Fatal Hearts

by Norah Wilson

  She laughed, and it was just as musical as he’d imagined. He must have been watching her mouth again, because she sobered quickly.

  “I was going to stay and help you search, to save you from being alone in this room,” she said. “But if you’re going to be staying here, I guess there’s not much point in that, is there? You’re going to have to get used to it.”

  “I thought that might be what was behind your . . . uh . . . offer to come here with me.”

  “My insistence, you mean?”

  “I’m glad you insisted. It was very kind of you.”

  She shrugged. “I just know I wouldn’t have wanted to come back here alone.” She glanced around the room. “I should go. You’re probably anxious to start your search, and I should get home.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Let me walk you to your car.”

  “No need for that. The parking lot is reasonably well lit, as you saw, and this isn’t exactly a high-crime area.”

  He grinned at the idea of a criminal daring to invade Sylvia Stratton’s world. “I’m sure you’re right, but I’m still going to walk you out. I have to get my bag from the car anyway.”

  A moment later, they stood in the parking lot by her Subaru.

  “So, you’re good from here?” she asked, keys in hand.

  He understood instantly what she was asking. “I’m further ahead than I was,” he acknowledged, nodding his head toward the Stratton House behind him. “But I think there’s more I can learn from you. Nobody knew Josh—the Fredericton Josh—like you did. I’d still like to talk to you some more.”

  She eyed him uncertainly. “You really think my telling you this stuff—what movies we saw together or which nights I came over here or he came to my place—is going to help you?”

  He met her gaze. “Absolutely. One way or another, it’ll help. If it doesn’t lead me to understand more clearly what happened, maybe it can lead me to accept it.” He shrugged. “To be honest, I could use someone to talk to about Josh. I can’t say his name around my parents without one or the other of them breaking down. And everyone else . . . they just don’t know what to say.”

  He saw her acquiescence in the slight relaxation of her shoulders.

  “Okay,” she said. “Just tell me what I can do.”

  “You can start by hanging around with me, just like you would with Josh.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Just like that, huh? We’re going to be insta-buddies and we’re going to text each other five times a day?”

  He grimaced. “Okay, maybe not that part.”

  “Good. Because I don’t think I could stand that.” Her voice sounded thick. “I mean, you look so much like him . . .”

  “I get it,” he said flatly. “I’m not Josh. Believe me—I know that very well. I don’t think there’s any danger of either of us forgetting it.”

  “That’s not what I meant to—”

  “But it’s the truth. I’m a fan of truth, Hayden. In that respect, at least, I’m a lot like my brother.”

  She gazed up at him. “But not all truths, I guess. Josh told me you weren’t interested in knowing your birth parents.”

  She’d said something very like that to him when they’d talked at the restaurant, but he’d completely ignored her statement. This time, her words slid into him like a surgeon’s scalpel.

  In his defense, he could have told her what he’d told Josh—that this investigation could land the people who’d been their real parents in questionable legal waters. But it would have been a false defense. The truth of it was he just didn’t care to know.

  Their birth parents had given them up, and that’s all there was to it.

  Oh, it’d taken him a while to reach that conclusion. Frank and Ella McBride had been solid parents, but, knowing they were adopted, he and Josh had often speculated about their “real” mother. In their young minds, she was glamorous and beautiful, and had shed glamorous, beautiful tears about having to give them up. In their imaginations, there was always a compelling reason. Josh’s favorite had been that she was a superhero and hadn’t been able to take care of them herself because she was busy saving the world. Boyd preferred to think that she’d been knocked on the head and developed amnesia—or, even better, that she’d been magically enchanted and made to forget about them—but eventually the amnesia would clear, or the magic spell would be broken, and she would remember and come find them.

  For Boyd, those childish fantasies had given way to the certain knowledge that their mother just hadn’t wanted them. But for Josh, the dream had never really died. Not that he still believed their mother was a superhero or a secret agent or a fairy princess, but his conviction that their mother would want to meet them never faltered. It had irked Boyd that Josh continued to search into his adulthood, after it became painfully clear that their mother didn’t want to reconnect. There were plenty of places she could have registered if she’d wanted to be found.

  He smiled. “There’s that magic word—interested. If I’m not interested, if I don’t care about learning a particular truth, there’s no point in the pursuit of it, is there? Unless, of course, it means discovering what really happened to Josh.”

  “You’re right, and I’m sorry.” She sighed. “Look, can we park this conversation until tomorrow? I’m exhausted, and if I don’t get my sleep, the ER will be hell in the morning.”

  Damn, she did look exhausted. “Of course.”

  She hit the remote to unlock her car, and he reached for the door handle and opened it for her. She slid into the seat.

  “When can we get together again?”

  “You really want to walk in Josh’s shoes?” she asked.

  “As much as I can, yes.”

  “So be it,” she said. “Tomorrow night, then. My place. It’s Burn Notice night, and it’s your turn to bring pizza.” She produced her phone. “We might as well get each other’s details.”

  He punched in her number and address, then gave her his phone number.

  “What time?” he asked, when she’d finished programming her phone and tucked it back in her purse.

  “Seven. And make it a veggie pizza.”

  “Veggie?” He made no attempt to hide the dismay in his voice.

  “Yes, veggie.” Smiling, she keyed the ignition and the Subaru’s engine sputtered to life. “Now close my door.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He obliged, then stepped back as she reversed out of the parking space and drove away.

  He glanced up at the old Victorian, his smile dying as his gaze found the lighted window of Josh’s bedroom. His bedroom for the next couple of weeks.

  I’m not giving up on you, Josh. If your death wasn’t natural, I’ll uncover the truth.

  With that determination, he unlocked his rental, retrieved his leather travel bag, and trudged back toward the house.

  Hayden was three blocks away before she realized she was holding herself so tensely, something was likely to snap.

  Easing her death grip on the steering wheel, she took a few slow, deep breaths and willed her muscles to relax. After a few moments, they complied.

  Much better.

  Small wonder she’d been tense. Between Sylvia Stratton’s company and her increasingly acute awareness of Boyd McBride, she’d overloaded her circuits.

  Boyd. Several times tonight, she’d caught him looking at her face. No, not her face—her mouth. Had he been thinking about kissing her?

  God help her, she’d been thinking the same thing.

  She didn’t know what was more bizarre, that she was having this strong reaction to someone she’d met just that day—the handshake at the funeral was so brief and impersonal, it hardly counted—or that that someone was a genetic duplicate of the best friend she’d just lost.

  Okay, that last part was definitely the more bizarre.

  What wou
ld Josh think to see her worked up like this over his twin?

  Her laugh emerged as more of a sob. He’d probably think it was hysterical.

  No, he’d have warned me away.

  The truth of that thought resonated deep within her. That’s exactly what Josh would have done. Well, eventually, once he noticed her normal immunity to masculine charms was absent. Josh had clearly loved and admired his twin, but he’d once told Hayden he despaired of Boyd ever settling down with one woman.

  Boyd had said it himself. He was no Josh.

  For that matter, Sylvia Stratton had seen it too, on first sight. What had she said? You’re a harder customer than our Joshua, unless I miss my guess.

  And, yes, Hayden had seen it for herself. It was impossible to look into those gold-brown eyes and not see the walls, the reserve. Oh, she was sure there was good reason for that distance. As a cop in Toronto, it was probably safe to say he’d seen some horrific things.

  Unlike Josh, she suspected he’d have no problem compartmentalizing the pieces of his life. Job, family, sex. A woman would have to fit into one of those neat compartments and be content to stay there. Definitely not an attractive quality in a man.

  Not that she was looking for a man. God, no! But if she were, she’d know enough to leave this one alone. Men like Josh were more her speed. Well-adjusted, emotionally mature, stable. If she were looking for a romantic relationship, she’d pick a guy just like Josh. Well, hopefully one she was more sexually attracted to. She’d seen friends go into relationships where they had great compatibility on almost every front but not much chemistry. They hadn’t been much more successful than the ill-matched ones who had nothing but chemistry going for them.

  So why did her stomach drop when she thought about spending tomorrow evening with Boyd?

  “Duh. Because he thinks someone might have deliberately caused Josh’s death, that’s why. Of course you’re unnerved.”

  Hearing her own words reassured her. That was totally it.

  Feeling better, she turned left onto Regent. In about seven minutes, she’d be letting herself into her Priestman Street apartment. Ten minutes in a hot bath to raise her body temperature followed by twenty minutes to let it plummet—her favorite nonmedicinal trick for sleep inducement. Then it would be sweet oblivion.

  After learning Josh might have been murdered—and meeting his unsettling twin—she needed it.

  CHAPTER 5

  Boyd woke to the sound of birds chirping. He tried to ignore their insistent cheerfulness, burrowing deeper into the covers, but then it struck him—he never heard birds singing in his eighteenth-floor condo.

  He jerked upright, scanning the unfamiliar room. Memory flooded back. Josh was dead, and Boyd was now occupying Josh’s rented room at Sylvia Stratton’s bed-and-breakfast.

  Jesus, when would this stop? Every night, sleep wiped the grief away, and every morning he woke up blank but knowing somehow that a shoe was going to drop.

  Throwing the covers off, he swung his legs to the floor. For a moment he just sat there, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Grief had its own inertia, he’d discovered. It was a hundred-pound weight he had to carry, every moment of every day. His frail, aging parents had been crushed by it. In the wake of Josh’s death, Boyd had had to push himself to do what needed to be done. The shock, the unreality of it, had protected him in the initial days.

  But the insulation hadn’t lasted. He dragged a hand through his hair and stood up.

  Even though they hadn’t seen each other in person in more than three months, Josh had been very much a part of Boyd’s everyday life. A phone call at least once a week, and oh, God, those infernal text messages. Boyd had often bitched about Josh’s talkativeness, textually speaking, but what he’d give to be peppered by them now.

  Josh had also phoned their parents once a day, every day. By contrast, Boyd had been in the habit of calling them once a week. Sure, he visited them a couple of times a month, to take care of any odd jobs his father needed done around their old brick home in Glen Park, or at their lake cottage, but it was Josh who’d brought joy into their lives on a daily basis. When he got back, he’d have to start spending more time with them and calling them more often. Of course, the latter he could start doing now. He hoped to God they could spring back from this. They’d been fairly socially active up to now and still had a few longtime friends whose families had grown up beside each other in middle-class suburbia. Good friends who hopefully would help draw them back into their routines.

  Pushing those thoughts away for the moment, he glanced around the room. Missing Josh was something he couldn’t do anything about. And he certainly couldn’t bring him back from the dead. But he could—and he would—get to the bottom of what happened. But first, he needed to eat.

  Fifteen minutes later, showered and dressed in fresh jeans and a plaid button-down shirt, he headed for the breakfast room. Sylvia Stratton was there when he arrived, seated at the table reading the newspaper. She glanced up.

  “You look better this morning. Did you sleep well?”

  “I did, thank you.” And he had. Well, once he’d given the room a first cursory search. He’d known the notebook wouldn’t be in an obvious place. If it had been, he’d have found it the first time around. He’d started in the bedroom, checking all the drawers, looking for false bottoms or backs, and checking to make sure nothing was taped to the undersides. Using his shaving mirror and a flashlight, he’d examined the undersides and backs of the other furniture—the bed frame, the night table, the wardrobe. He’d moved on to other obvious places in the living area of his suite—behind the big flat-screen TV, down the sides of the couch with its oversize cushions. Hell, he’d unzipped the cushions themselves and examined the interior.

  Yes, his search had felt a little bit like something out of a 1980s crime movie, but he knew his brother was particular as hell about his personal journals. Having a twin meant having almost no privacy. Not that Boyd was a big snooper, but neither twin was above rifling through the other one’s stuff if it was left lying around. And after Boyd had given Josh holy hell for his “feelings” notebook, his brother had sworn that Boyd—or anyone else—would never get his hands on it again.

  It might be a stretch that Josh was still Mission: Impossible about hiding his stuff, but Boyd wasn’t taking anything for granted. Not if it meant bringing a murderer to justice.

  Eventually exhaustion had caught up with him. He’d crawled in between the sheets and went to bed, more frustrated than he’d been when he’d arrived.

  “Help yourself to breakfast, Detective.” She gestured to a sideboard, where several stainless steel chafing dishes gleamed, the kind caterers used to keep food warm. “The live-in staff have already eaten, but there’s plenty left.”

  “Thank you, I’ll do that,” he said. “But there’s no need for the ‘Detective’ business. I don’t have any standing here.”

  “Oh, but there’s every need. I doubt you stop being a detective just because you’ve left your jurisdiction, any more than I stop being a physician when office hours are over.”

  “If you prefer.”

  “I do,” she said. “I believe I called you Mr. McBride last evening, though, and for that I apologize. Put it down to tiredness. Your brother mentioned your occupation a number of times. He was very proud of you.”

  Shit. Just like that, emotion tightened his throat. “Well, the feeling was mutual.” His voice came out sounding amazingly normal. “We couldn’t have been prouder of Josh.” He looked around for something to sip to ease the ache. “Is that coffee I smell?”

  “I’ll pour it for you while you get your breakfast ready.” She stood.

  “Don’t let me put you out. I can get it myself if you just show me where to find the mugs and the coffeepot.”

  “Very well.” She subsided into her chair again. “The coffee urn is on the other side of
the refrigerator. Mugs in the cupboard up above.”

  He poured the coffee into a bone china mug, added a couple of creamers, and carried it back to the table. Gesturing to the elaborate place setting, with bowl, saucer, and plate stacked on a woven charger, surrounded by silverware and juice glasses, he asked, “That for me?”

  “Of course, Detective.”

  “Very fancy.”

  “Merely civilized.”

  She got up to refill her own mug while he helped himself to breakfast. Fresh cut-up fruit, fluffy scrambled eggs, and a heap of hash browns that looked to be made from scratch with fresh potatoes. By the time he sat down at the table, he was actually hungry.

  She placed her refilled mug on the table. “You need fruit juice,” she remarked, looking at his breakfast. “What’s your preference? I can recommend the orange juice. It’s fresh squeezed.”

  That sounded like heaven, and Boyd said so.

  She took his glass and went to the refrigerator. A moment later, she placed the juice in front of him.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She glanced at his breakfast again, and, seemingly satisfied he had all the food groups covered now, she went back to her crossword.

  He ate quickly, until he felt Sylvia Stratton’s gaze on him.

  “What?”

  “You really aren’t much like your twin, are you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She gestured to his plate, which was all but empty now. “Josh took a more leisurely approach to his meals.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” he said, smiling at the memory. “Meals were events for him, whereas food is pretty much just fuel for me. Yes, I appreciate the high-test fuel if it’s there,” he said, nodding toward the food-laden sideboard, “but regular does nicely too.”

  “I see. Well, you’re going to be running on high test while you’re here. See if a few weeks of organic, non-GMO, antibiotic-free, nutrient-rich diet doesn’t improve your sense of well-being.”

  He doubted a few breakfasts were going to mitigate the effects of a cop’s diet, but he smiled. “I’ll drink to that.” Picking up his glass of OJ, he raised it in a toast to her, then drained it. Then he stood and stacked his dishes, intending to stow them in the dishwasher or carry them to the sink, at least.