Chapter 10
Miriam deserved this. The truth smacked her with a painful force, reverberating through her chest and pounding against her skull until her vision swam.
Her brain felt swollen, thick and heavy, each tiny thought becoming sluggish.
Painfully so. Karma was coming for her, damn it.
She stumbled to her car and fumbled for the keys in her pocket.
Her eyes burned like she’d dunked her head in bleach. The pressure built behind her sockets like something sharp wanted to push through. Panic, fear—no, terror—twisted through her veins, coiling tight around her heart. Fuck. She collapsed into the driver’s seat, slamming the door.
Driving was a mistake. She knew it. Hell, the rational part of her brain screamed it loud and clear, but that voice was buried beneath a raw, primal instinct to flee. But where should she go? There was nowhere to go.
Tears streaked hot down her face, stinging her chapped lips.
She swiped them away with the back of her hand and tried to focus.
She gulped air like her lungs had forgotten their job.
Sobs clawed their way free, scraping her insides bloody, but she choked them down. There wasn’t time for that. Not now.
She’d screwed up. Regret tasted bitter on her tongue, but she didn’t have time to deal with it right now.
She didn’t want to die. God, she didn’t want to die.
Her mind raced, chaotic and jumbled. The car lurched as she threw it into drive, except she hadn’t started the damn engine. A fresh surge of panic strangled her as she yanked the keys again, twisting them hard.
The engine sputtered to life, a harsh, growling sound that barely registered through the thunderous pulse in her ears. She jammed the gearshift into drive again, clutching the steering wheel and hunching over it as if trying to protect her vital organs. Animals did that. So did humans.
Seat belt. There was something she was supposed to do about a seat belt, but the thought slipped through her mind like smoke, impossible to grasp.
She had to fucking get it together. She slammed her foot on the gas pedal, and the car launched forward with enough force to snap her head back against the seat.
They wouldn’t want her to be found.
But she’d make damn sure someone found her.
She drove down the mountain, her fingers gripping the wheel, providing more pain for her. Did it center her? Maybe a little. The road wound and twisted, becoming narrow and treacherous beneath the beaming moonlight.
More tears burned their way down her cheeks, but they weren’t the soft, salty warmth of fear or sadness. They scalded. Blood-hot.
Too late. She knew it with the kind of clarity that made her want to laugh, hysteria clawing at her throat. No one survived this. But she couldn’t just lie down and quit. If she could just get to a safe place, she could figure this out. She had to save herself.
She floored the gas pedal, and the engine groaned as the car sped up, blurring the lines on the road into streaks of white and yellow.
She swerved onto a busier road, disrupting traffic.
Oncoming headlights burned her eyes, and several cars honked.
A tire or two might’ve screeched from people hitting their brakes.
Angry curses from pissed-off drivers echoed from half-rolled windows, and it should’ve infuriated her.
It did, somewhere deep beneath the agony.
But her head hurt too much to express the fury that boiled under her skin. Not only at them. At herself.
What had she done? Why had she done it?
There had been good reasons, honorable ones to start with. But things never ended the way they began, did they?
Her vision swam, lines and colors bleeding together like wet paint dragged through mud. The darkness tunneled, narrowing her field of sight until all she could see was the wavering strip of road in front of her.
Headlights split her vision, blinding and brutal.
She jerked the wheel, and her tires squealed when she clipped the edge of the road.
Gravel sprayed, and she swerved wildly, nearly correcting before something, someone, flashed in front of her.
Maybe just a shadow. Maybe a person. It didn’t matter.
She jerked too hard and barely caught sight of the tree before she smashed into it.
The world came apart in a shriek of twisting metal and the brutal shatter of glass. Her head jerked back, pain ripping through her like a live wire—sharp, sudden, and then . . . nothing. The pain was gone.
Finally, silence and . . . peace.
Laurel drove slowly away from the quaint town of Elk Hollow, the misting rain adding a dull sheen to the blacktop.
Walter sat beside her, unnaturally silent, his body a tense mass of grief and something more.
Guilt, maybe. She kept her hands steady on the wheel, but she routinely checked her mirrors, searching for that black truck or anyone else hunting them down. So far, nothing.
“I truly am sorry about your brother, Walter,” Laurel murmured.
“Thanks, boss.” Walter’s voice came out gruff. “I just wish I’d kept in better touch. We just . . . didn’t.”
“Have you tried contacting Tyler’s father?” Laurel kept her tone casual, probing without pressing. Walter wasn’t the type to open up easily, especially about family, apparently.
He shrugged, the movement sluggish and heavy.
“He and my mother divorced forever ago. Haven’t spoken to him in years, so I called an old number and got his secretary.
Had to tell her the news. She called back and said that they’d take care of the burial arrangements.
” Walter coughed. “But I will find out how he died. It’s the least I can do. ”
She flicked a glance at him. “This isn’t our case. Not officially.”
“I know.” Walter sighed. “But if we can’t get jurisdiction, I can’t see what happened to Tyler through to the end.”
“That Detective Robertson seems like he’s got a good brain on his shoulders,” Laurel said, navigating the wet curves out of Elk Hollow. “But I felt like he was holding something back. Did you catch that?”
Walter huffed out a short breath. “I’m not at a hundred percent here, and you don’t go on instincts. What did you see?”
“There was something,” Laurel continued, her fingers tightening on the wheel. “A twitch in his expression. His eyes darted away from mine a little too quickly. He knows something he didn’t share.”
Walter lifted a shoulder. “That makes sense. We never tell witnesses everything in our investigations either.”
They drove on in silence for a while, and Laurel began to relax. Finally, she cleared her throat. “So . . . you enjoy wealth?”
Walter snorted out a laugh that was more pain than humor. “Not even close, Laurel.”
“Five million dollars is a significant amount of money.”
“Yeah, but neither Tyler nor I could touch that until Mom’s latest husband dies, and that guy’s fairly young. Figured I’d never see the money. Though, I guess if I have kids, they would.”
Laurel blinked. “You’re contemplating having children?”
“Yeah.” Walter stared out the rain-dotted window. “Ena wants kids. And hell, so do I. Near-death experiences tend to put things into perspective.”
He made a certain amount of sense. Laurel’s chest tightened, memory flashing back to Walter laid out on a hospital bed, pale and gasping through tubes. That bullet to his chest had nearly killed him only a few months ago.
And yet here he was. Living. Moving forward.
She hadn’t realized he and Ena had become so serious. “When I thought I was going to lose you, I swore I’d watch over the whole team better. But you, Walter . . . I should’ve made sure you had more time to heal.”
“Boss.” Walter shook his head. “You did everything right. I’m alive and healthier than ever because of this job, working with Nester, and even with falling for Ena. She’s a bit of a health nut.”
They drove for a few more minutes in silence, the rain turning heavier. Finally, Laurel pulled up to a square, two-story building near the county hospital.
Walter startled, like he hadn’t been paying attention. “We’re going to the coroner’s office?”
“Yes.” Laurel pushed open her door and jogged through the rain to the entrance. Walter followed, ducking his head against the rain.
Inside, they made their way down the antiseptic-smelling corridor to Dr. Ortega’s office. He stepped out of the autopsy room as they approached, his white coat already discarded, leaving him in gray slacks and a light green polo shirt. His dark eyes took them in.
“Special Agent Snow. Agent Smudgeon.” Ortega’s voice was clipped but not unfriendly. He gestured them into his office.
Laurel followed him in, eyeing the neatly aligned photographs lining the walls in perfect symmetry. Ortega’s tendency toward precision bordered on compulsive, but that attention to detail most likely made him excel.
“We’re hoping you can give us information on Tyler Griggs’s autopsy,” Laurel said.
Dr. Ortega’s eyebrows rose. “This is an Elk Hollow City case, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Laurel admitted. “But Tyler was Walter’s brother.”
Understanding flickered in Dr. Ortega’s eyes. “Ah. Well, I can share what I’ve found so far, unofficially. But you know the locals have to request federal involvement. The fact that Walter is Tyler’s brother complicates that even more.”
“We understand,” Laurel said.
Dr. Ortega leaned back, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. “The cause of death wasn’t the fall. He was dead before he hit the ground.”
Walter’s fingers tightened against the chair’s arms. “What killed him?”
“That’s where things get . . . uncertain.” Dr. Ortega’s gaze sharpened. “There are lesions on his brain. Microscopic but extensive. Clusters of neural degradation.”
“What kind of lesions?” Laurel asked.
“Mostly concentrated in the temporal lobes and cerebellum. But not exclusively. The pattern is uneven and erratic. Certain pathways show severe degradation, while others are untouched.” Dr. Ortega rubbed his temple.
“I’ve requested Tyler’s medical records.
Something genetic could cause degradation like this.
Neurodegenerative conditions normally don’t act this quickly, but it does happen. ”
Walter scratched his chin, his gaze somber. “So, you’re not ruling out disease?”
“No. Viral, bacterial, even something fungal. Or a chemical agent. It could be environmental, something new or modified. I’ve sent samples to specialists in DC,” Dr. Ortega replied.
“Neurotoxicologists, geneticists, virologists. I’m not ruling anything out.
But the rapid deterioration . . . that’s what worries me. ”
Laurel breathed deep. “What does your gut say?”
“I don’t go on my gut any more than you do on yours.
” Dr. Ortega’s expression remained solemn.
“The deceased could’ve had a genetic disease that has been affecting him for a while, and we haven’t received his medical records yet.
But you need to get Detective Robertson to request your involvement, officially. ”
“Understood,” Laurel replied. She rarely relied on instincts, but none of this felt right.