by Trish Reeb
A movement jarred Cole out of his head and back into the room before he mentally stepped back into his Delmars. His eyes scanned the shadows of all four corners. Alone. Something had kicked him out of his trance. Cole strode to the slightly ajar door he remembered closing. Opening it, he browsed the deserted corridor.
Slowly, he pivoted to face the room, trying to reconnect with what he’d seen in his mind’s eye. Bumping the vivid picture out of his head threw him off kilter. Not good. He sat atop a student desk trying to recapture it.
Failing, he shook his head and went in search of the boys' lavatory. Cole splashed his face in cold water over the dirty sink. He reached for the dispenser to grab a handful of paper towels. Empty. His handkerchief would have to suffice.
He retraced his steps to room 142 and stood in the doorway. Taken by surprise, Taryn quite possibly knew her killer. Apparent during the reenactment, he found no physical evidence to support it. Stabbed through the heart, but first injected with something non-lethal, she bled out. Why not just stab her? Or kill her with the injection? Why both? It didn’t make sense. Most likely the doer, probably male but possibly female, had studied medicine. Something he would consider when gathering background information on any person of interest.
He closed his eyes to review the visualization. Seconds into it, they flew open. He'd overlooked the defensive wounds in the palms of Taryn’s hands. A key factor. How the hell had he missed it? Could it be another manifestation of not being ready for a case of this magnitude? He sighed. Nothing he could do about it now. He’d remember it the next time he went into Taryn Richards’ head. Or that of the killer’s.
CHAPTER 9
Alex checked her messages on the way to the exit. Bobbi Townsend, math teacher and friend, had called to invite her over. Though she appreciated the offer, Alex couldn't deal with Bobbi's two youngsters, five and three. Not today. No matter how much she loved them. It would be impossible to hide the pain caused by the evil invasion of the place where she and their mommy worked.
Sheila Humbarger called from Washington where she’d gone to await the birth of their fifth grandchild. Ellery obviously had filled his wife in on what happened.
Not consciously knowing why, she skipped Jordan’s voice mail and listened to Gino’s frantic message. "Alex, call me." Gino, Gino, Gino. Of course he’d heard the news. Taryn’s death must be flooding the air waves. Her kid brother’s emotions under normal circumstances could be all over the board. He’d always been that way—moody and not above using emotional blackmail to get what he wanted. She understood the reason but couldn’t handle talking to him now. Glancing at her watch, she realized he’d be in class with his phone off. Good time to leave a message on his voicemail so he couldn’t accuse her of not calling him back.
Alex started the car and inserted Westside Story in the CD slot, skipping the prologue. Raising the volume, she sang along to The Jet Song. Soon after meeting Taryn, she introduced her to musicals, old and new. Both loved to sing. They’d belt out songs, their heads together like Christina Aguilera and Chaka Kahn.
Alex’s eyesight blurred. I can't do this. She punched off the CD, wiped the tears with the back of her hand. Best to stay away from anything that reminded her of Taryn. As usual, she didn't follow her own advice. Twenty-five minutes later, she pulled into a parking space in front of Taryn’s apartment. Leaving the motor running, she laid her head on the steering wheel and stared at Taryn’s orange-fobbed key on her key ring. They’d exchanged them so, when one left town, the other staying put could tend to her place. Alex's job of watering Taryn’s plants required talking to them. "Mama will be home soon and sends her love." Alex smiled. Silly, but Taryn’s plants thrived while hers drooped.
Alex’s cats stayed at Taryn’s and flourished in her absence but punished her when she returned by peeing next to the litter box. Not Taryn's plants. Without a vengeful leaf on their stems, they never caused her any such inconvenience.
Why am I here? Sheila would say Taryn’s spirit drew her there. Possible or impossible? Though she’d wanted to feel her parents’ presence, in ten years she’d never once gotten a sense of them. Alex's bond with Taryn had been tighter than most sisters'. They shared their most intimate secrets, even reading their journals to each other over the phone while half tucked in bed—one or the other unable to sleep. Taryn shared hers for the first time when she felt pressure from her family to return to Atlanta. Feeling guilty for wanting to stay in the Detroit area, she'd talked until neither of them could keep their eyes open. Another time Alex read an entry about her estrangement from two of her brothers.
She lifted her head. Taryn’s journal. Maybe it would reveal the key, a clue, to what triggered the murder. Alex stared at the black lacquered door of the apartment and cut the ignition. She'd been inside countless times. Today would be different. She’d be setting foot into a place as familiar as her own, knowing Taryn would never come back. A swarm of emotions overwhelmed her heart. Mentally shooing them away, she grabbed her handbag.
At the door, Alex fumbled the key into the keyhole. Her heart jack hammering, she pushed the door open and felt for the light switch. A soft glow filled the living room. God, I feel like I’m trespassing. Taryn's house slippers sat near the entrance ready to welcome her feet. Alex closed the door and flipped the deadbolt. A knitting bag rested on the floor next to an overstuffed chair, the needles poking out as if on the lookout for the mistress of the house. Taryn’s hands always busy, she rarely watched TV or listened to music without working on a project. She even knitted or crocheted while reading a book. Impossible for the average person when concentrating on knit one, purl one. But, then no one, to her knowledge, had ever used the word "average" to describe Taryn.
Alex absently rubbed the inside of her right wrist across her hip bone. She sensed a presence. Taryn? She could almost touch the psychic energy connecting them. Why else would she experience the premonitory trouble this morning or been pulled here now?
Shedding her coat, she laid it over her purse on the chair. She went to the sofa and ran a hand over the blue afghan. Clinging to it, she buried her face in the soft yarn breathing in Taryn’s scent. Lavender. She lay it down. I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry.
At the bedroom door, she paused to peer inside, the light from the living room casting shadows into the corners. Her neck prickled. Flipping the light on scared the demons in her head away. She stared at the Laura Ashley bedding and drapes that cost Taryn a week’s pay. When they’d returned from shopping, she’d run into the bedroom without even removing her coat. She tore off the old bedding, making room for the new, before Alex could get there to help. When they finished making the queen-size bed, Taryn plopped down in the center, burrowing into the frilly pillows, kicking her feet.
Alex went to the closet, folded the doors open. She ran her fingers over the brightly colored wool, silk, suede, denim, and cotton fabrics. Pulling out the long fuchsia silk shirt Taryn wore to Lincoln High’s homecoming dance months ago, she held it up. Not something she could wear, but on Taryn, at five eight, it popped. Hugging it close, she hummed I Feel Pretty while swaying her hips.
A rustle sounded from the left end of the closet.
Alex froze. She listened. Nothing more. Silently, she counted to ten. Still nothing. She shrugged. The mood lost, she hung the shirt in its place as if Taryn expected to find it there. She closed the closet doors, moved to the nightstand where her friend kept the journal. In the top drawer, she found it shoved to the back under a packet of unopened note cards. Hidden as though someone might snoop. Pebbles of guilt pelted her conscience. Certain Taryn would do the same for her if she'd been murdered, Alex ignored them.
Clutching the black journal to her chest, she sat on the edge of the lavender and cream comforter. The closest she’d ever be again to Taryn’s secrets. She lowered the book to her lap, ran a hand over the smooth leather cover, fingering Taryn’s initials engraved in gilt. Alex had given her the journal on her last birthday. Now
Taryn would never celebrate another. Never again record her personal thoughts. They'd never engage in any more late night girl talks. Alex swallowed. She opened the book. The familiar scrawl sent her heart into a tailspin. Staring at the ceiling, she waited for the anguish to pass.
A muffled movement sounded from the closet again. Except for her thumping heart, Alex didn’t move a muscle. The adrenaline surging through her body had the potential for jumpstarting her into action. Instead, she sat paralyzed. Her head screamed: get moving! Do something! She sat. A minute passed. Alex stood, her feet as heavy and inflexible as marble. She plodded to the closet. Run! her head urged. She stood still. Run!
"Who are you?" she asked the closed doors. "I know someone's in there." She hugged the journal close. "What do you want?" The silence deafening, her ears buzzed as if she’d just walked out of a rock concert and into the quiet. She reached for the knob.
Before she could grasp it, the door opened. Bright light struck her eyes. Gasping, she raised her forearm to block the glare. Backpedaling, her legs hit the bed hard, forcing her to sit. Dropping her arm, she squinted at the light. When she looked away, spots formed in front of her wherever she focused. She blinked. The spots stayed.
An object whistled by her head, followed by a crash. She twisted around. A lamp had fallen off the nightstand to the floor, its light bulb dead. The bright light of the flashlight stalked her eyes everywhere they went. The person behind it stayed invisible. Like a ghost.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
A figure in black, including a ski mask, stepped out of the closet. He moved to stand between Alex and the bedroom door. She shaded her eyes, wishing she'd run when she had the chance.
A black gloved hand appeared to the right of the light. The fingers wiggled, motioning toward him.
Did he want her to come closer? Or hand over the journal? Terror filled every inch of her body, her breathing too fast to keep up with. Out of nowhere, Ellery’s image flashed in her head, stay calm.
The ghost waggled his fingers again.
Alex shook her head. She pulled up her sweatshirt, sucking in her gut, and jammed the journal inside the waistband of her jeans.
The ghost waved the light back and forth.
What's that supposed to mean? Wrong move? She blinked, blinked again trying to rid her eyes of the bright white spots interfering with her vision. They stubbornly remained. She inched toward the corner of the room.
This time the ghost flicked the flashlight vertically.
He approved? The ski boot hurled earlier lay inches from her foot. She seized it, flung it at the ghost. It struck the closet door with a thud. Grabbing the disabled lamp, she yanked its cord free. It was a poor substitute for a weapon if he brandished a gun or knife. Alex thought of Taryn lying in her own blood. Squeezing the candlestick lamp, her face grew hot with anger. Replacing the fear, it infused her with courage.
The beam of light moved twice in a horizontal half circle.
A smile? Was he taunting her? She'd had enough of his fun and games. As if pitching a hard ball to him, she threw the lamp. Bounding over the top of the bed, she half crawled, half crept across it. She leaped off and ran, the ghost on her heels. To the sound of their pounding feet, they crossed the carpeted living room toward the door.
God, why had she bolted it? Precious seconds would be needed to flip the lever. She reached the door. Grabbing the knob in one hand, she fumbled for the deadbolt with the other. Arms went around her waist, ramming the journal into her belly. The ghost breathed hot air on her neck, slow and steady. Alex kicked at him. "Let me go!" she screamed. Holding onto the doorknob and lever, she wiggled the lower half of her body trying to shake him loose.
He chuckled.
She stomped on his foot and kicked. The ghost tightened his grip. He squeezed the wind out of her. Struggling to breathe, she somehow managed to throw the lever. If she could . . . just twist . . . the doorknob. The ghost pried her fingers off. One . . . by . . . one. Yanking her away, he lifted and all but body slammed her to the floor. He straddled her back. She twisted, but couldn’t, quite, see the masked face.
He laughed the haunting call of a hyena. It was the last thing Alex remembered before the whack of a flashlight plunged her into darkness.
CHAPTER 10
Alex’s head throbbed. The pain pill taken moments ago hadn't kicked in yet. She shifted in the hospital bed, trying not to dwell on what sent her there. Her eyes grew heavy. Acquiescing, she closed them. Moments later, they flew open at the sound of approaching footsteps. Purposeful, long strides. Of course he'd come. Cartwheels in her stomach, she waited, eyes wide, heart thumping.
Detective Grant strode into the emergency room cubicle. Had he grown since they last met? Probably not, it only seemed that way because she felt as tiny as a chipmunk. She scanned his face for anger. He could certainly claim a right to it. Twice in one day she’d ended up in the middle of a crime scene. What had he said? It was a crime to interfere in a felony.
She pulled the covers over her head.
He lifted them. "Going somewhere?" He frowned, but his eyes hinted amusement.
Alex pushed up on her elbows. "Are you mad?" She pressed the button to raise the head of the bed. Yanking the extra pillow out from behind her, she used it for an armrest.
Leaning against the wall, his arms folded and ankles crossed, Detective Grant lifted an eyebrow. "Depends." His face softened. "How’s the head?"
"Fine, I took a pain pill." Truthfully, her head felt about the size of a basketball.
"Stitches?"
She grimaced. "Three."
"Lucky. It could have been worse." His jaw twitched.
Pop’s jaw used to do the same thing when he grew annoyed at one of her antics. The memory produced a yearning she thought buried long ago.
"I’m angry, but not at you. I ordered the place cordoned off," he said.
"I had a good reason to be at Taryn’s. I went there to search for—."
"Her journal." He cupped his chin in a large hand. "Now tell me how that’s not interfering in a felony."
Alex gave him her most guileless look. "It didn’t occur to me."
"And why is that?" His eyes bore into hers.
She stared back as hard. "I didn’t stop to consider . . . everything."
"By everything, you mean consequences?"
She raised an index finger. "That’s the word." Alex lowered her gaze to her lap. "I always encourage my students to think of consequences before acting. I didn’t follow my own advice." She bit her bottom lip. "I’ll keep it in mind. About the consequences, I mean." Fat chance. She'd only vowed it a bazillion times before. Raising her eyes, she shot him a skewed smile.
His eyes softened some. "Okay, you didn’t think it'd be dangerous. You tried to help your friend. But I'll thank you to leave the investigating to me." He shook a finger at her. "I don’t want anything to happen to you."
Alex smiled to herself.
Detective Grant pushed off the wall and moved to the side of the bed. "If you’d gone home as I suggested . . . ." Resting his hands on the bedrail, he shook his head. "Are you up to answering a few questions?"
Alex's nod caused the stitches to pull. Flinching, she pressed her fingers to the wound to calm the pain.
Detective Grant hauled a chair to the side of the bed. "Can you describe the attacker?" He withdrew a small notebook from the inner pocket of his suit coat.
Alex bunched the sheet in a fist. "He shined a flashlight in my eyes. I couldn’t see a thing." She huffed. "Only spots."
He sat quiet for a moment as if considering her words. "Well, we know he’s not stupid."
"I can give you a guesstimate. No taller than five-seven. Solid build." She let go of the sheet. Her hands trembled. Whether from anger or fear, she didn’t know. Maybe both. She balled the sheet again to steady the shaking.
Detective Grant wrote in his notebook. "The journal’s gone. Did you read any of it?" he asked, his eyes on Alex.
&
nbsp; "No. Sorry," she said, disappointed for both of them.
His face portrayed nothing. "I spoke to Jordan Whitfield. He corroborated your story."
Alex pulled the extra pillow onto her lap, hugging it. She’d regained consciousness to find Jordan playing nursemaid to her injuries, hovering over her, holding towel-wrapped icepacks to the back of her head. She fiddled with the hospital bracelet on her wrist. At least five-ten and a Slim Jim, Jordan didn't fit her assailant's physique. Still, he could've hired someone.
"Do you believe in coincidences?" she asked.
Detective Grant bided his time before answering the question. "You’re referring to you and Jordan thinking of the journal at the same time?"
She nodded, feeling the pinch again.
"What’s your gut feeling?"
She shrugged.
He cocked his head. "Any reason to suspect him?"
Alex possessed nothing more than speculation to color Jordan guilty. She shoved the doubts to the back of her mind, out of range, but not out of reach. "Not really."
"Can you tell me what happened?"
Could she? She inhaled, letting the air out slowly. Staring at the bed sheet, she described the incident while trying to pretend it happened to someone else, starting from the time she found herself in front of Taryn’s apartment. Her body convulsed, the spasms exacerbating the pain in her head. A soft moan escaped before she could silence it. She raised her head.
He peered at her in earnest, the space between his eyes folded into lines. He stood and exited the room.
Something I said? She laid her head on the pillow, her eyes fixed on the doorway.
In less than a minute, he came back carrying a heavier blanket. He snapped out the folds, threw it over her, smoothed it out, and tucked it under her chin.
"Thank you," she said, surprised and touched. She snuggled into the covers as if it were a cocoon.