“Good.”
Of course he was glad. He’d probably have her under complete police protection, all the time, if he was able. For once, his protectiveness didn’t bother her. She was remembering the tears he’d cried beside her, only minutes ago.
She hadn’t even realized that that was what she’d been waiting for until now.
He hadn’t had any four years ago. Not on the day of the accident, or later at the funeral, or even at home. She knew that he crept away some nights, to go to Andrew’s room. Sometimes she heard the anguish of his sobs coming from behind the closed door. He thought she was asleep, but back then she almost never slept.
So that had become the rule. He would cry, but never in front of her. And she’d never cried in front of him. And that, she thought, had been the second nail driven into the coffin of their marriage.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE FIRST NAIL in the coffin of her marriage was her guilt. She’d thought over the accident a thousand times, and was convinced she could have stopped in time, if only she’d stepped on the brake instead of the accelerator. A split-second decision that had robbed Andrew of life, and Morgan of a son.
Of course, Morgan had never blamed her. He wouldn’t.
“I’d like to stay with you tonight. If that’s okay.”
His suggestion startled her, and she was dismayed at how badly she wanted to accept. But it wasn’t fair to Morgan. “It’s not necessary. Besides, you look exhausted, you need some rest…”
“I’ll get more sleep in a chair beside you than I will in a bed worrying about you.”
Trista sighed. “Always willing to sacrifice yourself. Sometimes I think nothing’s changed about you in the past four years. Just go home and sleep, Morgan. I can’t stand to have you being so nice all the time.”
“Nice?” Morgan looked as if she’d landed him with the biggest insult going. He turned as if to leave, then marched back to her bedside. “Nice? Well, what’s so wrong with that?”
Trista averted her eyes. Now she’d started something, and why? Where was it going to get either of them? It must be the medication the doctor had given her, making her dopey. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I meant by that. My brain is still a little fuzzy.”
“No, tell me what you were thinking,” he insisted. “Why shouldn’t I have been nice to you?”
Trista shook her head, wondering why he had to be so insistent. He was leaning over her bed, his eyes narrowed and glinting, like when he was hot on a clue in one of his cases. She knew he wasn’t going to let this drop. Suddenly the tears started again, and she tucked her face into the sheets.
“Trista, Trista.” He sounded worried now. “Please, honey. Talk to me.”
She clenched her jaw and gritted her teeth, trying to ignore him. Talk? She couldn’t talk. It would hurt, hurt, hurt…
“Trista, please.”
She felt his arms gently grasp her shoulders.
“Look at me. Don’t turn all cold again. Don’t shut me out. Tell me what you’re thinking. You want to tell me, don’t you? You know you can trust me.”
She did trust him. He was right about that. But why talk now, when it was too late to solve anything? She took a gulp of air, and tried to clear the constricted feeling in her chest. Morgan squeezed her shoulder, and she dared a quick look.
There were tears running down his cheeks again. Her heart ached for his pain, and almost against her will, the words started flowing.
“I could have stopped in time, I know I could have. I saw the light turn yellow and I had a split second to decide. And I gunned it, Morgan. I gunned it, and if only I’d stopped, Andrew would still be here…”
“Trista.” Morgan pulled her to his chest. “Stop. Please don’t blame yourself. I saw the accident report myself—”
“I don’t care about the accident report. I could have prevented it.”
“The truck driver ran a red light. He was exceeding the speed limit.”
Why couldn’t Morgan understand this was about more than legal liability? She just shook her head against his shoulder.
“No woman with a sick child in her car would have tried to stop for that light,” he persisted. “You have to know that.”
Trista swallowed. “That’s what my therapist said, and I know it’s true. But it’s also true that if I had stopped, Andrew would still be alive.”
Morgan’s hold on her hands tightened. “What you’re saying is wrong. It’s just another version of the deadly ‘if only’ game. Don’t you think I’ve played that one myself? If only I’d been at home to help you take him to the hospital. If only I hadn’t kept him out late the night before, maybe he never would have gotten sick…”
“Oh, Morgan.” She pulled back from his embrace, and seeing the pain in his eyes, had to reach out, to caress the side of his face. She’d been so self-obsessed. “You were such an excellent father.”
How had things gotten so tangled and twisted between them? Trista felt the tears that dampened his face, and wished she could kiss them away. If only they could have talked this way four years ago. Supported each other through their crisis. If Morgan had cried, and she had talked…
Pain slashed behind her forehead, and she leaned back on her pillow, wincing.
“You need to rest,” Morgan said.
She closed her eyes, barely managing a slight nod.
This time Morgan didn’t object to her request to be left alone. She sensed his presence by her bed a few minutes longer, then felt his lips brush her forehead gently. She was listening to the sound of his footsteps fading down the corridor, when the comfort of sleep finally descended over her.
“HI THERE.”
Morgan’s voice the next morning startled Trista. She looked up from the hospital bed and smiled uncertainly. She was fully clothed and ready to go. She just needed the final okay from the doctor.
“How are you feeling?”
“Not bad. My head was pretty sore this morning, but the pain relievers are helping. They have the unfortunate side effect of making me groggy, though.” Trista avoided his eyes as she answered. She’d spent most of the morning thinking about the things they’d talked about last night, and the truth was, she didn’t have a clue where they should go from here. The homicide investigation wasn’t over—not by a long shot—so they would still be seeing each other. But was that where their relationship ended?
She was no longer sure how she felt about it, and she was even less sure what Morgan would think. After last night, they couldn’t keep up the same barriers. But where did that leave them?
There was still caring, she knew, and physical attraction. God knows they had history. But wasn’t too much of that history negative? Wouldn’t it be easier for both of them to start fresh with someone new? A clean slate.
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” he said, “About the grogginess. You could probably use some extra rest. How did you sleep last night?”
“Not bad, considering someone kept waking me up every couple of hours, asking me my name, what year it was, stuff like that.”
“I always hated surprise quizzes myself.” Morgan grinned at her sympathetically.
“What about you?” she asked. “You don’t look like you had much sleep.”
He shrugged off her question. “By the way, I got the Hawthorne file when I was at your office, before I—found you.”
“It was still there?”
“Apparently.”
“Don’t you think that’s strange? Or did I interrupt him before he had a chance to get what he was after?”
“Possibly.” Morgan ran a hand over his chin. “We haven’t come up with much in the way of evidence at the scene. Did you get a look at the guy? Are you sure it’s a ‘he’?”
“No. Whoever it was came up from behind. It happened so quickly…”
Morgan’s expression darkened, and he didn’t have to speak for her to know what he was thinking.
“I suppose this is where you blast me for being stupid
enough to go back to my office last night.”
Morgan shook his head. “I’m hoping that bump on your head is going to be more persuasive than my warnings were. From now on—”
“Don’t worry.” Trista held up her hand to stop him. “I’m going to be more careful, believe me.” She fingered the tender spot on the back of her head carefully.
Just then a nurse came into the room. “The doctor says you may leave,” she told Trista. “He recommends bed rest for the next couple of days.”
Morgan raised his eyebrows and gave her a stern look, as if already suspecting she had no intention of following doctor’s orders. She just gave them both a noncommittal smile and got up to leave. Her head protested in pain at the sudden movement and she was glad to have Morgan’s arm around her, his solid support at her side.
IN HER APARTMENT, Morgan did a quick check, making sure all the windows were locked and that his phone number was beside each phone. “A police car should be cruising by about every half hour,” he told her. “If you hear or see anything suspicious, call this number immediately. Okay?”
“Okay.” Trista glanced at the new card he’d placed beside the telephone. She wished she could ask him to stay, but she knew that was impossible, for many reasons. If only she wasn’t trapped in this apartment. There would be nothing for her to do but think, and she was tired of thinking. “I wish you would leave the Hawthorne file with me. I need something to do to occupy my time.”
Morgan lifted her chin so that their eyes met. “You can look it over when you’re feeling better. Please stay in bed, like the doctor ordered.” He ran a gentle hand down her cheek.
The feel of his hand on her skin didn’t have the soothing effect he’d probably intended. Instead, the gentle caress brought Trista an instant of intense longing. It took all her willpower to resist the urge to lean into his touch, to lift her lips to his, to press her body next to his.
Disturbing impulses. She and Morgan were divorced now. They’d traveled far down the path toward healing. What had happened between them last night could only help in the long run. Why confuse things now by opening new issues?
“I’d better get back to work.” Morgan spoke stiffly, removing his hand abruptly. Had he sensed how his touch had disturbed her? “I’ll try and come back later to make sure you’re all right. Don’t forget to lock the dead bolt and chain behind me when I leave.”
Once he was gone, her apartment was accusingly lonely and she had nothing to distract her from the throbbing pain in her head. She crawled into bed, the expanse of cream-colored linen reminding her how alone she was. Her family had always been small, just her and her sister, raised by a grandmother who was now dead.
Then Virginia, who was older than her by only eighteen months, had died at the impossibly young age of twenty-nine. A brain aneurysm, they’d said. Supposedly the weak blood vessel had exploded while she was jogging along the river in Calgary where she’d moved to be close to her engineer boyfriend.
It was only a short year later that Trista had the accident and lost Andrew. Followed by the divorce from Morgan. They were gone, all of them, and while she knew in her mind that it wasn’t her fault—at least not all of it—a part of her still felt bruised.
Why did she keep losing the people she loved?
Trista reached over to the night table, opened the top drawer and pulled out a hand-carved wooden box. It was the only keepsake she’d taken with her when she’d left Morgan. She’d put her wedding ring and a picture of Andrew in the small box and slipped it inside her purse on her way out the door. The box was the first gift Morgan had given her, on the first Christmas after they’d started going out.
Trista opened the box carefully. The letter Morgan had attached to the divorce papers was sitting there. She’d tucked it away without reading it, knowing that nothing he said would change her mind. Now she unfolded the white sheet.
Dear Trista,
I’m signing these papers because I know it’s what you want. I hope you find some peace in your new life. But this divorce—it isn’t right. I wish you could see that.
There was no signature, no final goodbye.
Trista read the short sentences over and over. It isn’t right. No. It hadn’t been. She’d been a trained therapist, and still she hadn’t found the wisdom to solve her own problems. Looking back, Trista couldn’t explain why it had taken the sight of Morgan’s tears to release her own emotions.
But who knew if the same trigger would have worked three years ago? She set the note aside and reached into the box for the picture of Andrew. It was her favorite. He was sitting in the bathtub, surrounded by bubbles, smiling with delight into the camera. Trista devoured every detail of his appearance. His cheery smile—showing off those first small baby teeth—the sparkle in his round blue eyes that were so like his father’s, the downy softness of his baby-fine hair.
Trista pressed the photograph against her heart and felt the tears gather in her eyes. God help her, it seemed all she could do these days was cry.
MORGAN PULLED his car into the parking lot of the Moondust Motel. Much as he’d hated to leave Trista on her own, he thought it was good for both of them to have a little time apart. They’d been through an emotional wringer last night and he suspected that they both needed some recovery time. He didn’t know what to expect from her anymore. Somehow, it had been easier when he’d been able to hate her.
Or tell himself he hated her. Because he knew he’d never stopped loving her. He’d wanted so badly to comfort her after the accident. Why had it taken until last night for her to finally open up to him?
For months after the accident he’d given her compassion and kindness. When it became clear that she wasn’t responding, he’d tried giving her the space she seemed to need. Maybe if they’d had more family it would have helped. But Trista had none, and his… Well, he’d never expected much emotional support from his parents, and so far they’d never let him down. They’d flown up from their winter hideaway in Florida for the funeral, but they hadn’t stayed more than a few days.
A year after the accident, Trista had left him, and he’d changed his tactics once again. This time he’d tried arguing and demanding, but she shut him out at every opportunity.
Until last night. What had been so different about last night? Remembering the way she’d touched his tears, he came to a realization.
Maybe what she’d really needed was for him to talk about how he was feeling.
Something he’d never been good at doing.
Morgan set his jaw at a stubborn angle, and thought about something he was good at. His job. It had been five days since Jerry Walker’s murder. Three since Daniel Hawthorne’s. The trail would soon be getting cold. With every day that passed, their chances of catching the murderer grew smaller. But it was still early enough that he could feel confidence. The renewed attempt to break into Trista’s office told him that someone was getting desperate to cover his tracks. And if the murderer had made more than one mistake along the way, well then, his job would be so much the easier.
“Ted Sanders?” Morgan asked as he stepped from the concrete sidewalk onto the thick red shag rug of the motel’s main entrance. A tall, chunky man, in his mid-thirties, nodded from behind the counter.
“That’s me. You the detective that called?”
Morgan held out his badge. The walls were painted a deep purple color and the window coverings were a dusty—in the physical sense of the word—pink velvet. On the wall hung framed photographs of some of the choice rooms. Water beds, hot tubs and mirrored ceilings figured prominently in all the pictures.
Lewd and tacky were the words that came to Morgan’s mind. His gaze shifted back to Sanders. “I need to check a few facts with you.”
“No problem at all, Detective.” Ted Sanders’s small brown eyes glistened with interest. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, the report says that about six months ago Hawthorne was coming here every week.”
“That’
s right.” Sanders winked, and gave Morgan a knowing smile. “I recognized him as soon as he walked in the door. Wondered to myself if he’d found a new one, or what.”
Morgan ignored the man’s salacious grin. “Back when Hawthorne was coming regularly, can you tell me what day of the week it was? Was it always the same or did it vary?”
“I can check for you.” Ted went into a back room for a few minutes and then emerged with his news. “Wednesday afternoon, between twelve-thirty and two-thirty. The same every week.”
Wednesdays. The days that were circled in Hawthorne’s calendar. So that much made sense, anyway. By now Morgan was certain that it was no coincidence that both victims had regularly met their lovers on the same day.
“Another thing the report isn’t clear on,” Morgan continued, “is whether the woman who picked up the key from you this Wednesday was the same one Hawthorne had been meeting previously.”
Ted shrugged. “I assumed she was, but I couldn’t say for sure. I only ever saw her from a distance—until this time, that is. The guy usually checked in while the woman showed up in a taxi a few minutes later. She always went straight to their room. Except this time.”
“About this last time. The report has your description of a woman probably in her forties, wearing a hat, sunglasses and a large tan trench coat.”
“That’s right. The trench coat seemed like it was too big for her. I remember wondering if that was because she didn’t have any clothes on underneath.”
Morgan raised his eyebrows. “We hadn’t thought of that one. In past months, could you tell if the woman normally wore an oversize trench coat?”
“Not from the distance I usually saw her.”
Morgan bit back his frustration. “Could you identify any differences between the woman Hawthorne normally met and the woman who picked up the key on Wednesday?”
“Hard to say. Could be the same woman. Or she could be different.” Ted Sanders shrugged his shoulders again. “The clothes were the same.”
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