“Not enough, my darling. There aren’t enough pills in the world for me to get any sleep. Not enough pills, not enough booze. Not enough hate! If I tried until the day I die, I won’t ever be able to put my baby out of my mind.”
His jaw clenched. “Our baby.”
“My baby!” He ducked as her clawed hands reached for him. She missed, caught her foot against the edge of the rug, and fell back onto the loveseat with a loud thud. “And speaking of hate, let’s not forget my dear father-in-law. Cheers to brilliant Herr Reinhold Eriksen. If only people knew the truth behind that monster!”
CHAPTER 72
ROCHELLE BATTLED WITH HER emotions all next morning. And her show saw no improvement.
Even her segment with Barbara Getsinger discussing whether or not to inoculate brought nothing but angst considering the increase in measles nationwide. She doodled on a piece of paper until there were scribbles on top of scribbles.
She started at the cue from her engineer to return from break.
“That will be our last caller. Thank you as always for your questions and comments. If we didn’t get to you, feel free to email me and we’ll discuss it on our next Crazy Wednesday when you set the agenda.” Another sound cue from the engineer and the closing music directed her to wrap up. “Well, that’s our show for today, Rochelle confronting hell by taking a stand of victory with His Word. May God bless and keep you all safe until we are once again discussing the day’s challenges.”
Rochelle wasted no time as she twisted out of her seat and scurried to the front office. Stella waited for her.
“Were you able to get that number for me? Lindy Lange’s home number?” Rochelle asked.
“Sure did.” Stella uncovered a stained piece of paper from beneath a pile of notebooks, messages, and open snack wrappers on her desk. “Here you go. Sorry about the coffee stain and jelly spot. I was eating a late breakfast when you beeped me. Hope this is the number you’re searching for.” She offered the sticky note. Rochelle fairly snatched it from her hand.
In spite of her anxious grabbing, she smiled at Stella’s mess. “Ooh. Donna’s going to have your hide when she returns. You know what a clean freak she is, especially around the computers.”
“If you don’t tell her, I promise to have it cleaned up.” She smiled, but the grin was quickly replaced with concern. “Say, how’s her little boy doing? When Ted talked to us, he sounded really upset.”
Remembering Donna’s words with clarity, Rochelle leaned against the side of the desk but struggled with the answer. Without thinking, she began to crumple the paper until Stella grabbed her hand and gave a gentle shake.
“Hey, I didn’t make a copy.”
Rochelle looked at the number she clutched tightly and smoothed the paper. “Sorry, I talked to her before the show. He’s not doing well at all.”
A cloud crossed Stella’s face and Rochelle understood. “Well, tell her we’re all praying. Hope that number helps.”
In her office, with her coffee mug balanced in one hand and a protein bar in the other, Rochelle freed her index finger to key in the number. As the phone rang, she bit the edge of her lip instead of the bar. What would the man think of her calling at a time like this? Would he be willing to hear her suspicions, would he write her off as a mad woman, or would he simply want her to leave him to his grief? She couldn’t be certain and that made breathing hard. A quick bite of nuts and chocolate calmed her some, but before she could swallow, a man answered.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Lange, you don’t know me, but—”
Click.
Okay, plan two. Call again and talk fast. She picked at a few remaining crumbs from her snack and punched the number in one more time. “Mr. Lange, I think we were accidentally disconnected and I have some questions to ask you and I’m not trying to invade your privacy.”
“No accident. I’m not speaking with reporters.”
She was a reporter, but not exactly the kind he was thinking of. “Please don’t hang up. My name is Rochelle Cassidy and I was an acquaintance of your wife. From PhD.”
A long pause. “And what do you want?”
Good question. To ask him if his wife had a serious mental problem. Tell him his baby probably didn’t have to die. What did she think she could accomplish with this call? She dropped into her chair and bit back what she would like to say in exchange for a gentler approach. “Could I meet with you?”
“What for?”
His voice didn’t invite speculation, filled as it was with strong emotion. “I’m not exactly sure, but a few issues have come up about the clinic, and I wondered if you had any questions about how Lindy died.”
“She killed herself. My wife, for whatever reason, no longer chose to live with me. Me—her husband. I couldn’t break through and help her. That’s a fact I have to face.”
From what little she knew about Lindy, she still believed it couldn’t be farther from the truth, but she had no proof. She hadn’t ever met the man, only his wife, and Lindy had seemed wonderful, albeit, a tad impulsive. She wouldn’t know Mr. Lange if they passed on the street, so why was she bothering him?
“Mr. Lange, I don’t believe your wife committed suicide, at least not of her own volition, and I think you’ll find interesting what happened to another patient from PhD.”
“What would this have to do with my wife’s death?”
What indeed? “A woman who recently lost her baby feels as if she wasn’t told all the details of the baby’s death.” Oh boy, not as tactful as she’d hoped.
“I’m sorry?”
With her heart galloping like a Preakness champion, she had to create some kind of tangible connection, and quick, before he hung up again.
“Ms. Cassidy, I’m not interested in speculation. But thank you for caring about Lindy. I’ve never believed in conspiracy theories. Lindy killed herself because of something she did before we met. Period. Please don’t call me again.”
“But, Mr. Lange. What if she didn’t pull that trigger?”
CHAPTER 73
KYLE’S ESCORT REMAINED HIDDEN behind a large SUV in the clinic’s parking lot. He slouched in the seat.
No one made fun of you if you were invisible.
He smacked his lips after eating most of an apple pie stick and a coffee—three sugars and lots of cream—while waiting for Rochelle to exit the building. Early this afternoon after listening to her show, he managed to follow her to the clinic and figured the far corner of the parking lot would be the ideal location to confront her. Then again, maybe not. He still reeled from their last conversation.
I’ll just talk to her about what she said to me.
Who was he kidding? She’d laugh at him with that vicious mouth of hers. She only said she forgave him for her show. She was evil. To him, to others. Such a liar!
He pounded the dashboard until his hand was red and sore. There was no such thing as the perfect family.
One mom and one dad. Perfect once-upon-a-time. And then his old man left them … alone … homeless. No more happily-ever-after.
And it was all Rochelle Cassidy’s fault.
Who did she think she was to sit on her throne behind a microphone judging him?
Judgment? He’d show her judgment. Bam! Rot in the tower, Princess. Alone, without anyone to take care of you.
Alone … no one to take care of you. Nothing to eat. No one to love you.
Kyle pounded one fist into the other.
Yeah. She had it all. But had she ever noticed not everyone’s life was so hunky mother-lovin’ dorey? Mommy and Daddy had held hands, tucked her into beddy-by at night. She’d smiled and they smiled. She laughed and they laughed. And not one of them had ever given a rip about the thousands of kids outside the castle walls who were freezing.
So alone and so hungry and so scared!
No time for whiners.
Isn’t that what Mom used to tell him when he was hungry and there wasn’t any food?
Well, he had food now. Take that
, Mom!
With a lick of his thumb, he popped the last piece of crust and sauce into his mouth then scrunched down further in the seat.
She and Rochelle could both rot.
After a few minutes spent avoiding passersby, he sat upright in his car and swigged the cup of lukewarm coffee. He hated lukewarm. Hot or cold but not lukewarm. Wasn’t that what she said on her show? A person was supposed to be hot or cold toward God.
Well, duh. Even a moron knew you either liked the dude or you didn’t. The problem was, he’d been a believer as a child, at least as much as a child could be, but now, now he had done too much for God to love him. Besides, he hated God as much as he hated her. God took away his family.
So why should he care what either one of them thought?
What was taking so long? He didn’t have all day. Casino chips leftover from his last visit burned a hole in his pocket. He might get lucky today. Besides, the casino doubled the chips on Mondays, which gave him twice the chance to win. Recently, with the crappy economy, his odd jobs for cash under the table had taken a dive. On his last extension, his unemployment wouldn’t last forever. So he’d better hit it big, big, big.
Convinced she would come out any minute, he glanced in the mirror and smoothed his hair back. With a clean swipe of his tongue, he got rid of the piece of apple goo over his lip. One last peek out the window set his heart thumping like a jackrabbit’s foot. Not what he was hoping for. A scout car with two officers inside turned into the lot and cruised too slowly for his liking.
CHAPTER 74
ROCHELLE HAD JUST FINISHED a conversation with two of the mothers at the clinic. Time to engage in a little detective work. Mr. Lange had hung up on her when she called yesterday, thinking the worst of his wife. Rochelle had other ideas, but how could she prove it?
With a few minutes left before meeting with the doctor, she looked around and headed for the door to the stairwell.
Ms. Borland walked toward her, her face a mixture of curiosity and irritation. “Can I help you, Ms. Cassidy?”
Though the blood hammered in her veins, Rochelle forced a smile. “No, just looking for a restroom. Is there one on this floor?”
“Well, of course there is. You needn’t go upstairs for that.” Ms. Borland’s gaze narrowed for a second.
Rochelle read the woman’s expression—one that said, I’m no dummy.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t bother the mothers this morning. There are some new moms on tour.” Ms. Borland’s face spoke far more than her words.
Rochelle took a step forward, edging into her space. “Has Dr. Reinholdt cancelled our meeting?”
“Not at all. In fact, he wanted to speak with you about Cody. He’s been so concerned and hasn’t heard anything more from the McGraths. Let me show you the restroom and then I’ll take you to the conference room where we can be more comfortable while we wait, shall we? I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee waiting.”
Borland’s face returned to its everything’s hunky dory expression.
Entering the conference room a few minutes later, Reinholdt filled the doorframe with his presence. Had she ever noticed the gray edging his blond hair before? His size couldn’t be missed by anyone, as if he worked out in a gym hours every day. “And how are we today, Ms. Cassidy? I’m so glad you stopped by. We’ve been beside ourselves to hear how our little Cody’s doing. Are you able to give me any details?”
Rochelle shifted in her seat. Though he seemed to be trying too hard, in the end, she had no reason to suspect PhD of anything more than a string of bad luck. Yet, that niggling feeling in her stomach, fair or not, put him in a different light than the first day when he escorted her through the clinic expounding on its many wonders.
“Dr. Reinholdt, when they were testing everyone as a possible donor for Cody’s transplant—”
“I heard he needs a transplant. And I cannot believe it.” No longer the modicum of tranquility, he rubbed a trembling hand through his hair, actually ruffling it as she’d never seen him do before. Then sitting and lowering his quivering voice, he said, “That poor child.” He reached for the coffee carafe and mug like lifelines.
“According to the doctors at the hospital, he was already very ill when we brought him in here last week. I’m just surprised you folks didn’t notice how sick he was. Signs of jaundice.”
His head shook ever so slightly, and he rubbed his chin. “I’m dumbfounded. This is all my fault.”
“Your fault?”
“I’m a physician. I care for my mothers and babies every single day. I can assure you that the woman who put him in the room to wait is no longer with us.”
“That’s seems a bit extre—”
“No, she should have known better. He wasn’t jaundiced at birth. Could he have ingested poison at his home? I’ve let the McGrath family down. What can I do to help?”
She rubbed her hand over her face, and her fingers came to rest against her mouth; she drummed her lips for a minute before the next question. What was behind his concern? Was it true consideration or “Oh, oh. I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar?”
She studied him and the questions continued to tumble through her mind like a computer with quad processors performing at full speed. Perhaps when she mentioned Lindy Lange and Brooke Kirnan, she would encounter a more definitive reaction. At the moment, sincerity was his namesake.
“One reason for coming today is to ask you about Lindy Lange’s death.”
Antenna up, she watched, but his face never changed. “You mean her suicide?”
“Yes. Her suicide. How is it a happy, healthy pregnant woman takes her life just days before the birth of her baby?”
Reinholdt licked his lips and raised a brow, but still didn’t look at her. “Ms. Cassidy, I’m starting to feel as if you’re interrogating me.”
“Not at all.” He was a cool one. If he did have anything to do with Lindy’s death, he wasn’t giving anything away.
“I apologize, but you should know that any information I might have about a patient is confidential. So, we’ll stop this conversation where Ms. Lange is concerned. Now, about Cody.”
If he wouldn’t talk about Lindy, he certainly wasn’t going to discuss Brooke’s baby. “I think I understand,” she said. “As to Cody, we’re just waiting for more news from the doctor.”
Face showing little emotion, he stood, ending the session as his phone rang. “Please offer my thoughts and prayers to John and Donna. Let them know I’ll be happy to do anything I can to help.” He turned to take the call.
She’d stake her life on one thing: something happened to Cody while he was under Reinholdt’s care.
CHAPTER 75
ERIK RAISED HIS VOICE before he had the key securely in the back lock.
“Margaret!” The door stuck, and he slammed his fist against it. When he inserted the key a second time, he kicked the door to pop the lock loose.
“Margaret, what’s so important you had to call and bother me at work? You couldn’t have told me this morning?” His voice echoed through the house. But no one answered. “I have patients to see, as you well know, and I can’t juggle my work to dash home and deal with whether or not your soufflé puffed.”
He plodded across the floor on heavy legs. With a long afternoon still ahead, he detested the fact he had to return to solve another of her piddling problems. At last, he discovered her in the living room with an expression on her face that bespoke trouble. Well, he was used to giving as good as he got.
Her mouth drooped in a scowl and her eyes, with unusual clarity, glared at him as she aimed her finger toward the foyer. “Your clothes are in bags by the front door. I figured I owed you that much at least.” Hand in a protective posture, Margaret stepped back.
“So, you intend to divorce me. Your timing, as usual, could not be more profound, my dear Margaret.” He rubbed his temple.
“If my timing had been profound as you say, I would have walked away years ago when you and your father—”
“Don’t. Not again. I can’t listen to your paranoid obsessions anymore.” His face tightened, and he fought to keep from becoming physical. How he hated her. He couldn’t bear another stroll down memory lane with strained, reworked dialogue. “Discussing the past serves no purpose for either of us. You’ve apparently made up your mind.”
“You’d like to forget what happened, wouldn’t you? That would make your life so much easier, not having to face reality.” Margaret’s voice rose.
“Your reality,” he said, “is nothing more than pathetic speculation at best.”
Would every day of his life be a rehash of the past? For five long years, every night had brought a tirade, accentuating his mistakes. Her leaving came as no surprise.
He had to put an end to the mental torture she inflicted on him day after day. If he hadn’t wanted a young wife to adorn his arm, he wouldn’t have married her in the first place. Now, all that remained of the prior beauty was a shrew.
Moving a few feet toward her, heat rose in his face. His hands tightened into fists on their own, and he glanced down at them. Could he do it? One hit and he wouldn’t have to hear from her ever again. He would make it look like she’d been drunk—no stretch there—and hit her head on a table.
He sucked back air and released the tight hands. “You’re a drunk and an addict. All of our friends and associates are aware of your … personal indiscretions. No one is going to give an ounce of credence to anything you have to say.”
“Indiscretions? We haven’t even begun to discuss indiscretions. My attorney believed every word I told him. And how you could think I don’t know about those indiscretions is beyond me. Women’s colognes. Hotel matchbooks in your jacket pockets. You don’t even try to hide what you’ve been up to.”
She had planned this for some time. And had done her homework. Now was not the occasion to back down. He had to continue on the offensive. “My money made sure that your attorney believed you. Of course he’ll agree with your accusations as long as you pay him, but once I freeze our accounts, even he won’t offer you sanctuary.”
Fear Is Louder Than Words: Her stalker taught her fear. Her suspicions taught her terror. Page 22