by Lisa Jackson
All because his damned wife didn’t know when to back the hell off.
CHAPTER 8
“Dead?” Nikki whispered, staring up at her husband from the bed. He’d walked into their bedroom and snapped on the bedside lamp to wake her and tell her the horrifying news. “Oh, God. Morrisette . . . she . . . died?” Suddenly numb inside, Nikki took a minute to process what he was saying, but she still couldn’t believe it. No . . . not sharp-tongued, balls-to-the-wall, take-no-prisoners Sylvie Morrisette. That was impossible. It had to be.
But Reed’s face said it all.
His tortured expression convinced her.
“Oh, dear God.” Her insides turned to lead. She scooted up against the pillows at the head of the bed and ignored the jab of pain in her shoulder and patted the edge of the mattress. “What happened?”
“Neurosurgeon couldn’t save her.” He closed his eyes, sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sagging, then let his head fall into his hands.
“But . . . I mean . . .” She had no words, was cold to her core.
“They did their best, but she died while she was still in surgery. Blood pressure went down, heart failed, oh, hell, I don’t know exactly what the hell happened.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat, trying to grab on to the rags of his composure. “I’m not sure anyone knows yet. The thing is: She’s gone, Nikki. It’s over.”
Nikki’s heart broke. Not just for her grieving husband, but for Morrisette’s family, those close to her. “What about her kids?” she asked softly as beside her, nestled in the pillows, Mikado, who had been sleeping, blinked his eyes open and wagged his scruffy tail.
“With their dad.” Reed’s jaw tightened and he sniffed loudly. “Morrisette would’ve hated the thought of that.”
Nikki grew cold inside. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”
He lifted his head, his gaze hard, his eyes red as he looked at her. “You should be.”
A beat. Just long enough for her to process.
Her throat closed and she blinked back tears. Shaking her head, she whispered in disbelief, “You’re . . . ? You’re blaming me?”
He seemed about to snap back at her but somehow held his tongue, his jaw working. For a second she thought he would point out her flaws—stupid curiosity, her insatiable need to follow a story and her carelessness of falling into the river. As if she were the direct cause of his partner’s death. Instead he didn’t say a word. Just stared at her with grief-riddled eyes that, if she looked close, simmered with a quiet, condemning rage.
“I didn’t . . . I mean . . . yeah, I shouldn’t have been there and yeah, I slipped into the river, but I was perfectly fine. I’m a good swimmer. I could’ve—”
“Morrisette had no idea what kind of swimmer you were. She saw a person in danger, a person being swept away, a person who could drown, and she reacted like the good cop she is . . . er, was! No, Nikki, you didn’t personally drag her into the river; you were just the eager, unwitting bait.”
“No . . . I—”
He cut her off. “Detective Sylvie Morrisette took an oath to protect and serve, and that was what she was doing when she died! Protecting you.”
She gasped. “Jesus, Pierce.”
He stood then, towering over the bed, staring down at her. “I’m not blaming you. Not directly. But if you hadn’t sneaked into the crime scene against department warnings and orders, this all wouldn’t have happened and Sylvie Morrisette would be alive right now, working the case, bitching about her exes, all four of them, and being able to be the good mother and officer she always strived to be.” He squeezed his eyes shut and threw back his head, willing himself to gain control. “No,” he said, blinking up at the ceiling. “It’s not your fault that she’s dead, but because of your actions she took a risk and ended up losing her life.”
“Oh, Reed, you seriously can’t blame—”
But he was already walking out of the bedroom, heading down the hallway to the stairs, his footsteps echoing behind him. Mikado hopped off the bed and followed Reed down the stairs.
This was all wrong. So wrong.
Nikki felt miserable. Her heart was heavy, her head ached, her shoulder began to throb and she was pummeled with guilt. Throwing herself back against the pillows, she closed her eyes and fought tears. She’d never been one to cry, but now her throat grew thick and her eyes burned. She blinked and dashed the tears away. If she hadn’t gone against Reed’s orders, if she hadn’t gone to the Beaumont estate, if she hadn’t slipped and fallen, if . . .
“Stop it!” she said aloud, and sniffed back any remaining tears. Weeping wouldn’t change things. Bawling her eyes out wouldn’t help. She was and always had been a woman of action. Could never lie around idly. Not even now. She threw back the covers and got out of bed to walk into the adjoining bathroom. Using her good hand, she splashed water on her face over the sink, then caught sight of her reflection. Mussed red-blond hair, green eyes puffy from lack of sleep and the sudden spate of tears, her freckles still visible in her flushed face. Not a good look. But did it even matter? Probably not. Still, she glared at her image and said, “Get a grip, Gillette.”
Back in the bedroom, she found her robe slung over the back of a chair and slipped her good arm through one sleeve, letting the other sleeve hang over her shoulder with the sling. She couldn’t cinch the damned thing around her waist, so the robe gapped slightly, billowing behind her as she headed downstairs.
She found Reed in the kitchen.
He hadn’t turned on any lights, but a bit of moonlight filtering through the windows offered a weak, bluish illumination.
Reed was drinking.
Seated on a barstool at the kitchen island, a half-empty bottle of scotch and a short glass filled with ice cubes and dark liquid on the counter in front of him, he glanced up as Nikki approached. “Figured I’d have a drink in her honor.” He held up his glass. “Or two.”
“Sure.” The digital readout on the stove glowed a soft blue. 4:17. The dog had settled into a bed near the back door. “Sounds like a good idea to me.” Leaning a hip against the island, she added, “I think Morrisette would’ve appreciated it.”
“Damned straight, she would.” He took a long swallow, then slammed his glass down with a hard smack against the counter. Ice cubes rattled and danced. A bit of scotch sloshed over the rim.
“I would join you, but . . . well, the baby.”
“Yeah.” He nodded as if lost in thought. “Right,” he finally said. “The baby.”
“Our baby.”
“I know.”
But that was the end of the conversation; he was somewhere else.
A silence ensued, stretching long between them. Awkward. Almost intimidating. The clock counting off the minutes.
For once, Nikki was at a loss for words. To fill the void, she opened the refrigerator, the light from its interior illuminating a swath of the room. “Maybe you’d like a couple of eggs and a slice or two of toast? Or something?” She glanced over her shoulder. “It is morning, y’know.”
“Yeah, I know.” Another swallow, another noisy drop of his glass onto the counter top. “And it’s too late to be drinking. But . . . what the fucking hell? Right?” He drained the glass as she retrieved a carton of eggs from the fridge, let the door close, then switched on the light over the stove.
“You’re serious about making breakfast?” He let out a snort. “Unreal.”
“I just thought it might help.”
“Well, you were wrong.” His eyes were like lasers as he looked at her. “Nothing’s gonna help. It’ll all just take time.”
“Then come to bed.”
“Won’t be able to sleep.”
“There are other things we could do,” she said with a flirty lift of her eyebrow, giving him the look he usually found irresistible.
“You’re injured,” he reminded her, nose in his glass, and polished off his drink.
“Oh, I think I can manage.” She managed a bit of a smile, a little
come-on.
He eyed her in disbelief. Uncapped the bottle. “Not now.”
Never could she remember him turning down a sexy invitation. “So you’re going to drink away the rest of the night?” she asked, deflated, an edge in her voice.
“Don’t know.” He poured another stiff shot. Studied the glass. Gave a quick nod. “This is only drink number two. But . . . Yeah.” He nodded. “Maybe.”
“Reed—”
“Let it go, Nikki.” Again he pinned her with his gaze. “I’m dealing, okay? I don’t need judgments. I don’t need lectures. And most of all I don’t need you trying to coddle me or make me feel better.”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“Well, thank you,” he said sarcastically. “But right now, I don’t want your help. I think you’ve done enough.”
Her temper ignited. “Wow. As if I don’t feel bad enough.”
“Do you?” He eyed her in disbelief. “ ‘Feel bad?’ ”
“Of course I do. You’re not the only one hurting tonight.”
“You? You’re hurting?” he threw back at her. “Seriously? Geez . . . But then you didn’t see her kids, though, did you? Priscilla and Toby. They’re the ones hurting. They’re the ones who have to live with what you . . . with what happened.”
Stung, she stared at her husband with new eyes. “You were going to say, ‘They have to live with what I’ve done.’ ” She couldn’t believe it. “Admit it. That’s what you were going to say!”
“If the stiletto fits—”
“Oh, my God! Enough! Pierce, just stop! If . . . If you wanted to make me feel guilty, then you’ve done it. Okay? Mission accomplished!” Furious and hurting, she snapped off the range light, leaving him in darkness. “You made your point. Loud and clear.” With that she stormed out of the room. He could drown himself in his sorrows for all she cared, she thought, her housecoat sliding off her shoulder. Angrily she yanked it into place as she started up the stairs, the dog at her heels.
“Well, since you’re listening,” he yelled after her. “Stay the hell away from my case. Leave it alone. You’ve done enough damage for one day.”
That stung. Damage—as in causing his partner’s death.
As if she didn’t feel bad enough! She stopped on the fifth step, deciding whether or not to stalk down and give him a piece of her mind. Yeah, she’d made a mistake. A horrible, fatal mistake. And she felt guilty about it. Seriously guilty. It was eating her up inside. But he—her damned husband—didn’t have to pour salt in her already burning, open wound.
And if he thought he could order her to . . . what? Leave it alone?
Fat chance!
Now, more than ever, she was committed to finding out what had happened out there at the Beaumont property. Who were in the graves? Why was there one left empty? How long had the bodies been up there? Again, her mind reeled with dozens of questions.
Reed really thought she would just let it go?
Maybe he didn’t know his wife that well after all.
If he thought he could get away with brooding all night, sulking in the kitchen, drinking himself into oblivion, then he had another think—and probably drink—coming! She was a reporter and had been since they’d met. So he knew how she felt about her job, how writing about crime, even solving cases was a part of her, as it was a part of him.
She spun quickly, determined to have it out with him. As she did, her foot caught in the sagging hem of her robe, the loose material tangling around her ankle.
She slipped on the step.
She scrabbled for the rail, gravity pulling her down swiftly.
Her fingers slid down a baluster.
Her feet slipped to the next step.
Thud!
She landed on her back. Pain ricocheted down her spine. Agony ripped through her shoulder as she tumbled. She let out a yell. “Noooo!” The dog barked and scrambled out of her way. “Reed!” She fell to the base of the step.
“Nikki!” Reed’s voice was sharp. Anxious. Echoing over the sound of a stool scraping backward and running footsteps. “Nikki!”
She felt something break within her. Something tender and fragile.
Oh. Dear. God.
Sprawled on the last two steps, rattled to her core, she spied her husband careening around the corner to the kitchen. He was at her side in an instant, on his knees and hovering over her. “Oh, God, Nikki, are you okay?” His face was a mask of worry, his anxious eyes scanning her features.
Was she? She blinked. Moved slightly. Testing her arms and legs. “Yeah, I think so,” she said, though she wasn’t certain.
“Your shoulder?”
“It’s . . . it hurts,” she admitted as her head cleared, and she knew in that instant her shoulder wasn’t the problem. Nor was her back, nor her arms or legs. No . . . oh, please . . . no.
“Thank God.”
She heard his voice as if from a distance.
A deep, clawing sadness took hold of her soul as she recognized the feeling of wetness between her legs. She had trouble finding her voice. “I think you’d better call Dr. Kasey,” she said, forcing the horrid words past her lips.
“Dr. Ka . . . Oh, no,” he whispered, letting his gaze slide down her body. “You mean . . .”
She followed his gaze but knew what she’d find. A crimson stain was blooming on her nightgown, visible where her dressing gown had parted. “Oh, Jesus, Nikki.”
“Call her,” she said again, more forcefully, even though she was certain it was too late.
There was no baby.
Not anymore.
CHAPTER 9
Two days later, Reed was at the station. He tossed back the cold dregs of his coffee and threw the disposable cup into the trash near his desk. The door to his office was slightly ajar, and he heard the buzz and hum of activity from the outer hallway. Someone was laughing. He thought it sounded like Van Houten’s deep rumble as it faded away.
It was nearly five, the shift would be changing soon, and voices and ringing phones carried over the wheeze of the air-conditioning unit that was struggling against the thick Georgia heat.
Though the flood waters from the storm had receded and most of the power had been restored, the city of Savannah was still in the midst of a major cleanup. Emergency crews for the city and electric or cable companies continued to work around the clock. The streets had been cleared of debris for the most part, but now the roadways were filled with vans from the media, or trucks for the road crews or construction companies and insurance adjustors assessing the damage.
Getting through town was still a challenge.
But then, what wasn’t?
Reed considered another cup of coffee, then discarded the idea as it was late afternoon, bright sunlight visible through the grimy window.
He rotated the kinks from his neck.
Because of the hurricane, the police department was stretched thin.
Losing an officer, especially a detective of Morrisette’s caliber, didn’t help. She’d been a good cop. A dedicated cop. A do-anything-for-justice cop. The department missed her. Hell, Reed missed her.
He glanced over at Morrisette’s empty desk and frowned, a hollow feeling in his gut.
It would ebb in time.
He knew that.
But for now there was a distinct void in his life.
More than one, he thought sadly as he remembered the panicked early-morning drive to the hospital with Nikki, her face white as chalk, the deep regret and aching sadness in her eyes despite him saying over and over again, “It’ll be all right, Nikki. Hang in there. It’s all gonna be all right.” He’d known differently, of course, as he’d punched the accelerator and sped through the near-empty streets, the Jeep’s emergency lights flashing on the short, frantic trip to the hospital. He’d slid a glance in her direction. “We’re gonna be okay.”
Nikki had seen through his lie and nervously cracked the window. “I don’t know if we’ll ever be ‘okay,’” she’d admitted as he’d
careened into the parking lot. The Jeep slid to a stop at the glass doors of the emergency room, the same doors he’d walked through only an hour earlier, and he’d hustled her inside.
From then on it had been a blur, a tangle of emotion.
Nikki’s OB/GYN had met them in the ER.
Devoid of makeup, her hair in a loose, messy bun, Dr. Kasey had taken the call from the answering service and rushed to the hospital. After a quick exam in the ER, she’d somberly delivered the news they’d already expected: Nikki was miscarrying. There would be no baby. Not now. They would have to wait, but in a few months and blah, blah, blah. The same litany they’d heard before.
He wondered if it would ever happen, if they would ever have a pregnancy go to term, and told himself if it didn’t happen, he would be okay. Maybe. But Nikki? He felt a bitter sadness deep inside. As hard as it was on him, it was worse for Nikki. He knew that. He’d seen it in the pain in her eyes. The misery. And the regret.
“Hell,” he muttered under his breath, and rolled his chair back to the desk again. He wouldn’t think about all that now. Nor would he consider the tension that existed in his marriage. So many harsh words had been uttered, so many apologies left unspoken.
He glanced over to Morrisette’s empty desk again. He’d been out when someone had cleaned out her desk and he hadn’t seen who had taken all of Morrisette’s things—her pictures of her kids, a silver boot paperweight, a sharpshooter award all hidden in a messy stack of paperwork, coffee cups and half-empty packs of gum. There had been a pot with a half-dead cactus that she’d never watered in one corner, neglected but too stubborn to die. Now the workspace was empty, the computer monitor dark, her chair tucked neatly into place.
So unfamiliar.
So sterile.
He’d managed to snag one memento from Morrisette’s desk drawer before someone had cleaned everything from her workspace. A ring of keys with a Lone Star. He’d slipped the keys from the ring, left them in her desk drawer, and fingering the sharp points of the star, pocketed the token. He figured she would’ve wanted him to have it. And even if not, too bad.