. He’s got her ashes on the mantel.”
Her ashes might be there, but she wasn’t home.
No more vibrant Tay. Her laughter was contagious, and she’d never get to hear it again.
Sorrow anchored in Harper’s chest, plunking its weight onto her lungs, belaboring each breath.
Hot tears pricked her eyes. She didn’t even get to say good-bye to her friend.
At least Nick was taking it hard despite Tay’s concern he’d been cheating before Harper left for Syria. Tay didn’t have physical proof, but her gut said he was, and Harper trusted her instincts.
“Nick is such a mess. We tried to help with the details, but he wanted to handle everything.”
“Details?”
“The cremation.” Susan hiccuped on a sob. “The remembrance details. We tried to help but the poor guy just wanted to be left alone.”
Harper swallowed, needing to leave this conversation, to have a minute to think, to breathe. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“I’ll see you Sunday. It’s potluck.”
Harper nodded and, ending the call, turned to find Andi standing behind her. She jumped.
“Sorry,” Andi said, her voice soft. “Riley told me to come out. Said something is wrong.”
“Taylor is dead.” The words left her mouth, her mind still reeling.
“Oh no. What happened?”
Harper blinked.
“You don’t have to tell me now. Just know I’m sorry and I’ll be inside if you want to talk.”
“Thanks.” Harper nodded and slid her phone into her pocket. A chill unrelated to the weather sifted through her, and she linked her arms around her waist.
Taylor was dead.
She couldn’t wrap her head around it. It seemed separate from her mind, separate from everything tactile around her. She feared the floating would return.
“They were such a great couple,” Andi said. “Nick must be a wreck.”
Harper sank into the nearest rocking chair, unable to carry anything more than her sorrow. “I guess it’s okay to share now, but right before my trip Tay confided she thought Nick was cheating, and she was considering divorce if she caught him.”
“Cheating?” Andi frowned. “But they’ve always been the perfect couple.”
“Maybe on the surface, but things are rarely as they seem.” At least that’s what she’d experienced in her forensic botany career with the FBI.
She couldn’t count how many times her work proved a body had been moved after death—proving things weren’t how they seemed.
So many crime scenes were faked. Faked . . .
“I think Nick is a fake.” Taylor’s last words to her came rushing back in a whoosh.
“Taylor said the whole thing was complicated—even the possibility of divorce, given she’s the one with the money.”
Andi frowned again. “But Nick’s gotta earn a decent living as a lawyer.”
“Decent, but nothing compared to Taylor’s trust fund.”
Her breath shallow, Harper fought to get the words out. “I need to talk to Nick.”
“Talk?” Deck asked, silent up until now.
“You aren’t thinking . . .” Andi narrowed her eyes. “You don’t think there was foul play, do you?”
It seemed like a stretch to even imagine Nick could kill Taylor. He might be a cheater, but a murderer? The thought alone floored her. But the notion had anchored in her gut and was weighing deep. Something felt off, and when she got this feeling, unfortunately, she was usually right.
“Harp,” Andi nudged. “Do you really think there was foul play?”
Harper shrugged a bruised, swollen shoulder. “It’s just . . . her death was sudden. No autopsy. A rather fast cremation. And nearly ninety percent of murdered women are killed by a man close to them.”
Andi took a sharp inhale and released it slowly, like she always did when she was about to say something someone might not like. “I hate to say this, as your instincts are great, but isn’t that a big stretch? Are you sure you aren’t jumping the gun?”
“Yeah. I could be way off. . . .” But there were questions that she needed answered before she’d accept Taylor died of a heart attack when, according to Taylor, her yearly physical had been perfect, less than a month before Harper left on her trip.
Something wasn’t adding up. And she wasn’t going to let go until she figured out what.