Dangerous Illusions (Code of Honor Book #1)

by Irene Hannon

  She emptied the pot of water and flipped off the switch on the coffeemaker. Her lesson plans were waiting in the living room . . . but as long as she was in the kitchen, why not count her mom’s pills?

  As she picked up the weekly pill organizer and box holding all the bottles of medication from their usual place at the end of the counter, Matt’s suggestion to delegate some of her obligations replayed through her mind. He did have a point. The aides who came during the week could count out pills . . . but she felt more comfortable handling the job herself until her mom regained full use of her right hand—if she ever did.

  Sighing, she sat at the table and went through the routine of opening bottles, shaking out pills, splitting those that needed to be cut in half with the pill cutter, and dropping them in the correct time slots for each day of the week. Despite the diligent efforts of the physical therapist, her mother had shown little measurable progress in weeks. It was very possible Eileen Coulter would never again use her sewing machine or whip up a batch of her famous chocolate mint cakes or work in the gardens she loved.

  Trish’s vision misted, and she fumbled a capsule. It skidded across the glass-topped table, but she managed to snatch it before it disappeared over the edge.

  Wayward pill in hand, she examined the subtle tremors running through her fingers. Sleepless nights, stress, and grief did take a toll, as Matt had noted.

  Perhaps he was right about letting go of some of the more mundane tasks. After all, her mother could afford to bring in additional paid help. Had offered to on multiple occasions.

  Yet being busy had its benefits. If you were occupied every minute of the day, you didn’t have a chance to dwell on the past—or the future. Depressing thoughts could only worm their way in during the middle-of-the-night hours when sleep was elusive.

  She deposited the pill in its slot and popped the lid of another prescription container. On the plus side, life was settling into a routine of sorts—and routine was healing. Bit by bit, day by day, the darkness was dissipating. A new normal was taking shape. Each week was better . . . easier . . . less bleak . . . than the one before.

  And that trend would continue.

  It had to.

  Because how could things get any worse?

  Craig Elliott took a sip of his Scotch and thumbed the remote, paying scant attention to the succession of images strobing across Matt’s TV screen.

  Today had been productive.

  Matt had played his role well, done the necessary reconnaissance, laid the groundwork for what was to come—and neither Trish nor her mother were the wiser.

  It was an ingenious plan.

  He downed another gulp of liquor, wincing. The inexpensive brand wasn’t as smooth as the high-end Johnnie Walker Blue Blended he preferred, but it would do until he had more funds. And if the plan he’d revised after getting the lay of the land here played out as he expected, the coffers would begin filling soon.

  But timing—and patience—were everything. Rushing his scheme would raise suspicions and draw too much attention.

  Not a smart move in his situation.

  He opted for a show with supernatural overtones, tossed the remote onto the table beside his chair, and surveyed his surroundings. Hardly plush—but he could upgrade, once he had more cash flow. The money would come. It always did, if you knew how to work the system.

  Not that his previous efforts had been flawless, of course. If they had been, he wouldn’t be stuck in this Midwest town whose biggest claim to fame was a giant silver version of the McDonald’s arch. He’d be living the good life in New York or LA. Maybe even Paris.

  But greed and haste had brought him down.

  At least he’d learned his lesson. This go-round, he was in for the long haul. That’s why he’d spent weeks doing his homework. Preparing. Learning everything he could about Matt’s life. It was why he’d laid low the past week, getting up to speed on intel he hadn’t had access to prior to his visit with Matt.

  Smirking, he downed the dregs of his drink. The man’s expression when he’d opened the door last Saturday had been priceless.

  Too bad the rest of the evening hadn’t been as amusing.

  His lips curled in distaste. After he’d revealed his plan, the situation had become uncomfortable. Painful, even. But he’d pushed through, done what he had to do, gotten what he wanted.

  And he’d continue to do what had to be done going forward. He’d charted his course, and there was no going back.

  A sudden flash on the TV screen drew his attention. One of the characters had morphed from human to . . . who knew what? Someone—or something—with superhuman abilities and power.

  Craig swirled the ice in his glass as the action on the screen unfolded. Entertaining, if unrealistic. Absent extraordinary powers, humans had to have a superior intellect and more ingenuity than their superhero counterparts to win in the real world.

  Fortunately, he had both—as Matt had discovered last Saturday.

  Craig smiled again and set the glass beside him. The audacity . . . and sheer brilliance . . . of the endeavor had stunned the other man.

  But you couldn’t win big if you didn’t think big.

  And now the stage was set. All he had to do was follow through. Trish and her mother would continue to trust Matt—and on the surface, he would continue to be their friend.

  Until that illusion was no longer needed.

  He tapped a finger on the arm of the chair. The timing of that depended on Trish, and she’d turned out to be a bit of a wild card. Apparently she wasn’t as interested in Matt as he’d surmised. That might change with more aggressive wooing . . . but if it didn’t, his contingency plan was solid.

  Whichever direction he took, the end result would be the same: one day soon, all his troubles would be history.

  Along with anyone who got in his way.

  2

  The long, awkward evening was finally over.

  Exhaling, Trish felt around in her purse for her keys as Matt walked her to the door. The dinner he’d shared at the house last week—at her mother’s invitation—had been tolerable, thanks to Mom’s presence. Tonight’s movie . . . different story. Agreeable as Matt was, hard as he’d tried to generate some heat, there wasn’t a glimmer of spark. Whether that was due to lack of chemistry or to her lingering, heart-numbing grief, Trish had no idea.

  But whatever the reason, there would be no more dates. She’d just have to convince her mother that any guilt she felt about usurping her daughter’s time was misplaced. That Trish’s social life was nonexistent by choice, not because she felt compelled to spend every free minute at her mom’s beck and call.

  “Are you as parched as I am from that popcorn?”

  At Matt’s not-so-subtle ploy to wrangle an invitation to come in, she muffled a groan. He must still be interested in her despite this dud of an evening she did not want to extend.

  On the other hand, maybe she should ask him in—and set him straight as diplomatically as she could before he got too carried away.

  She sighed. It wouldn’t be the most pleasant end to the evening, but putting off hard stuff never made dealing with it any easier.

  “Would you like a soda or some coffee?”

  “Either would be fine. Thanks.” He flashed her a smile, reached for her hand, and gave it a squeeze.

  Great.

  She freed her fingers on the pretense of opening the door and led the way inside. “Have a seat in the living room while I check on Mom.”

  Without waiting for a response, Trish ditched her purse and sweater on a chair in the foyer and fled into the hall.

  Once she was out of Matt’s sight, she paused to psyche herself up for the letdown she was about to deliver . . . as well as the consequences. The comfortable, relaxed relationship the two of them had enjoyed over the past year would be hard, if not impossible, to recapture. That’s what happened when romance entered the picture—particularly if one of the parties wasn’t feeling the love.

&
nbsp; In truth, though, Matt had been . . . different, somehow . . . since the accident. There was a new, subtle tension in him. A disconcerting undercurrent of nervous energy. And his eyes had changed too. The curious, lingering hurt that had always lurked in their depths was gone. Now they seemed sharper . . . cooler . . . more calculating.

  Or was she just paying more attention to nuances now that he was taking a personal interest in her?

  No matter. After tonight, their relationship would be strictly business. She’d be pleasant, courteous, professional—but nothing more.

  If fate was kind, he’d take that news with grace.

  Light peeked through her mom’s cracked-open door as she approached, and Trish picked up her pace. Why was the lamp on? Her mother was always in bed by nine thirty, and it was almost eleven. Was she having a bad evening? And if so, why hadn’t the aide called her before she’d left at ten, as instructed?

  Quashing her annoyance, she eased the door open and slipped into the room. Outside help might be necessary on weekdays while she was teaching, but situations like this were one of the reasons she preferred taking care of her mother’s needs herself at night and on weekends.

  Soft light spilled onto the floral comforter covering the bed as Trish tiptoed over, feet silent on the plush carpet. Her mom was on her side, faced away from the door and the lamp, apparently asleep.

  Her tension ebbed, and she let out an unsteady breath. She needed to get over her constant worry or she’d end up with high blood pressure and heart disease, like her mom.

  At the bedside table, Trish leaned down to flip the lamp off. Paused as she spotted the cell phone lying on the comforter.

  Why was it so close to her mother’s fingers . . . as if she’d dropped it?

  And why was her mom so . . . still?

  Dread congealing in her belly, Trish laid her fingers over the motionless hand on the comforter.

  It was cool.

  Too cool.

  Suffocating panic ballooned inside her.

  “Mom.” She touched her mother’s thin shoulder as she choked out the word.

  No response.

  “Mom!” Panic spiked the pitch of her voice.

  Still no response.

  She tugged her gently, until she could see her face.

  Her mother’s eyes were open.

  Sightless.

  NO!

  Trish scuttled back from the bed, chest heaving, as her mother rolled back onto her side.

  NO! NO! NO! NO!

  “Matt!” The desperate summons came out a mere whisper. As if her lungs had no air to support words.

  She tried again. “Matt!”

  This time anguish shrilled her call.

  Footsteps pounded down the hall, and an instant later he was beside her.

  “Trish—what’s wrong?” He grasped her shoulders, searching her face.

  She waved a hand toward the bed. Tried to speak. Resorted to another spastic flip of her hand.

  Matt surveyed the motionless form, then released her and circled the bed.

  After a brief hesitation on the other side, he leaned close and pressed his fingers against her mother’s neck.

  Several eternal beats ticked by. At last he straightened up, his troubled gaze meeting hers as he pulled out his own cell phone. While he punched in three numbers, he rejoined her and draped an arm around her shoulders.

  Though he was inches away, Trish heard his side of the conversation as if it came from a great distance. His words sounded muffled while he explained the situation to the operator. Answered questions. Provided the requested information.

  Only two phrases from the exchange registered clearly, echoing over and over in her brain.

  She’s not breathing. I couldn’t find a pulse. She’s not breathing. I couldn’t find a pulse. She’s not breathing. I couldn’t find . . .

  “Paramedics are on the way.” Matt slid his phone back into his pocket.

  She stared at the opaque button on the front of his dress shirt, trying to accept the truth.

  It didn’t matter when the paramedics arrived.

  Her mom was gone.

  She knew that even before the two-person crew swept into the bedroom a few minutes later with all their medical paraphernalia. Before the two police officers who’d arrived first had a quiet exchange with the technicians while they packed up the few items they’d taken from their kit. Before one of the officers joined them in the corner of the room where Matt had led her, out of the line of traffic.

  “You’re the daughter, correct?”

  “Yes.” Matt answered for her. “I told that to the 911 operator.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” The officer’s demeanor was sympathetic. “The paramedics say she was gone before we arrived.”

  Trish choked back a sob at the heartbreaking finality of those words.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions. It might be more comfortable if we move to the living room.”

  “No.” She crossed her arms in a rigid tuck against her chest. “I want to stay with m-my mom.”

  “Trish . . . the living room would be better.” Matt touched her arm. “You need to sit down. You’re shaking.”

  “I said I want to stay here.”

  At her back-off tone, a muscle in Matt’s cheek clenched.

  “Here is fine.” The officer pulled out a notebook and pen, altering his position to block her view of the bed. “Why don’t you both give me some basics? Name, address, contact information.”

  After they complied, he flipped a page and focused on her. “Tell me what happened tonight.”

  “Mom and I had dinner. Then Matt and I went to a m-movie.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About seven thirty.”

  “Was your mother here alone for the rest of the evening?”

  “Only after ten. There was a home-health aide with her most of the evening.”

  “I’ll need her contact information.”

  Trish gave him the woman’s name and the name of the service where she was employed.

  “How old was your mother?”

  Was.

  Pressure built behind her eyes. “Sixty-f-five.”

  “Did she have health issues?”

  “Yes.” Trish told him about her heart condition, the injuries from the accident, the stroke. “But she was fine earlier. A little . . . cloudy . . . when she took her evening medication, but that can happen if she gets tired.”

  Matt touched her arm again, twin creases embedded in his brow. “Is there . . . do you think she could have taken the wrong dose of one of her medications?”

  She frowned at the bizarre question. “No. I’m the one who counts the pills. She only takes what I give her.”

  “But she does take a lot of medicine, right? Ten, twelve different kinds every day?”

  “Eleven.”

  “That’s a lot of pills to juggle . . . and you have been kind of distracted lately.”

  Her breath hitched. “Do you . . . are you suggesting I made a mistake?”

  “I only bring it up because you said she was kind of fuzzy. You’ve had a tough two years, Trish . . . and details can slip through the cracks if you’re stressed. Like that burner you left on under the frying pan when I came to dinner last week.”

  At his gentle reminder, her heart stumbled. She couldn’t deny that mistake. Nor the incident with the coffee filter the night he’d almost stayed for cake.

  “And you thought we were supposed to go to the movie tonight at seven, not seven thirty.”

  A quiver of unease snaked through her as she grappled with his stomach-churning implication. “Even if I did miscount one of the pills, Mom would have caught it. You know how sharp she is.”

  “But didn’t you tell me one of her doctors adjusted her medication a few days ago? Isn’t it possible she might not have questioned a change? Especially if she was a little out of it tonight.”

  “Does anyone else live here, ma’am?” The officer
appraised her, a glint of suspicion sparking in his irises.

  “No.” She tried to switch gears. To erase the dark doubts Matt had planted in her mind. “It’s just been me and Mom for the past eighteen months, since she came home from rehab.”

  “Are there other family members you need to notify?”

  “No.”

  “Anything you’d like to add, sir?”

  Matt explained his connection to her mother.

  “Got it.” The officer closed his notebook. “If you folks will excuse me for a minute, I need to make a phone call.”

  Trish watched him walk across the room and confer in low tones with the other officer and the departing paramedics. Numbness was setting in, and she felt herself drifting away from the scene. Almost as if she was having an out-of-body experience.

  The distance was welcome. Insulating. Comforting.

  Until Matt intruded, pulling her back to the harsh reality.

  “I’m sorry, Trish.” He rested a hand on her shoulder.

  Turning her back on the strangers in her mother’s room, she scrutinized him. “You don’t really believe I miscounted the medicine, do you?”

  If she was seeking reassurance, his carefully worded response gave her none.

  “I know you always did your best to take care of your mother. And I know how much you loved her.”

  “She was all I had, Matt.” Her voice broke, and she sucked in a ragged breath. “I did everything I could to be here for her, to help her recover. Losing her too is . . . unthinkable.”

  “I’m so sorry, Trish.”

  The trite platitude grated like chalk on an old-fashioned blackboard.

  She hugged herself and backed away, gripping her arms tight. “You don’t need to stay.”

  He did a double take. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “Stop saying that!” At her hysteria-tinged rebuke, the low rumble of conversation across the room ceased. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the police officers and paramedics look toward her.

  She lowered her volume. “Go home, Matt.”

  “I can’t leave you alone in the middle of all this.”

  “Actually . . .” The police officer rejoined them. “I’m going to need both of you to leave. The medical examiner is on the way, along with a detective. The CSU won’t be far behind.”