“Now, based on this report, did you close the investigation into Mr. Horne’s death?” Monroe asks. “Wrapped it all up?”
I sit up a little straighter. Jeff promised me he’d look into what we’ve found. My heart sinks when Jeff says clear and strong, “Yes, I closed the case when we received this report.”
But Jeff is looking past Mr. Monroe, straight to me. I replay what he said and realize that he’s answering exactly what’s asked, not showing his hand. He’s sticking to his plan and reminding me to do the same. I give him the smallest nod of recognition.
“No further questions.”
Mr. Walsh stands and tells the judge, “We have no questions for Sheriff Barnes at this time.”
I’m next. In what seems like a haze, I find myself sitting next to Judge Hopkins’s desk, my hands twisting in my lap as I look at Blake. Finally, his eyes are on me, but they’re empty, no sign of what we were doing mere hours ago. And his teeth are clenched, making his jawline look extra sharp.
What’s wrong, Blake?
I was expecting to maintain professionalism today, show that there’s been no conflict of interest if needed, but the cold shoulder stings more than it should. My brain knows it’s all business, but my heart doesn’t give a shit and is in panic mode, pounding away a drum rhythm of fuck, fuck, fuck.
Mr. Monroe’s questions are softball lob easy, basically reiterating what Jeff already said.
Yes, I’m sure Mr. Horne is dead. How? Because I performed an autopsy on him, so if he were alive, I definitely would’ve noticed. So would he.
But this time, Mr. Walsh has questions for me.
“Miss Walker, can you explain this report?” He hands me a piece of paper, Richard Horne’s lab results. I look to Jeff, whose eyes narrow.
Carefully and thoughtfully, I answer, “That’s a standard blood panel. Whenever there’s an autopsy, I perform one.”
“Why?”
“Protocol,” I answer. But Mr. Monroe stares at me silently, and I feel compelled to add more. “Because even in the case of extreme injury, such as a car accident, there could be internal reasons. Such as alcohol, medications, things like that. It’s standard practice to check everything.”
“And myocardial infarctions?”
I nod. “Yes. Bloodwork can be very important in such cases.”
“And these abnormal levels?” He points to the heavy metal results and my racing heart stalls out.
“They show Mr. Horne had high levels of lead, arsenic, and mercury at the time of his death. Results were confirmed by a repeated examination by the State labs.”
“Hmm, interesting,” Mr. Walsh hums, taking the paper back and looking at it carefully.
I think I know where he’s going with this, but I’m still unsure. I know what I do feel, which is under the microscope, frozen and not sure if that was a question or not. I wish I had Blake’s coaster in my hand, but since it’s in my purse back at my seat, I place my fingertips along the edge of Judge Hopkins’s desk. I run my fingers back and forth the smallest inch, as casually as I can.
Nothing weird to see here, no luck needed. Just answering some easy questions.
“Did you figure out what caused the high levels?”
Okay, maybe not so easy. I swallow. The truth is yes, I did. What I can prove is a totally different story.
“While indeed interesting, the high levels were deemed to have no relevance to Mr. Horne’s heart attack.”
“But did you figure out what caused the high levels?” he asks again.
Jeff’s speech is in my ear—all circumstantial, no proof, what if Yvette didn’t feed it to Richard?
“No, I did not.” It hurts me to say that, but it is the truth. I don’t know, I suspect. Two very different things. And I need more proof before I state my suspicions in a courtroom.
“I see. No further questions at this time.” I walk back to my seat next to Jeff, but my eyes are on Blake the whole way there. Is he disappointed? Does he understand why? Why is he still avoiding eye contact with me? Is it just about playing strangers?
Mr. Monroe rests his case, and Mr. Walsh stands for his turn. “I’d like to call Blake Hale, please.”
Blake walks to the judge’s desk and sits down. He looks comfortable, calm and collected—the opposite of me, considering my pits are still sweaty with nerves—and sexy with those glasses!
A sexy nerd of my very own! Maybe he can leave those on for the date . . . and later.
“Mr. Hale, you heard Miss Walker discussing the abnormal lab levels,” Mr. Monroe says. “Were you aware of these?”
“Yes, I discussed them with Sheriff Barnes and Miss Walker previously when I received the autopsy report and repeat lab results.”
“And do you know what caused them?”
No, no, no, no! I plead telepathically to Blake, begging him with my eyes as hard as I can . . . don’t say it!
“I suspect I might,” he says evenly.
No!
Now she’ll know we’re on to her. Any advantage Jeff would have in his investigation is going to be blown to smithereens. Without having enough for a search warrant, any evidence Yvette might’ve left will be destroyed by the end of the day for sure.
“And what do you believe caused Mr. Horne’s high heavy metal levels?”
Blake clears his throat and looks back sure and clear. “A supplement purchased off the internet by Yvette Horne. I suspect the supplements were added to Mr. Horne’s morning smoothies.”
“Those are very serious allegations. Do you have any proof?” Mr. Walsh is obviously already well aware of Blake’s big reveal but is feigning shock surprisingly well while laying out a verbal pathway that might as well be lit up like the yellow brick road leading right to Yvette. Mr. Walsh is even standing directly in front of Yvette, calling Judge Hopkins’s attention to her as Blake explains.
“I have an invoice from an online pharmacy for the supplement, purchased by Yvette Horne and delivered to the Hornes’ home. And Mr. Horne’s medical records show that he was making a concentrated effort to be healthier, even mentioning the green smoothies his wife made him every morning for breakfast. Along with their disgusting taste and resulting heartburn.”
Yvette makes an exaggerated, huffing sound of displeasure. “Hmph. Why, I never . . .” and Mr. Monroe bumps her with his shoulder.
She quiets instantly, but when she turns to listen to her attorney, I can see the fury burning in her eyes and the sneer on her red lips as he whispers to her urgently. I look to Jeff, but he seems particularly busy burning holes through Blake with his trademark sheriff glare.
Mr. Walsh takes a carefully measured step back from Yvette as though she’s a dangerous murderer who might go off at any moment.
“How did you come to be in possession of this invoice, Mr. Hale?”
Oh, shit. This is bad, so bad.
I reach in my purse for the coaster, hoping to rub some worry away, but instead it goes clattering to the floor, loudly interrupting and getting everyone’s attention. They’re all looking directly at me, exactly what I didn’t want, as I scramble to pick up the coaster from the floor.
“Sorry! Just dropped something. Pardon me.”
As I sit up, Blake makes true eye contact with me for the first time since he entered the courtroom, and I see something flash in the depths of his blue eyes behind the frames, but it’s gone too fast for me to label it.
But there was something.
“Zoey, you good?” Judge Hopkins asks.
“Yes, Your Honor,” I say, trying to sink into my chair, through the floor, and right back downstairs to my morgue where it’s safe and quiet. And no one looks at me.
Mr. Walsh seems frustrated at having his dramatic reveal interrupted, but he makes sure to remind everyone exactly where he was.
“How did you get this invoice?”
Jeff goes stock-still beside me, knowing full well that he saw that very invoice on my table days ago.
Blake licks his lips
before slowly and clearly saying, “I got it out of Yvette Horne’s trash a few days after her husband’s death.”
Even Judge Hopkins looks disgusted by that, and he didn’t smell it. He blurts, “You dug through her trash?”
Blake nods. “I did. I also found a container of the green smoothie mix Mr. Horne told his doctor he was drinking, as seen in the medical records from Dr. Yu.”
Mr. Walsh drops a piece of paper with a green highlighted section off to Judge Hopkins’s desk. Meanwhile, Mr. Monroe is flipping through papers in front of him, scribbling back and forth on a notepad with Yvette. She writes something I can’t see and underlines it three times, pointing at it with the pen.
“Uh, no questions at this time, Judge.”
“Very well, I’d like to call Miss Walker back to the stand,” Mr. Walsh says.
What? Do I have to go up there again?
Judging by the way every pair of eyes in the room turn to me, I guess so.
“Oh, uh . . . yeah. Be calm, Zoey. Breathe.” I’m talking to myself, but not quietly enough, because Mr. Walsh is watching me with hungry eyes. Not like he wants to actually eat me, cannibalistically or sexually, but rather like he’s looking forward to verbally fileting me the instant I sit down.
“Your oath to tell the truth still stands, Zoey,” Judge Hopkins tells me, and I nod robotically.
Mr. Walsh sets the invoice that I painstakingly pieced together in front of me. “Miss Walker, you testified the heavy metal levels were of no consideration since Mr. Horne died of a myocardial infarction. If he was, in fact, being systematically poisoned, could that have played a factor in his death?”
I replay his exact question back in my mind, remembering Jeff’s advice to answer only what is specifically asked. Nothing more, nothing less. “Heavy metal poisoning does not directly cause a heart attack.”
Mr. Monroe’s lips quirk as though he won both the battle and the war, but I’m not done answering. If I have to answer these questions, I will do so precisely and to the best of my ability, so that both legally and morally, I can look at myself in the mirror without cringing.
“But the results of heavy metal poisoning could indirectly contribute due to the damage that it causes throughout the body.” It’s as close as I can get to saying “you’re damn right” without actually saying it.
“I see,” Mr. Walsh gloats. “So, with this new information, would you consider Mr. Horne’s heart attack an open and shut case with no need for further investigation?”
There’s only one way to answer that question . . . with the absolute truth that I’ve known since the beginning. “No.”
Judge Hopkins excuses me from the witness seat, and Jeff barely glances at me as I return to sit beside him.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He lifts his shoulder noncommittally, not saying anything, but I can feel a lecture coming on full-force and I’m not looking forward to it.
The law’s supposed to be one team. And I just made Jeff look like Rosco P. Coltrane up here. He’s not going to like that. What damage have I done? For Yvette Horne and some money that I don’t even care about? No, if I wreck my job over this, it will be for Richard Horne. So his truth is known.
Mr. Walsh calls Mr. Neilhouse up next. “I’ll keep this brief. Mr. Horne’s life insurance contract . . . it states that Everlife has reasonable time to pay out a contract once a death claim has been made, correct?”
“Yes, the contract also defines reasonable time as three months from the date of claim. In this case, Mrs. Horne filed the claim six weeks ago, so we are well within our contracted timeframe,” Mr. Neilhouse answers dryly.
“I see. And does today’s information, particularly Miss Walker’s statement that further investigation is warranted, affect the three-month timeline?”
“Yes, it does. For a claim to be filed, the death must be of natural causes, or if there are questionable circumstances, those concerns must be addressed first. Seeing as there are remaining concerns, the current claim would be null and void until those have been handled by law enforcement. If Mr. Horne’s death were then deemed acceptable, Everlife’s three-month window would then begin with the filing of the updated claim.”
“Acceptable death?” Mr. Walsh asks with a furrowed brow. “Could you explain that?”
Neilhouse adjusts his glasses, nodding.
“Mr. Horne’s life insurance policy has exemption clauses for various reasons, including suicide or foul play by a beneficiary. Standard industry terms for this level of contract. In those situations, there would be no claim payout of any kind.”
Mr. Walsh spins, giving Mr. Monroe a triumphant look before sitting down.
Judge Hopkins looks at Monroe and says, “I’m sure you have questions.”
“Yes,” Mr. Monroe answers as he stands. “Mr. Neilhouse, so what I’m hearing is that it benefits Everlife to find a way to make a death questionable to avoid payment.”
Mr. Neilhouse chuckles, unbothered by the accusation. “Obviously, we would prefer to not pay claims if they’re fraudulent in some way.”
But Mr. Monroe is gathering steam. “Fraudulent in some way?” he repeats with the added twist of bitter sarcasm. “And if the claim is valid, you attempt to undermine it by whatever means necessary—including having employees like Blake Hale dig through trash, question doctors, and harass law enforcement and coroners. Using any means to not pay a rightful claim.”
Mr. Monroe spreads his hands wide, as though Everlife is in the habit of refuting claims this way.
Jeff sighs, and when I look to him, he meets my gaze with sad eyes.
“Sorry, Zoey,” he whispers.
“What?” I murmur in confusion.
Why is he apologizing? What is he sorry for?
Jeff’s eyes go hard and flinty as he turns away from me, giving Blake the full power of his laser focus. Blake doesn’t look my way, but his chin lifts an extra inch and the muscle in his jaw is working furiously. Too slowly, new puzzle pieces begin to slide into place, parts of a much larger puzzle I didn’t even see. Too focused on the invoice, too focused on Yvette Horne, that I didn’t even see it until now.
By any means?
Like coming to see me in the morgue about a case . . . questioning the autopsy report and labs . . . investigating to find an explanation that would lead to enough doubts to deny the claim?
Could that be what Blake has been doing all along?
That first time he came to the morgue about Yvette Horne’s case, it was Holly who pushed him into going for drinks.
Not him. Maybe he saw an opportunity and took it? A chance to use me and get a little something extra out of it too. Holly says guys will lie, cheat, and steal to get laid, so what if Blake did lie?
Manipulate me to get what he wanted with a bonus. He’s probably been laughing the whole time at how superstitious, lonely, and pathetic I am.
Drop-Dead Gorgeous?
Trailer Park Princess?
Black Widow?
The hurt of the names I’ve heard hundreds of times is nothing compared to whatever Blake probably calls me in his head. Pity Fuck Roulette?
With my history, Blake has to be afraid that he’s tempting fate by spending time with me.
It’d serve him right. I hope he pays.
Malicious thoughts flood me, my eyes burning hot.
I don’t even know what I’m doing, but somehow, the coaster I’m still holding clatters to the floor once again, and I bolt for the door, knocking over a chair as I go.
“Zoey?” Judge Hopkins calls from his desk, but I don’t stop. I have to get out of here.
I am such a fool. I knew better, knew not to hope and dream. But this time, it’s not the person I care about who’s been cut down by the cruelty of fate.
This time . . . it’s me.
Or perhaps the irony is that when I finally put myself first, started to care for myself instead of everyone else, and believed that maybe I was worth the risk, I’m the one hurt worst
of all.
Out the door of the courtroom, I run down the stairs and then down another flight to my basement hidey hole. The frigid room is still warmer than the ice that’s running through my veins, freezing my heart back into a solid, impenetrable fortress.
“Zoey?” a deep voice says from the door.
I wipe at my eyes furiously, not wanting to be seen as weak, even though I’m falling apart. “Yes?”
“You want me to kill him?” Jeff asks deadpan.
Or maybe he’s serious? I’m not sure.
But wait . . .
“What?”
Jeff rolls his eyes. “Blake Hale. As soon as I saw that damn invoice, I knew you’d been playing Nancy Drew with him as your Hardy Boy. If I’d known he was sniffing around, I would’ve run him off.”
He says it as though that would be a kindness, and I suppose it would’ve been because then I wouldn’t have ruined the potential case or gotten my heart broken.
Again.
“You’ve got your quirks, Zoey, but you don’t deserve the shit that’s happened to you, least of all, this. Just blink twice and I’ll take care of things.”
A fresh burst of tears pours out of my soul, but with them comes a tiny laugh that makes snot bubble from my nose. I grab a tissue and try to wipe it all away, every last bit of snot, tears, and pain.
“It’s okay. I knew better. I shouldn’t have thought it would be any different.” He pats my shoulder awkwardly, and as sad as it is, it’s the closest thing I’ve had to parental comfort in so long that I lean into it. “I’m sorry I messed up the case.”
“Pshaw. Don’t worry about that none. If Yvette killed him, she ain’t getting her money, and like I told you, today was about money, not law. I can still investigate. You might be surprised to learn this, Zoey, but I’m not half-bad at figuring stuff out myself, so if there’s a way to do it legally, I will.”
“You promise?”
“I promised Richard Horne, same as I do every person in the county, to serve and protect. I couldn’t protect him, but I can make sure he’s served proper justice.”
“Thanks, Jeff.”
“Now, you’d best get out of here. I’m betting that Hale fellow is gonna be down here as soon as Mike bangs his gavel and that you’d rather be gone when he gets here. You can go see Martha if you want. She’ll fix you up. Probably have you eating cookies in fifteen minutes. She’s got this new recipe she’s playing with, some oatmeal raisin thing with zucchini in it. Oh, don’t tell her I know about the zucchini because she thinks she’s sneaking me some green vegetables, but the truth is, I’m the one sneaking extra cookies.”
Drop Dead Gorgeous Page 26