Once inside the house with the door closed and locked, Megan put both hands on Shannon’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry for the way I stalked out of here. I shouldn’t have gone off like that. I should have explained.”
Shannon shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. When you told me about your new apartment, I should have been proud, like you were. Instead, I immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
“I can’t really blame you,” Megan said. “I’ve made lots of bad decisions in my life, some of them involving what you called ‘losers,’ so it was probably a natural assumption.”
Mark put the suitcases in the corner, dropped into an overstuffed chair in the living room, and gave Shannon a puzzled look. “Will somebody please tell me what’s going on? I feel like I’ve come into a movie that’s already started.”
Shannon realized that a lot had happened in the past few hours, and not everyone knew about it. Mark needed to know about Megan’s leaving. Megan had to be told about their dad’s episode during chemotherapy. This was going to take awhile. “I guess you’re right. I need to bring everyone up to date.” Shannon looked around. “Would anyone like some coffee?”
There were no takers, so Shannon sat down on the sofa, took a moment to organize her thoughts, and began. She started by telling Megan about their father’s reaction to his chemotherapy session.
“Is he okay?” Megan asked, genuine concern in her voice.
Mark answered, “When I left them, your dad was fine.”
“We’ll call him later this evening,” Shannon said to Megan. Then she turned to Mark. “Earlier Megan told me she was moving into an apartment, and I made the worst possible assumption about her new roommate. I was wrong, but it didn’t keep her from storming out of here.”
“But we’re okay now,” Megan said. “Right?”
“Right,” Shannon said.
Mark reached into his pocket for his car keys. “Why don’t I take you both out for dinner? We can discuss this in more detail then.”
Shannon and Megan exchanged looks, and a message passed between them in a way possible only with siblings. “Sounds fine,” Shannon said.
“Uh, Mark, you may want to tell Shannon what’s in the glove compartment of your car first,” Megan said.
Shannon had risen from the sofa, but now she sat down again, looked at Mark, and frowned. “That sounds like something I should know before we leave.”
Mark gave Megan a look that could melt ice. “The reason I dashed out of here so quickly was that Megan called, wanting me to meet her at the curb. Apparently she’s taking our warnings seriously and thought someone might be following her.”
“So . . . ,” Shannon said.
“So I reached into the glove compartment of my car and took out one of the guns I’d bought.”
Shannon caught her breath and leaned back on the sofa. She thought she’d made it clear to Mark how she felt about guns. Yet here he was, running roughshod over her fear in his haste to protect her—as though she were incapable of doing it for herself. Apparently Mark didn’t know her as well as she’d thought. And that hurt.
MARK COULD READ THE EMOTIONS ON SHANNON’S FACE, AND HE knew he’d made a misstep. He wasn’t sure how to correct it, but he had to try.
He was in an overstuffed chair, while Shannon was on the sofa. Mark thought about moving to sit beside her but decided against it. Right now it was probably best to keep his distance. “Shannon, it goes back to what both the detective and I told you earlier. Crosley is coming after you. That’s virtually a certainty. And this time you may not be able to get away from him. You have to be prepared to defend yourself.”
“So you want me to have a gun? That’s your answer?” Shannon’s voice hardened. “I thought a good Christian like you would be content to let God take care of me.”
Mark could see from the look on her face that as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. But she made no move to take them back. He searched his brain for arguments to rebut what she’d said, but he decided that wasn’t a fight he was going to win, one he shouldn’t even pursue. Not now, at least.
“I could have told you that Shannon hates guns,” Megan said. “She’s always been afraid of them, ever since we were kids. At first, I thought she’d get over it. But since she’s seen two people’s lives snuffed out by them, I can understand why she doesn’t want to be around them.” Megan moved to the sofa beside her sister and put her arm around her. “I should have realized that before I brought a gun into this house myself.”
“I’m sorry, Shannon,” Mark said. “I know what you said, and I just went right ahead anyway. I should have realized this was really a line in the sand for you.”
“Thank you,” Shannon said, although her tone wasn’t totally forgiving.
Mark decided he should tell Shannon the whole story. “I have two guns in my glove compartment—one for each of us. I purchased them after your encounter with Crosley, when he held you at gunpoint. I know it scared you, but it scared me, too.”
“Is it legal for you to keep the gun in your car before you get your concealed carry permit?” Megan asked.
“Texas law allows me to have a weapon at home or in my car—no permit necessary. I’ve already started the process of getting a concealed handgun license for myself.” Mark looked at Shannon. “I was ready to help you do the same.”
Shannon had sat with her eyes downcast while Mark talked. Now she looked up at him. Her shoulders rose and fell as she took several deep breaths. “Maybe you can’t fully understand why I feel this way, but whether you understand it or not, I would ask you to respect my feelings.” She paused as though measuring her words. “Mark, I know you love me, and it’s in your nature to want to protect me. But no guns . . . please.”
DURING THE DISCUSSION, SHANNON HAD FELT THE KNOT IN HER stomach progressively tighten. At one point, she thought she might have to rush from the room and throw up. Now that things had calmed down, she felt a bit better.
“What’s the verdict on dinner?” Mark said.
Shannon looked at Megan, who shrugged. Apparently she, too, had lost her appetite. “I appreciate the offer, but I think we’re going to call Mom and Dad, then forage in the kitchen for a light supper.”
“I understand,” Mark said. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first about the gun. I was trying—”
“You want to protect me,” Shannon said. “And I appreciate it. It’s one of the things I love about you.” She shivered slightly. “But you have to know how I feel about guns.”
“I do, and I’ll try to be more understanding.” Mark stood and held Shannon for a moment. He kissed her and said, “Call me if you need anything.”
As the door closed behind Mark, Shannon realized how much his presence meant to her. Now, with him gone, she felt . . . vulnerable, exposed. She might have refused his offer of a gun, but simply having him here made her feel more secure. Would that be what marriage was like? She shrugged away the thought. Another time, maybe. Not now.
“Are you okay?” Megan asked.
“I’m fine,” Shannon said. “Want me to fix something for us to eat?”
“I’m not hungry,” Megan said.
“Then I think we need to talk with Mom and Dad.”
Megan agreed. Shannon dialed the number and put the call on speaker. As expected, her dad made light of his “spell,” as he called it, and immediately dismissed Shannon’s offer to be with them at the next chemotherapy session.
The girls’ mother apologized for getting upset over nothing. “I shouldn’t have called,” she said.
“Mom, I want you to be able to call me anytime. And if I’m tied up in surgery, call Mark again. He’s already told me he was happy to be there for you today.” Shannon tried to hold back her next words, but they came anyway. “It makes him feel more like one of the family.”
When she ended the call, Shannon turned to Megan and raised her eyebrows. “What do you think?”
“They sound oka
y, I guess,” Megan said. “But then I can’t ever recall a time when Dad gave the slightest hint that anything was wrong.” She frowned. “I don’t know if he didn’t want us to worry, or if he’s always trusted God so completely he truly wasn’t worried himself.”
Shannon thought back and realized that Megan was right. And the same could be said of their mother. She’d always been in lockstep with her husband, united in anything they undertook, standing firm in the face of every crisis, as far back as Shannon could remember. What had it cost her parents to never show worry or anxiety in front of their daughters? Then again, maybe Megan was right. Maybe their faith was just that strong.
THE OCCUPANT OF THE MAROON SEDAN STRETCHED AND YAWNED.
No porch lights shone nearby, a streetlight was out of commission thanks to a well-placed rock, and traffic on this residential street was virtually nonexistent at 10:00 p.m. His car blended into the darkness, and the tinted windows hid him from curious eyes. He pushed a button on his watch and took note of the numbers. He’d give it another hour, just in case she decided to go out.
The odds that she’d leave the house, allowing him to intercept her, were slim, but it was a chance worth taking. Besides that, he had to think, and the quiet of this stakeout provided a perfect environment for that tonight.
He wished he could light up a cigarette. Then again, the flare of a match, the glowing embers in the darkness, would be a tip-off to his presence. No, he’d learned to deal with hardships worse than this. He squirmed around, seeking a more comfortable position, while his thoughts continued to focus on the problem before him.
Time passed slowly. Finally, he glanced at his watch and decided to give up his vigil. No luck tonight. Tomorrow would have to be soon enough. But the waiting hadn’t been wasted time. He’d decided on a plan. And however it played out, he’d eventually get what he wanted.
SHANNON AWOKE TO NOISE FROM HER KITCHEN. SHE SAT UP IN bed, and the wonderful aroma of freshly brewed coffee brought a smile to her face. Had she added water and coffee to the coffeemaker last evening and turned on auto-brew? No, she was sure she hadn’t. Despite good intentions, she neglected to use that feature at least half the time.
Shannon had burrowed under the covers once more when the answer came through the door.
Megan handed her a steaming mug. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead.”
Shannon sat up and sipped the coffee. It was already sweetened, just the way she liked it. “What’s the occasion?”
“This is your last day with a houseguest,” Megan said. She perched on the side of the bed and drank from her own mug. “I wanted to thank you for taking me in. I know it must have been tough, getting that call at midnight from your ne’er-do-well sister, wondering what kind of trouble she’d gotten herself into this time.”
Actually, that phone call and the murder on Shannon’s lawn that preceded it had simply been the first events of a continuing firestorm that threatened to take over her life. She drank more coffee, then lowered her cup. “I’m glad you called. And I’m happy you seem to be getting things straightened out in your life.”
“I’ll try not to bug you too much,” Megan said.
Shannon lowered her cup. “I wish you’d call more often—especially if you need some sisterly advice. Like don’t take men at face value. Don’t chase after the first man to make a move on you. Don’t—”
“I get it. I’ll just replay the tapes of Mom in my head, and if I have a question, I’ll call you.” Megan stood and took a step toward the door. She paused with her cup halfway to her mouth. “The main thing I’m worried about now is that the police seem to think I know more than I’m telling about my ex-boyfriend’s murder. Since it was my gun that killed him, I can see that.”
“Let our attorney worry about that,” Shannon said.
“True. Maybe Ms. Waites convinced them all they had was circumstantial evidence.”
“Neither of us is out of the woods yet,” Shannon said. “But all we can do is keep moving ahead and leave the rest to our attorney, the police . . . and God.”
ELENA WAITES CALLED UP THE STAIRS, “KIDS, BREAKFAST IS ON the table.”
Her husband, Tom, had left much earlier. She looked at the kitchen clock and decided that right now he’d be scrubbing in for his first case of the day. Despite his protests, she insisted on getting up early and making sure he had a good breakfast before he left for the operating room. “It gives me some quiet time before I have to get the kids off to school,” she’d told him.
She looked at the Bible, open on the kitchen table, and reflected on what she’d read that morning in her devotional. “The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to bring good news to the afflicted; He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to captives and freedom to prisoners.”
That should be my life verse. That’s what I do. Elena’s thoughts turned to the Frasiers. She’d argued with the two detectives that the evidence against her clients in the shooting of Tony Lester was purely circumstantial. The men apparently were willing to buy her argument, but that didn’t mean the case was closed and the two women were clear. No, Elena’s sources in the department told her that the investigation had hit a dead end, and in her experience, that often meant the detectives in charge of the case would circle back and take a hard look at people to whom they had given a pass earlier.
Elena reached down to the notepad that sat next to the Bible and jotted down a reminder to look into the Frasier file again. Something told her that she wasn’t through with Shannon and Megan.
MARK GILBERT WAS ALREADY AT WORK, DRESSED IN SCRUBS AND WAITING for the first frozen section exam of the day. Along with other pathologists, he took his turn in the lab located near the surgical suites, reading slides prepared from tissue sent by surgeons who needed an immediate answer about the material. Most often, the question was, “Is this a malignancy?” Sometimes it was, “Are the surgical margins clear? Did I get all of it?”
Evaluation of frozen sections was one of the most difficult and critical jobs for a pathologist, and Mark was well aware of the responsibility it carried. A technician would freeze the specimen and prepare a stained microscope slide from a thinly sliced section of tissue. It was up to the pathologist to study the material and make a judgment. On occasions when the diagnosis was inconclusive, it was necessary to wait a day or even two for the more definitive permanent sections, but this might necessitate returning the patient to the operating room.
“Here’s one for you,” the technician said. “From Dr. Waites in OR three. Thyroid nodule. Malignant or benign?”
Mark took a moment to read the information accompanying the specimen. He breathed a silent prayer, centered the glass slide on the stage of his binocular microscope, and began scanning it. His prayer wasn’t just for wisdom for himself, although he constantly asked God for that. No, he included the patient and their family, the surgical team, and everyone concerned. His answer would dictate how things might change for each of them.
As he reviewed the material, thousands of synapses in his brain fired and made connections. Mark compared the architecture of the material on the slide with hundreds of previous specimens he’d seen from thyroid masses. He recalled what he’d read about thyroid nodules, both malignant and benign. He factored in the clinical information provided. And all the while, his eyes moved across the slide.
MEGAN WHISTLED UNDER HER BREATH AS SHE SET THE TABLE. SHE consulted her watch and decided there was plenty of time before she and Shannon had to leave the house. She planned to enjoy this meal with her sister, put in a day’s work, then come back here and load up her car with the remaining clothes and other items she wanted to move to her new apartment. Tomorrow would be the start of what she hoped was a new life.
“Do I smell bacon?” Shannon called from the doorway.
“Bacon, English muffins, orange juice—what you always asked for when Mom cooked breakfast for us.” Megan poured juice into two glasses and retrieve
d two English muffins from the toaster. “Have a seat.”
When the two sisters were settled at the kitchen table, Shannon said, “Shall we say grace?”
“Why don’t you?” Megan replied. “I’m a little out of practice.”
Before Shannon could say anything, the doorbell rang, followed almost immediately by a pounding on the door. She shoved her chair back. “I’m not sure who that could be, but it’s pretty obvious they’re not going away.” She rose and moved toward the front door. “I’ll get rid of them.”
Megan sipped orange juice, hearing a murmur of voices from the front of the house but unable to make out the words. In a few moments, Shannon appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, a puzzled expression on her face. “Megan, the detectives want to have a word with you.”
Detective Jesse Callaway stepped from behind Shannon and made his way into the room. Detective Steve Alston eased into the room behind his partner, his expression carefully neutral.
Callaway stopped in front of the chair where Megan sat and looked down at her. “Megan Frasier, you’re under arrest for the murder of Tony Lester.”
TWENTY-TWO
FOR A MOMENT, SHANNON STOOD TRANSFIXED, UNABLE TO MOVE. She couldn’t believe the scene unfolding before her. Callaway had always been a bit frightening, as much by his dominating physical presence as his demeanor. Today it was more pronounced, and she found herself pulling away as he went by.
Steve Alston leaned against the wall just inside the kitchen, keeping some distance between him and his partner, as though by doing so he could show that he had nothing to do with what was going on. His impassive gaze was fixed on the far corner of the kitchen.
Callaway took Megan’s arm and pulled her to her feet. He intoned the standard Miranda warning in a flat monotone. “Do you understand these rights as I’ve explained them?” Before he finished speaking, he’d turned her and with practiced ease cuffed her hands behind her.
Megan looked at Shannon, who said, “I’ll call Elena Waites. Don’t say a word. No matter what they tell you, no matter what anyone may say . . .” Shannon looked purposefully at Steve Alston. “No matter what, don’t say a word.”
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