When Shadows Fall. J.T. EllisonЧитать онлайн книгу.
waited until she was sure Fletch was out of earshot. “I wish you wouldn’t poke at him, Xander.”
He mocked surprise. “What? Me? I didn’t do a thing.”
She rolled her eyes. “Please. And now that he’s back to D.C. Homicide and off the Joint Terrorism Task Force, he and Andrea Bianco have started dating. Sort of. I think they’re a good match.”
“Doesn’t mean he won’t be making eyes at you anymore.”
“Quit grumbling. Fletcher does not make eyes at me, Xander. He’s a friend. A good one. I don’t have a lot of people I trust in my life—he’s up there. Okay?”
He kissed her, softly, and ran his thumb across her lip. “Okay. Listen, I have to run. I’ll see you back at the town house, okay? I thought we could head to the cabin early tomorrow morning, get some fresh air over the weekend, before classes start. Sound good?”
It did. Nestled in the Savage River Forest, his cabin was more than an escape. It was nirvana.
“Thor must be homesick,” Sam said. The gorgeous German shepherd seemed content, but he was used to running the hills and chasing squirrels, something severely lacking from her renovated Georgetown town house where they’d set up base camp. The look on Xander’s face made her wonder if he, too, was missing his undomesticated life on the mountain.
“Better missing home than missing Daddy. He’s fine, he’s a tough dog. I’ll take him for a run along the canal this afternoon. That will cheer him up.”
“See you at six, then.”
When he left, Sam waited until she saw him striding across the quad toward the city. She admired the view for a moment, then went to her laptop and looked up the name Timothy Savage again. She glanced at her watch—2:00 p.m. She knew she needed to leave it alone, let Fletcher handle things, but maybe a quick phone call wouldn’t hurt.
She had a friend who was an assistant M.E. in the Virginia Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. If there was anything interesting to hear about how Timothy Savage died, Dr. Meg Foreman would be all over it.
Chapter
4
MEG FOREMAN ANSWERED her phone on the first ring.
“Sam Owens, as I live and breathe. How the hell are you? How long’s it been, three years?”
“Too long, that’s for sure. I’m good, Meg. Working in D.C. now, running the new Forensic Pathology department at Georgetown.”
“You left Nashville? I can’t believe it. How’d you convince Simon to move?”
Sam stopped short. Meg didn’t know. The huge, oppressive weight of sorrow smashed her in the chest, taking her breath away. As she struggled for air, her mind scrambled to think how long it had been since she and Meg had talked—yes, it had been three years ago, at the annual conference for forensic pathologists.
Before.
She reached for the bottle of Purell in her purse without even thinking about it, poured out a huge dollop and started rubbing her hands together. The old words marched through her head, at once comforting and embarrassing. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. Simon, Matthew, Madeline.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Serves you right for sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.
“Sam? Are you still there? Is everything all right?”
Sam stared at her hands, cleared her throat. “Meg, I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Simon passed away. With...with the twins. Two years ago. The flood, in Nashville—”
How she’d managed to get those words out, she didn’t know. It wasn’t something she generally discussed with people. Hi, my name is Sam, and a random act of God made me a childless widow.
Meg reacted immediately, her voice overwhelmingly sad. “Oh, my God, Sam. I didn’t know. I am so sorry.”
“Of course you didn’t. Don’t apologize. How would you know? I haven’t exactly advertised it. Took me a while to accept it myself.”
“And have you accepted it? Are you coping? Sleeping, eating? Seeing a therapist?” It was the clinical voice of a doctor overlaid with the kindness of a friend. Sam blurted out the truth before she could think not to.
“It’s... Well, things aren’t okay, but they’re better. This isn’t something you ever get over, not really. Work helps. Moving away helped, too. There are no daily reminders anymore. And I’ve met someone. He keeps me going.”
There was an awkward silence, then Meg said, “That’s good, Sam. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Sam’s voice was stronger now. The past couldn’t be undone. It was something she’d only recently come to terms with.
“Here’s how you can help me, Meg. You can tell me if you’ve handled a case recently. Timothy Savage, out of Lynchburg. Obit said he died on Tuesday, but there wasn’t any indication how.”
Meg sounded relieved. For people who lived with death, day in and day out, medical examiners weren’t the best with handling grief. “The name’s not ringing a bell, he wasn’t one of mine this week. Let me look in our database.”
Sam heard her typing.
A few moments later, Meg said, “No, nothing here. It doesn’t look like we autopsied him.”
“You’re sure?”
“I am. Definitely. It must have been a natural death. You may have better luck with the funeral home who buried him.”
“Thanks, Meg. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. Listen, Sam—” She broke off, then said, “Will you be at the conference this year? We can have dinner. Or better yet, we can skip dinner and I can get you drunk.”
Sam smiled, remembering why she liked Meg Foreman. “I may. Let me look into it, and I’ll let you know.”
“Either way, you’re close to Richmond now. If you aren’t coming to the conference, let me come up there. We can have lunch, catch up.”
“I’d like that,” Sam said. She reeled off her new contact information and hung up, setting the phone softly in the cradle.
Jesus.
She stashed the Purell back in her bag, feeling guilty. It had been a while since she’d been caught off guard like that. It wasn’t like Simon and the twins were ever far from her mind—she’d fled Nashville to get away from the loneliness she felt, the strange dislocation of losing everything and still waking up every morning, air filling her lungs, even when she was sure she’d never take a breath again. Their memory was what held her back from Xander, from giving all of herself to him. He knew it, understood it deeply, more than anyone else in her life, but at some point, she had to let go and move on.
Yet every time she thought she was there, ready to take a step forward, something like this happened and shot her right back to the person she was for so long after they died—lost, and so very empty. Too empty even to cry.
She slapped her hand on the desk. She needed a drink. Or something. She knew herself well enough; she would be useless the rest of the day. And she hated herself for her weakness.
She packed up her Birkin bag and headed out. The house was only a ten-minute walk, ten minutes that would allow her to wrestle her demons back into their box. Maybe instead of pouring a Scotch, she’d go for a run with Xander and Thor, try to sweat the sorrow out of her. A healthier response. It showed her she wasn’t lost, not all the way.
And then she’d begin again, as she had done so many times before. Handling grief was almost like quitting smoking, or drinking. You do well for so long, then suddenly you slip, and indulge. And in the cold light of morning, you have to start counting the days all over again.