The Next Widow: A gripping crime thriller with unputdownable suspense (Jericho and Wright Thrillers Book 1)

by CJ Lyons

  “What do you think? Our motive?” Harper asked. “Maybe Trina’s a jilted lover? Except, sure as hell no woman killed Wright singlehandedly.”

  Luka didn’t answer, still examining the artwork, noting the intimate details, the loving attention to the model’s expressions.

  “More likely,” Harper continued her theorizing. “The wife discovered the affair. Had an accomplice.” She nodded, liking the idea. “Gave herself a rock-solid alibi saving lives in the ER while her husband’s being killed.”

  Seven

  He’d driven all night. First, over darkened, empty side streets, zig-zagging his way through the route he’d practiced so many times he could pilot the motorcycle without thinking. His body and mind numb, blank. He couldn’t remember where he’d come from—or where he was going. He only knew he had to keep moving, not slow down, not look back. Never look back.

  He crossed the river on one of the older, two-lane bridges, the concrete scarred and pitted, jostling him. More than that, it was a shift in his awareness, as abrupt as jumping from fourth gear to second, speeding around a tight curve too fast.

  Like waking up and remembering a bad dream.

  He paused at an intersection, the bike idling, a monster preparing to pounce. He was meant to go right, head down the service road beside the highway where there were no cameras. But every time he looked that way, something tugged him in the opposite direction. As he peered through the pre-dawn mist rolling down the mountain, he saw a golden glow inviting him to turn left instead of right, to follow his heart.

  His body rebelled when he steered the bike to the left and accelerated, gears whining as he missed shifts, the entire bike wobbling as he struggled to control it. He focused on the golden glow; it flickered, a candle floating through velvet shadows. For a moment, only an instant, shorter than a firefly’s light-span, he saw a grinning boy standing beyond the glow, calling to him, inviting him to play. His heart pounded but his breath came easier at the sight of his son. His heart. His home.

  What had he done? His vision was stained red by blood smearing the visor of his helmet. Not his blood. He pushed the visor up, the icy air slapping him until tears welled, every breath bringing with it the scents of firewood burning and pine needles. What had he done?

  A woman’s face appeared, floating against the blood-red of his vision. She held a baby—their baby. His son. Was it her voice he heard, thundering down every nerve ending? It didn’t matter. His son. His beautiful baby boy. All this was for him, to save him.

  He sped toward the river. The valley was quiet—the kind of quiet you could only find this time of night. The dead hour. A light shone in the distance, off the road—the old Quinn place, the new owner a chronic insomniac. Past that lane, the church and graveyard where the white-washed walls and silver granite tombstones gave off a ghostly glow in the dim starlight. As always when he passed the graveyard at night, he crossed himself.

  Then he spotted it, the welcome bright yellow of his porch light. He turned down the gravel lane, spun to a stop in front of the small house, and padded silently up the porch steps. He didn’t go inside, not covered in another man’s blood, but crept around the side of the house to his son’s window.

  He pressed his gloved hand against the glass. His angel. Still asleep, so peaceful, curled up in the race car bed he’d built for him. He’d used a crib mattress, sized the bed perfectly to fit a toddler. His beautiful boy.

  Her words repeated in his mind. Finish it. It’s the only way to keep him safe. We need to do this—for him.

  Bowing his head, he turned and silently headed back to the bike. He knew she was right—he had to save his son. No matter the cost.

  He drove out to the carwash at a strip mall near the interstate, his mind wandering like a creek during a drought, starved down to a path so thin and thready that it felt as if he’d vanished into the earth, never to be seen again. When he tried to remember his past, all he saw was the woman holding a baby. She was angry—at him. They sat at a steel table in some sort of cafeteria. She wore a pretty summer dress, her hair was shiny, let down to dance over her shoulders, just the way he liked it. He wore a cotton uniform—and so did all the other men gathered around other tables surrounded by other women and children. Prison. He’d been in prison.

  A flicker of recognition almost came to life, but it died as he focused on his baby boy, while the woman, his son’s mother, vanished. Just as she was gone in real life, he somehow knew. Now it was just him and his boy.

  He had to keep his son safe. That was the only thing that mattered. More than his own life. More than anybody’s.

  Eight

  Being an ER physician meant making decisions quickly and Leah’s intuition had always guided her. Until now.

  Now she had dozens upon dozens of choices but she couldn’t face any of them. She felt overwhelmed by the urge to crawl under the covers and imagine yesterday was all a dream.

  She had the phone number of the victims’ advocate she could call for support, but every time she opened the glossy brochure and saw the damaged souls depicted there, she felt trapped. How had she become a victim? That wasn’t her. Leah was the one people called upon in their time of need.

  How could she work with those people ever again if she gave them access to her private hell? Bad enough the police were burrowing through her dirty laundry—literally and figuratively. But to lay claim to the title of “victim” and invite strangers to hold her hand while she called Ian’s parents? Or found a motel room or shuttled her Subaru from where it was still parked in her garage? Or ran to Walmart for clothing and underwear and supplies for her and Emily? She crinkled the brochure into a ball and tossed it into the trash.

  A glance at Emily’s sleeping form left Leah’s stomach lurching as if she had tumbled down an endless abyss. She would do this. They would get through this. She just couldn’t think too much about what “this” really was, that Ian was gone, that she was all Emily had left.

  Leah picked up the breakfast menu the nurse had given her and tried to focus on the choices. She sat staring without seeing, the letters an inky blur floating over the page, when a soft knock came at the door.

  Maggie Chen poked her head into the room. “Okay if I—”

  Leah nodded. She was too tired to move from the chair to the relative privacy of the bathroom, but Emily hadn’t stirred, not even when the nurses came and took her vitals, so Leah simply gestured to the empty chair beside her. Even that movement left her drained, her hand falling into her lap, surrendering the fight against gravity. It felt strange that Maggie was the investigator assigned to Ian’s case by the medical examiner; although since Leah had met most of the death investigators, odds were they’d send someone she knew and Maggie was by far her favorite. She frowned, trying to remember—yes, Ian had actually met Maggie. A few months ago at the free clinic fundraiser. Was it weird for Maggie, working on someone she knew?

  “How’s Emily?” Maggie interrupted Leah’s ping-ponging thoughts.

  “Sedated.” Leah didn’t mean to sigh—it felt like wallowing in self-pity and she had no time for that, there was too much to do. “I have no idea how I’m going to tell her.”

  “There’s no right or wrong words.” Death investigators were charged with next of kin notifications, so Maggie spoke from experience.

  “I can’t even decide what to order for breakfast, much less—”

  “Let me help with that.” Maggie slid the menu and pencil from Leah’s limp fingers. “Breakfast is actually the best meal they do, so you can’t go wrong.” She pursed her lips, checked a few boxes, then left to deliver the menu to the nurses’ station. Leah barely noticed she was gone and didn’t look up when she returned. “Lucky break, got it in just as the dietician was collecting.”

  Maggie settled back into the chair she’d vacated. They sat in silence, the sun rising outside the window, coloring the room in a bruised purple light. This was a different silence than the one that had haunted Leah during the ni
ght. That silence had been crowded with voices—and screams.

  “This is probably the most difficult thing you’ll ever go through,” Maggie finally said. Leah agreed, but said nothing—what was there to say? “Can I tell you something my grandmother once told me?”

  Leah shrugged, inwardly cringing at the thought of more empty words for her to accept and thank someone for—her gratitude was definitely running on empty, the same as every other emotion. Empty. Hollowed out. Unable to connect with reality. Maybe she was a ghost? Or dreaming? Maybe this never even happened. She could hope.

  “My grandmother, she told me that grief is the price we pay for love. But love is what saves us from grief.” Maggie’s voice surprised Leah; she’d forgotten she was even still there, sitting beside Leah, close enough to touch.

  A tiny noise emerged from Leah—she almost didn’t realize it came from her. A cross between a sigh, a sob, and a gasp of recognition. Huddled in the unfamiliar, uncomfortable chair—her legs tucked under her just as they would have been if she were back home on her couch, Ian beside her—she suddenly felt a weight settle on her shoulders. Not an unpleasant weight, rather a familiar, comfortable one: Ian’s arm. Wrapped around her, supporting her, not letting go.

  Her throat choked with unshed tears; all she could do was nod. Maggie rested her hand on Leah’s and their silence continued. Except in Leah’s mind it was anything but silent. Instead, she heard Ian’s voice. “I’ve got you,” he whispered as the morning light stretched the shadows beside her, completing the illusion that he was actually there. “You can do this.” And then, with a ghost of a sigh that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. “I love you.”

  “Is Ian… he’s downstairs?” Leah finally asked.

  “Yes. That’s why I came up. I have a few questions. When you’re up to it.”

  “Who’s going to…” Leah trailed off once more. For some reason she couldn’t find the words to finish her thoughts.

  Thankfully Maggie filled in the blanks. “Ford Tierney. He’s the best. Ian’s in good hands.”

  “When?”

  “Later this morning.”

  “I should be there.”

  Maggie laid her hand over Leah’s. “No. You shouldn’t. He wouldn’t want you remembering him, not like that.”

  “It’s no worse than finding him—”

  “I know, but still. You know what an autopsy is like. Clinical, detached. Ian won’t be Ian, not there and then.”

  “Just another piece of evidence.”

  Maggie didn’t waste Leah’s time with vague platitudes. “It has to be that way.”

  Against her will, Leah nodded. “But someone should be there—for him. To honor what he did, what he went through, protecting Emily.”

  “Letting us do what needs to be done to catch his killer is the best way to honor him. That and your being here for Emily. Right now she needs you more than Ian does.”

  Leah understood—at least the logical, clinical, physician part of her brain did. But the rest of her wanted to scream and kick against the idea of her husband being diced and sliced with no regard to the man he once was. And, shamefully, not a small part of her knew it was easier to act as witness for Ian downstairs in the morgue than to stay here and fumble her way through caring for Emily, worried that each step through the emotional minefield her daughter was stranded in might detonate, cause irreparable damage.

  “You’ll be there?” She was doing more than asking Maggie.

  “I will. And Luka as well.”

  “Luka?” The name felt familiar, but Leah’s mind couldn’t hang onto it.

  “Luka Jericho. The lead detective.”

  “Right. He was here earlier. Gave me his card. I just—I’m not remembering names, faces like I should right now.”

  “That’s normal.”

  “Jericho. Where do I know that name from?”

  “Luka’s from across the river. Would’ve been a few years ahead of you in school. Growing up, did you ever go apple picking or do the hayride out at Jericho Fields? Or the history class field trip? Their farm was a stop on the Underground Railroad.”

  “Right. They used to stock Nellie’s lavender chocolate and her honey in their store.”

  “Those are Luka’s grandparents. Were. His grandmother passed last year.”

  “Jericho Fields. I loved going there when I was a kid. We should take Emily—” Leah stumbled. There was no more “we.” Only her. As if she’d been torn in half and the half that was left behind was a pale shadow of what once was.

  Maggie waited patiently as Leah turned her head and sniffed, swallowing brine and sorrow. “If you have any questions—even if you think you’ve asked them before, it’s no problem—write them down. Or if you remember anything from—”

  “I can’t forget,” Leah said bitterly. “It crowds out everything else. It’s all I can think of—that and Emily.”

  “Would you mind? A few questions?”

  “You found something during your preliminary exam?”

  “Probably nothing. Did Ian maybe have a blood test or give blood in the past few days?”

  Leah shook her head, puzzling over the question. “No. His last checkup was before Christmas and he’s never sick. He would have told me if he donated blood—usually he’ll only do it when we have the blood drive competition between the ER and the police and fire department. Even then I have to bribe him. He usually faints as soon as he sees the needle.” She glanced at Maggie, the other woman’s face coming into focus for the first time. “You found a puncture wound?”

  “Left antecubital fossa. Was Ian right-handed?”

  “No.” Which meant he could not have injected himself. It had to be the killer. Why take the time to drug Ian if it was a simple robbery? “Tox screen?” The question was more reflex than considered.

  Maggie hesitated and Leah knew she was holding back. Because she wasn’t speaking to Dr. Wright, the ER physician. Or Leah Wright, the friend who showed up when Maggie and her husband performed at local bars’ open mic nights. Maggie was gauging her words carefully, straddling the line between friend and a professional charged with keeping forensic details confidential until the coroner finished his investigation. Right now, she was speaking to Mrs. Wright, Ian’s widow. “Prelim was inconclusive. And his initial chemistries were abnormal. Sky-high glucose, lactate.”

  “He wasn’t diabetic. Stress reaction—he was fighting for his life and Emily’s.”

  “Maybe.” Maggie didn’t sound convinced. “We’ll see after the full tox panel returns.” Which could take weeks to months, Leah knew.

  A knock on the door came, followed by an aide entering with the breakfast tray. Leah had never been a patient before and was quickly realizing how irritating it was to lose your basic rights to privacy.

  Maggie stood as the aide set the tray on the bedside table and left again. “I’d better get going.”

  Leah stood as well, somehow finding the energy to walk Maggie out the door. The ward was waking for the day. A flock of white-coated residents gathered a few doors down, heads bobbing in an eager buzz of conversation; a pharmacist assistant pushed a med cart in the opposite direction, its wheels click-clacking with irritating precision; ward clerks were in the process of shift change, their voices a low murmur as they huddled over the computer, while the nurses gathered in their glass-walled conference room giving report.

  Leaving Emily’s room, crossing the invisible line that separated patient from healthcare provider made Leah feel as if she were trespassing into a restricted area, one she no longer had the requisite permissions to enter. “Please. Maggie. Let me know if they find anything. This not knowing, not being able to do anything—it’s driving me crazy.”

  “I will. And let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. I could call Ian’s family for you, if you want, have the local PD send someone out to their house.”

  “No.” Leah blew out her breath. “No. I need to do that. They’re in Seattle, so I have a few
hours before they’ll be awake.”

  “Leah.” Maggie rested her hand on Leah’s arm. “I know this feels like a nightmare that won’t ever end. But I promise you, it will. In the meantime, please don’t forget, you’re not alone.”

  Everyone kept telling her that, Leah thought as Maggie walked away. She stood outside Emily’s room, the early morning buzz of the ward coming to life surrounding her, and realized Maggie’s words, however well intentioned, were a lie.

  Nine

  After Harper found the drawings of the mysterious Trina, Luka let her run with tracking the young woman while he took his time going through the crime scene and following up on the canvass of the neighborhood. He strained to understand why Ian had been targeted. The why behind a crime almost invariably led to the who.

  The CSU techs were still hard at work by the time he finally left, an hour before the February sun could be expected to rise—if it was seen at all today, given the clouds gathering, blocking out the moon. As he drove away, he noted the TV vans returning, lining up to get live footage for their morning shows. He saluted them in his rearview, once again thankful for his timing. He only wished he’d been able to leave a bit earlier so he could drive out to the farm and check on Pops before his day became as consumed by the Wright murder as his night had been. But that’s how a homicide went—chasing leads as fast as possible while memories and crime scenes were fresh.

  He hadn’t realized how hard it would be, looking after an old man who didn’t want to be looked after. All it took was one burner left forgotten on the stove or a fall down the steps or… As he pulled his car into the secure parking lot at the station house, Luka made a note to call Janine, the home health aide he’d hired to help out, ask her if she could stay at the farm a few nights until Luka got this case under control.