Chapter Eighteen

Cassandra drove down Main Street, scanning the sidewalks and trying to get her nerves under control. Malcom wasn’t here. He couldn’t be. Just last night, he’d posted on social media from an Avalanche game.

But somehow, Malcom always managed to make his presence felt.

No parking spaces available, so she circled the block once more. Regret needled her as she passed the familiar cafés and T-shirt shops. She passed her favorite art gallery that had all the watercolors of boats that she could never afford. Then she passed the old-fashioned candy shop where they made saltwater taffy in a rainbow of flavors. Tears welled in her eyes as she turned the corner. The spark of hope she’d had when she’d first come to the island had dimmed, day by day, until this morning when it had been snuffed out completely.

A driver pulled out of a space on the corner, and Cassandra wedged her little white Mustang into the tight opening. She jumped out and surveyed her parking job. Not great, but not terrible enough to attract attention. For months, Cassandra had avoided driving her car unless absolutely necessary because her registration was expired and she hadn’t wanted to get pulled over and get a ticket, which would create a record of her name and location. But traffic tickets were the least of her worries now.

She waited for a break in cars and darted across the street. She passed the real estate office where they put out water bowls for dogs and posted local listings in the window. Cassandra used to dream about those listings and about one day having enough money to plunk down a deposit on some dilapidated beach cottage that she could gradually fix up. Those dreams seemed absurd now, along with everything else she’d been steadfastly working toward for months.

Nearing the law office, her stomach sank as she spied the sign in the window: Back soon! it said over a little clock. The clock hands were set to four p.m., the same as they had been yesterday when she’d come by here.

“Hey there.”

Cassandra whirled around. Leyla Breda strode up the sidewalk, her arms loaded with brown packages.

“I thought that was you,” Leyla said with a smile. Today she wore a baseball cap and paint-spattered jeans. “You looking for Alex?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Crap. Cassandra had no desire to chitchat with Alex’s sister, but what choice did she have?

“He’s out, I’m afraid.” Leyla stopped at the door and pulled a key from her pocket. The top package fell off the stack.

Cassandra stooped to pick it up. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

Leyla opened the door and stepped into the office. Setting the boxes by the door, she turned around. “Sorry.” She huffed out a breath. “What’s that?”

Cassandra handed her the package. “Will he be in today or—”

“Tomorrow. He’s in Houston taking care of some business.” Leyla added the box to the pile of packages from Amazon, IKEA, Pottery Barn. “Geez, look at all this. And there’s more at my apartment. I get to be his post office until his lease starts next month.”

Leyla looked up, and her smile faded as she studied Cassandra’s face. “Everything okay?”

“Fine. I was just, you know, hoping to talk to him today.”

“Did you try calling him?”

“I left him a voicemail this morning.”

“Oh. Well...” She put her hand on her hip. “He’s probably in a meeting or something. I’m sure he’ll get back to you.”

Cassandra was pretty sure he would, too. But by the time he did, it might not even matter.

Leyla’s brow furrowed as she looked her over.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

Tears burned her eyes, but she blinked them away.

“If it’s something urgent,” Leyla said, “I can text him for you.”

“No.”

Leyla’s eyebrows arched.

“I mean”—Cassandra took a deep breath—“it’s nothing urgent. Nothing like that.” She fixed a smiled on her face. “There’s no need to bother him. I can talk to him tomorrow.”

She rushed away before Leyla could ask any more questions and got back in her car.

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

She’d been counting on Alex, and she couldn’t do what she needed to do without him.

Cassandra wiped the tears from her cheeks and started her car. She pulled out of the space and headed... where? She didn’t know what to do now. Her entire plan—like all of her plans—was falling apart.

She turned off Main Street and drove past the yoga studio. Her heart squeezed as she saw the pile of flowers and cards left at the door. The pile had doubled since yesterday as word spread about Danielle’s death. The funeral was scheduled for Saturday, and Reese had already asked her to go.

Cassandra gripped the steering wheel. Her breath started to come in short, shallow gasps, and her heart started pounding. Sweat broke out on the back of her neck.

Not again.

She pulled into a parking lot and shoved her car into park. She clutched the wheel and bent her head forward.

Breathe.

In... and out. In... and out.

She wasn’t trapped.

Her plan was shot to hell, yes. But she could make a different plan that didn’t involve Alex Breda or talking to police.

She had options.

Breathe through it.

She leaned back and stared through the windshield at the brick side of a building and the sign painted there: Rosita’s Mexican Café. Flipping the visor down, Cassandra checked her face in the mirror. Her hair was oily, her skin looked pale, and the puffy bags under her eyes hinted that she’d been crying. No wonder Leyla Breda had seemed worried.

And maybe it was good that Alex was out of town. Cassandra looked like a basket case. She was in no condition to talk to him or anyone else right now.

She flipped the visor up and took a deep breath. The moment was over. Her pulse began to return to normal, and as she stared at the brick wall, a plan started to take shape. Mexico.

It was a new plan. A better one.

The only plan, really, that stood a chance of succeeding, and probably the one she should have had all along.

Nicole crutched past Cynthia’s empty desk, relieved not to be waylaid with questions about her injury. David’s office door was closed, and she stopped in front of it, listening in case he was on the phone.

No sounds from the room. But she hesitated anyway, debating what to say.

“Hey.”

She glanced over her shoulder as David stepped out of the autopsy suite. He wore blue scrubs, and the surgical mask hanging around his neck told her he’d just finished a procedure.

He walked over, his brow furrowed with concern. It was the reaction she’d been getting from everyone today.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” he asked.

She drew back. “It’s two in the afternoon.”

“I thought you’d take a few days off.”

Irritation needled her. “Why would you think that?”

“Because.” He reached around her and opened the door. “You need to rest and recover.”

“Right. Yeah.” She crutched into his office. She didn’t feel like making the effort to sit, so she turned to face him. “The thing is, I’m in the middle of this thing called a murder investigation? My whole department is slightly swamped right now?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I’m guessing by your mood that you didn’t sleep well.”

She took a deep breath. Okay, so maybe she was being a bitch. But his assumption that she would take a few days off irked her.

“You’re right, sorry,” she said. “I’m a little edgy today.”

“Have a seat. Please.” He walked around her and sat down behind his desk. “How’s the ankle?”

She glanced around, then lowered herself into the guest chair and propped her crutches against his desk. He looked her over, probably shocked to see her in a denim miniskirt today instead of her usual unisex field uniform. She didn’t have a lot of clothes that fit over her boot.

“It’s okay,” she told him. “Better than last night.”

“You’re not supposed to drive, you know.”

“Actually, Chan said I was fine to drive. It’s my left ankle, so—”

“No, I mean the pain medication. Don’t operate heavy machinery, and all that.”

“Oh. Owen—one of my colleagues—drove me here. We came to see Miranda about something, but I wanted to stop by first and talk to you.” She took a deep breath. This conversation was off to a bumpy start. “I wanted to thank you for the flowers. They’re really beautiful.”

He nodded. “I’m glad.”

“Especially the roses.” Her stomach started jumping around. “My apartment smells amazing.”

“Nicole.” He leaned forward. “Why do I get the feeling you didn’t come here to talk about flowers?”

She took a deep breath. “No, you’re right. The thing is—”

Someone tapped at the door and then opened it.

“David, you’ve got—” Cynthia stopped when she saw Nicole sitting there. “Hello. I didn’t see you come in.”

Nicole smiled. “Hi.”

“What’s up, Cynthia?”

“You’ve got a message from Dr.Schuler in Dallas. He needs you to call him.”

“I will. Thanks.”

She closed the door, and they were alone again.

David looked at her.

“So. I wanted to thank you for the arrangement,” Nicole said. “And I also wanted to tell you I’ve been thinking a lot about how things have been going. And I don’t think this is working out.”

“?‘This’ meaning us.”

She nodded.

He leaned back in his chair and looked at her for a long moment as she tried to read his expression.

“It’s that detective, right?”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“The one at the hospital last night. Emmet.”

“He’s not the issue.”

“No?”

“No.” Guilt needled her. “Well, maybe he’s part of the issue. But the real problem is us. Remember our first date? You told me all about how your life is dominated by work, and you feel like there’s no room for anything else.”

He nodded. “I really want to change that.”

“See, that’s the thing. I don’t think you do.”

“Nicole.” He sounded irritated. “I can’t help it if I have a demanding job.”

“Look, I get it,” she said. “Believe me, I know how hectic it gets around here.”

“Then why are you piling on with criticism?”

She sighed. “David, let me ask you something. How many miles did you log last week?”

“What, you mean running?”

“Yes.”

He frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe forty.”

“You ran forty miles last week?”

“I’ve got a race next month.”

“Well, okay. Wow. That goes to my point.”

“What? That you don’t want me to train?”

“No! Train,” she said. “Do what makes you happy. My point is that between your job and your training regimen, there’s not much room in your life for a relationship.”

He shook his head. “I disagree. I think I can juggle more than one thing if I put my mind to it.”

His words stung, even though she doubted he meant them to. She didn’t want to be something he had to put his mind to. She didn’t want to be an item on his to-do list.

“David, I don’t think we should keep pretending this is working when it’s not.”

There. She’d said it. She watched his face, but his expression didn’t change.

She bit her lip. “What?”

“So, you think it’s not working,” he stated.

“I don’t, no.”

He sighed. “Okay. Fine, then. Let’s both stop pretending.”

He stared at her, and something in his look made her squirm in her chair.

Her phone vibrated with a text message, and she pulled it from her pocket. “That’s Miranda. They’re waiting for me in the lab.”

David pushed his chair back and stood up. He came around the desk as she collected her crutches. “You need a hand?”

“Thanks. I’ve got it.” She managed to get to her feet and glanced up at him.

He looked peeved, which wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d thought he’d be disappointed, maybe even hurt.

The phone on his desk rang, and he glanced at it but didn’t move to pick it up. He checked his watch.

“I’ve got a procedure starting.”

She moved for the door. “I’ll get out of your way.”

He reached around her and opened the door. “So, I assume you’re here for the Danielle Ward case?”

She stopped in the doorway. “I thought it was the Aubrey Lambert case. The other thing was a seizure, right?”

“Did you get my report?” he asked. “I sent it over this morning.”

“I haven’t seen it yet. Why? What happened?”

“No evidence of seizure, heart attack, stroke, or anything else that would have caused her to lose consciousness.”

“Wait.” Nicole stared up at him. “Are you telling me Danielle Ward wasn’t an accidental death?”

“I’m telling you I wasn’t able to find an underlying cause for her to lose control of her car and crash into a utility pole. That’s why I flagged it for the crime lab, so they could take a closer look at the vehicle.”

A ball of dread formed in Nicole’s stomach as his words started to sink in. “But... if she didn’t have a seizure or something, then what caused her accident?”

“You’re assuming it was an accident.”

“You’re saying it wasn’t?”

“I’m saying, go talk to the crime lab.”