by Nicola Marsh
It’s an ultimatum of sorts and he knows it. I rarely stand up to him. It’s easier to go along with his plans, to keep the great Avery Thurston happy, because when Avery’s happy he tends to leave me alone and I value my alone time.
I know what he thinks of my job. He thinks I’m wasting my time helping a bunch of misfits who should help themselves. He much prefers me to be a kept woman at home, playing hostess to his rich cronies. He had an excuse to keep me tied here when I had the kids but now the girls are at college and I’m back working he has less control over me. That’s what bugs him the most.
As for my volunteer work, he grudgingly tolerates it because of the praise it garners. We’ve been stopped in town many times, while having dinner at The Lookout or picking up fresh seafood from Cray-Cray, by grateful people wanting to thank me for my time.
I don’t need their gratitude – seeing the joy on their faces when I help them is enough – but it’s nice to be appreciated and when this happens I see Avery staring at me like he can’t fathom what makes me tick.
Just the way I like it.
He has no idea that my rescue complex stems from guilt for duping him. That I knew exactly who he was during those hospital rounds and I’d deliberately insinuated my way into his path. I knew about his penchant for leggy brunettes so I’d shortened my skirts and dyed my hair. I knew he was a control freak so I deferred to him on every patient. And I knew he loved having his ego stroked so I pandered to him on our first date, our second, and every one that followed until I had him exactly where I wanted him.
Down on his knees and proposing.
I needed a way out of my crappy life and Avery had been the means. I don’t regret what I did but guilt is a terrible thing and I can’t help my never-ending quest to help people as a result.
I’d brought a stray teen home once, not long after the twins had left for college. Gemma had been on the run from Michigan and the wily sixteen-year-old had made it to Long Island in one piece. But the Help Center had been packed to capacity – I’d been volunteering there then, not employed – and I’d offered to give her a bed for as long as she needed it.
Avery had gone berserk. He’d ranted behind our closed bedroom door then sulked in silence before packing his bag and heading for the city. I’d been relieved until I checked the spare room to fine Gemma gone.
She’d come from an abusive family so had probably heard our shouting and left. I have forgiven Avery for many things over the years but his callous indifference to those in need is something I will never get over.
“Book the vacation for five months, you choose, anywhere you like.” It’s a half-assed apology to keep the peace and he knows it.
“Fine.”
He sulks if he doesn’t get his way and it isn’t pretty. I’d rather play nice than suffer his middle-aged mood swings.
“Anyway, I’m off to visit that pregnant client to see how she’s settling in so I’ll see you later.”
He scowls and grabs his drink. “I’ll let you know what I’m doing work-wise for this week once I check my agenda.”
I bite back the classic response the twins would use often in their teens: “whatever.”
He raises his hand in farewell and I soon hear the purr of his V8 engine before he roars away.
I hope he chokes on that smoothie.
I blend mine, drink it down and grab my keys. I deliberately stayed away from Jodi yesterday, wanting her to enjoy her first night alone in the studio. It’s a quaint place and I saw how much she loved it when I first took her there. It had been a bold move on my part because I knew the center wouldn’t fund accommodation like that so I’m paying. No one knows but the relevant staff at work and I want to keep it that way. It’s my pre-baby gift to Claire and Dane. They deserve it. I like doing nice stuff for good people. Bad people too, considering I still pander to my husband.
The drive is fifteen minutes to The Rise but it takes me twenty today when I stop at Java Groove on the way for bagels, homemade raspberry jam and hot chocolates. I have a feeling Jodi hasn’t had many treats in her life. I asked about her parents and she clammed up. Her father died when she was young, her mother has remarried but they lost contact years ago.
I know it’s crazy but the moment I heard that, I felt vindicated in stepping in to help, almost like a surrogate mom. The further this pregnancy progresses, the more changes she’ll face, the more uncertain she’ll become. I can provide reassurance and support while ensuring she’s ready to give up the baby once he’s born.
I turn down the winding seaside road that leads to her studio, surprised when I see a bunch of cars in the distance. According to the realtor this road is quiet, only frequented by the few renters currently occupying studios. Oddly, the cars seem to be clustered near her place.
A sliver of foreboding slithers down my spine but I shake it off. I’m being silly. It’s probably maintenance men doing repairs on the road or the power lines. But as I get closer that foreboding gives way to panic. There are police cars and medical examiner vehicles parked along the road.
Outside Jodi’s place.
My heart starts pounding, loud and erratic, as I pull over. I exit the car and my hands shake as I struggle not to drop the bagels and hot chocolates. A host of scenarios play out in my head as I walk the forty feet toward her door.
She could’ve heard a sound, assumed it was a burglar and rung the police. She could’ve gone for a walk and witnessed something she shouldn’t. She could’ve found a fugitive hiding out on her back deck. All perfectly plausible reasons.
If it wasn’t for the M.E.’s van parked directly outside her front door.
The medical examiner isn’t called out unless there’s a corpse to examine, as Claire has told me countless times while regaling tales of her job.
The shaking migrates from my hands, up my arms, along my shoulders and down my torso. When the quivering hits my legs I stumble up the path. I spy Claire, white-faced and grim, stalking out the front door.
Our gazes lock across the short distance.
And I know.
The bag of bagels and tray of hot chocolates slip from my nerveless fingers. The bagels roll into nearby bushes, the hot chocolate splashes my beige capris. I barely notice.
“What happened?” My voice sounds croaky, like I haven’t spoken in fifty years.
Claire gives a brief shake of her head, like she can’t tell me, or doesn’t want to.
“Claire, tell me.” I walk toward her, each step bringing me closer to an unpalatable truth: that the sweet girl I’ve been helping is probably dead.
I stop two feet in front of Claire, determinedly not looking past her and into the studio.
“Jodi’s dead.”
Her voice is calm, clear, like she’s delivering news about a stranger.
“Oh God.”
The enormity hits me and I sink to my haunches, backing toward the nearest rock so I can sit. Claire squats next to me and awkwardly pats my back. She’s on duty. I get it. But I need to be held so badly.
“I thought she’d be happy here…” I stare at a row of ants meandering along the path, going about their business as if nothing remotely horrific has occurred in the new studio behind them. “I never would’ve brought her out here if I thought she needed to be on suicide watch.”
Claire doesn’t answer and when I tear my gaze from the ants to look at her, I know something’s drastically wrong even before she speaks.
“It’s not suicide, Ris.” She drags in a steadying breath. “It’s a crime scene in there.”
She blows out the breath in a long whoosh. “Someone murdered Jodi.”
I hear the words but I can’t compute. This can’t be happening. Suicide is horrendous enough, but murder?
“You’re wrong,” I say, with little conviction, knowing Claire wouldn’t tell me something like this unless she knew the facts.
“You know me better than that. I wouldn’t make wild assumptions.”
She sits on the rock beside me, stoic a
nd strong, while I’m a mess inside. “I shouldn’t be telling you this but someone drugged her, then suffocated her.”
“But who…”
The moment I utter the words I have a suspicion. I don’t keep it to myself. “You think she told the father of her baby and he killed her because of it?”
I glance sideways at Claire when she doesn’t answer. It’s like she’s in a trance. I know the feeling.
“Claire?”
She nods, biting her bottom lip. “It’s the first thing I thought of. But it’s not that type of crime scene. If she told the guy and he snapped over this unwanted pregnancy, she would’ve been bashed over the head or strangled. A crime of passion, spontaneous and erratic. There’d be signs of a struggle.”
I wince at the gory picture she paints and Claire pats my hand. “Sorry, just musing out loud.”
I don’t want to know what the scene is like in that studio. Details will only haunt me later. But if Jodi suffocated, why do they think she was drugged?
“So the suffocation is definitely not natural?”
Claire shakes her head and glances around to make sure there’s no one within earshot. “A pillow was found over her face. Then there’s a puncture mark at the base of her neck.” She lowers her voice and points to the spot on herself. “It goes without saying this is confidential and I’m only telling you because of your connection with Jodi, but the perpetrator probably wanted her weak and helpless before they covered her face, so they injected her with something like GHB.”
My eyebrows rise. “The date rape drug? Like what that creep used on Elly?”
We lock gazes, remembering our friend and her humiliation after she’d woken to find she’d been drugged and raped.
Claire looks away first. “Yeah, it’s easy enough to obtain, kids take it in clubs all the time, or any idiot can find out how to make it on the Internet.”
Her glower ages her, making the lines bracketing her mouth deepen and the dark circles beneath her eyes prominent, like she hasn’t slept in a week. “The fact the killer arrived with a syringe of the stuff indicates premeditation. So it’s unlikely the baby’s father killed her in a fit of rage after learning the truth.”
So much for my theories; I’d make a lousy cop. “Then who?”
Claire straightens, the grief in her eyes solidifying into something harder.
Determination.
“I don’t know but I’m going to make damn sure I find out.” She rests her forearms on her knees. “Any murder is difficult, but that poor defenseless baby…”
She shakes her head, her lips compressed like she’s struggling to keep it together. That’s when it hits me, how much harder this must be for her. Her hopes and dreams of having a child sooner rather than later have gone. Taken brutally. How could I have not realized? My first thought had been for Jodi. Had the murderer cared that they’d committed a double homicide, killing an innocent baby too?
Poor Claire must be grieving on the inside, struggling to present a brave front. I want to help. But one look at her rigid posture and the way she’s staring determinedly into the distance means I won’t. If she’s barely holding it together I can’t be the one responsible for tipping the balance.
“Are you sure you should be working this case?” I touch her back and she flinches away, reinforcing my earlier supposition. “I mean, no one knows about the adoption yet because we didn’t file paperwork. So unless they read my case notes no one knows but you, me and Dane.”
“I’ll be the lead on this case, Ris, with Ron assisting, so I’ll be delegating tasks accordingly.” She looks at me then, her gaze pleading. “I need to discover the truth. For closure or something. Or I’ll go crazy.”
I believe her. She has a glint in her eyes. I don’t like it.
“Okay. I won’t say anything about the adoption unless one of your delegated officers ask me.”
She opens her mouth to respond and I add, “I can’t lie, Claire. It’s not in my DNA. I’ll protect you as best as I can so you can work this case but at some point the truth may come out.”
“I can deal with that.” She stands, a slow push up of a woman double her age. “I don’t intend this investigation to take long. The team already know her identity because she had her social security card and other identification in her wallet, so I’m going to fast track this and devote every waking second to get answers.”
She holds out a hand to me and I take it. She pulls me to my feet and finally envelops me in a hug.
We cling to each other. I’ve been holding back tears but I let them fall now; she’s surprisingly dry-eyed. When we release each other, I say, “You’re handling this well.”
“I can’t afford to fall apart on the outside, they’ll take me off the case.” She glances over her shoulder, worried, as if we’ll be overheard. “This is only my second day back on the job after those weeks off and I can’t screw up.”
“I get it.” I briefly squeeze her hands. “Keep me posted, okay?”
She nods but she’s already half turned away, ready to head back into the house.
I swallow several times to subdue the sobs tightening my throat and manage to say, “I’m sorry, Claire, about the baby. About everything.”
I feel compelled to apologize, though this isn’t my fault.
I’ve always done it: say sorry to smooth over an altercation or back down even when I’m right. It became ingrained growing up, so I wouldn’t cop a backhander from Mom. With Avery, it helps keep our marriage on a track that won’t end in divorce.
She raises her hand in farewell but doesn’t turn back.
Twenty-Seven
Claire
Seeing Ris calms me. She’s so shocked I have to play the responsible cop, slipping into my role with ease. Supportive and reassuring, strong and capable, qualities cited in my file on record at the police department. I’m a good cop and I know it, even if unexpected emotion has derailed me the last few weeks. My dad, a chief in Brooklyn, rarely gives praise so the day he called me one of the best officers he’s ever seen, in front of my brothers, I knew I’d made it.
I wonder what Dad would think of me now? Foundering the moment my friend leaves, doubts about my capabilities to do a good job on a case I’m too close to plaguing me. A phone call to my parents is long overdue. We usually chat regularly, every week or two, but lately I’ve been avoiding contact because I’m emotionally fragile and will blab about our infertility issues. Then the whole family will know in a few hours and I’ll be fielding calls from everyone.
During our brief calls where I’ve begged off early citing a huge workload, Mom hasn’t pushed but Dad isn’t so diplomatic. He asked point-blank what was bugging me and I cited women’s problems, which shut him up completely.
Now, with Jodi dead, I’m glad I didn’t tell them about the adoption. I’m gutted and they would’ve been too. My stomach is hollow, the little liquid that’s in there sloshing around and making me want to puke. I wish I’d eaten this morning rather than drinking those four espressos.
I need to play this right, exactly how I outlined to Ris.
I have to be on this case and the only way to do that is to prove to Ron and the other cops surreptitiously watching me that I’m competent enough to be back on the job. I feel their eyes on me. Judging me. Ready to find me lacking. I won’t give them the satisfaction.
Sadness is seeping all the way down to my soul, the type of sorrow that won’t be shifted for a while. The only way I successfully dealt with our infertility issues was focusing on adopting Jodi’s baby. Now that precious baby is dead, along with her mother, and I’m drifting again; powerless to stop the grief swamping me in relentless waves, crashing over me, drowning me.
I’m dying on the inside. On the outside, I’m Sergeant Claire Casey, ready for duty.
Ron pauses at the front door of the studio, staring at me. I know he’s looking for the slightest sign of weakness. So I square my shoulders and stride up the path toward him.
�
�Any progress?”
He shakes his head. “It’ll take a while to get the tox screen results and CSI are working the scene, so why don’t we head back to the station and make a start on establishing motive?”
“Sure, I’ll meet you there.”
I’m glad I drove straight here and we’re in separate cars. It gives me time to think. Process. Deny. Because ever since I saw Jodi lying there, lifeless, I can’t get the vision of Dane last night out of my head.
It’s why I won’t share my connection to Jodi with the rest of the team: I can’t put Dane in the firing line when I don’t know enough yet. Besides, I’m terrified by what the memories of last night might mean. His explosive temper. His lack of control. His rage. What if that fury against me had morphed into a desire to punish?
He knows my sole focus is having a child. It’s all I’ve talked about for months. Before we discovered the infertility. After. And now, during the adoption that will never happen.
What if he realized the worst way to punish me for my altercation with Griffin was to deprive me of the baby that was supposed to be ours?
It’s a ludicrous, outlandish thought and I immediately feel guilty for even thinking it. But there’s one thing…
He didn’t come home last night.
Had he been guilty, unable to face me after what he’d done?
Though my theory is flawed. I’d told Ris this hadn’t been a crime of passion and Dane killing Jodi to punish me would’ve been just that.
Except… Dane is inherently a gentle man. And this is a very civilized, gentle murder.
Dane’s a medical sales representative. He has access to all kinds of pharmaceuticals. GHB wouldn’t be hard to produce.
I can see him justifying it in his head. He puts Jodi to sleep first. It slows her breathing then he covers her face with a pillow… She won’t feel a thing. Gentle, indeed.
It’s a theory I can’t dislodge as I drive to the station. But I need to. I need to find another motive. Another angle. I guess I should be grateful that at least Dane can’t be the father of Jodi’s baby.