A Deeper Darkness (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

Georgetown
Dr. Samantha Owens

Eleanor needed her car for an errand, so Sam took a cab from the precinct to Eleanor’s house in Georgetown. Afternoon traffic in D.C. was normally murderous, but the cab sailed smoothly from Fletcher’s office on M Street straight up into Georgetown proper, hitting all the lights as they turned green, practically a miracle.

Georgetown hadn’t changed much since she’d haunted its streets fifteen years earlier. Still full of high-end fashion stores and fabulous restaurants, there were a few concessions to consumer-driven modernity—a cupcake store that had been featured on a reality TV show always had a line forty people deep, for instance—but for the most part, the staples, the meat of the hamlet, were still there. Clyde’s. Chadwicks. Filomena’s. Paolo’s. F. Scott’s.

Her very existence in Georgetown had revolved around food.

God, it made her sad. Life just continued to flow around her, never stopping. You excuse yourself from the world, and so long as your heart continues to beat, after a time, no one even notices. It’s only when you die that you take a place in people’s mythologies. She had friends here once. Girls who called three times a day wanting to get together, who showed up at her apartment door unannounced with sangria and tequila, who cried on her shoulder, and on whose shoulders she cried in return. She couldn’t remember half their names now. She’d gotten so caught up in her own life, her work, her family, herself, that they were fleeting images: a flash of blond here, a brown eye there, a laugh. Ghosts.

It was her fault. D.C. was so very different from Nashville. Though she’d loved her time here, she’d been desperate to get back home. Especially once she and Donovan were over. Nashville fit her like a glove. Where life was slower, and less complicated. Where, waiting patiently, there was a man who loved her, and would never leave.

At least that’s what she’d always believed about him. She’d been wrong.

Simon
.

She allowed her mind to say the name. Just once. A breeze through her cerebral cortex. Those two simple syllables were like the first rush after the needle prick—all-consuming, warm, happy. His face floated before her eyes: the untamable cowlick, the glasses, the crooked front tooth that gave his smile such boyish charm.

“Hi,” she whispered.

Even a whisper is enough to scare away a spirit. His face started to fade, and Sam bit her lip to keep from crying out after him. The rush was gone as quickly as it came, and pain was all that followed. The vision was gone. The massive, gaping hole in her heart began to ache.

For with Simon, and thoughts of home, came the sweetly cherubic voices of the twins.

She couldn’t believe they were all gone. If only she hadn’t—

“That’ll be $6.70, ma’am.”

Sam started. The cabbie was looking at her strangely.

“You okay? This the right place?”

She glanced out the window, surprised to see a familiar red house and black shutters. Eleanor’s. Where she was meant to be. At least temporarily.

“Oh. Yes. Yes, of course it is. Thank you.”

She fished a ten out of her wallet and passed it through the plastic window. The door handle stuck, she had to give it a shove.

She couldn’t get enough air.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi
.

She fumbled with the keys, the cheerful vermilion door mocking her.

Three Mississippi. Four Mississippi
.

“God damn it,” she yelled, giving it another try. The door swung open freely, and she rushed straight to the kitchen and turned the water on full.

Her breath came in little panicked grunts. She scrubbed her hands together so violently that her nails scratched the beat-up skin and blood dripped into the sink.

Simon. Matthew. Madeline.

Simon. Matthew. Madeline.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three
.

If she could just allow herself the pent-up tears that stayed stubbornly stuck in her eyes. She understood the psychology of letting go. She just wasn’t ready to let them out of her heart. Something told her that if she cried, her loves would escape down her cheeks, drip into a tissue, and the memories of them would vanish forever.

Reality slowly seeped back in. The water was burning hot, her skin fire red. Shaking, she reached for the tap and turned it off with a twist. She’d wrecked her hands. Wrecked them completely. They were cracked and torn, bright as a well-boiled lobster, blood oozing from barely healed fissures. She wouldn’t be able to hold a scalpel properly for days.

Is that what this was all about? Punishment? That she’d been doing an autopsy while they died?

Sam sighed and carefully dried her hands. Eleanor had some grapefruit lotion from Williams-Sonoma on the countertop next to the sink. Sam carefully got some in her palms and spread a thin layer over the torn skin. It stung sharply for a moment, then calmed.

She turned away from the sink and jumped.

Susan Donovan was sitting at the kitchen table.

“Better?” Susan asked.

Sam fought back a tart reply. This woman had lost her heart the same way as Sam had, unwillingly, by force. She should have compassion for her, empathy. Instead, Susan grated against her psyche.

“Not really,” Sam finally answered.

“Want a drink?”

An olive branch? Not exactly what she expected. But she was willing to play along.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

Susan got to her feet unsteadily, and Sam saw that she’d gotten a head start. She retrieved a crystal-cut lowball from the glass-fronted cabinet next to the stove, then wove back to the table and poured Sam three fingers of scotch. She dumped another splash into her own empty glass, set the bottle down carefully, then raised the drink.

“Sláinte.”

“Cheers,” Sam replied. The Laphroaig was all peat and iodine, curling around Sam’s mouth like smoke from a campfire. She let it dribble down the back of her throat.

“Mmm. That’s so good.”

“So much better, you mean.” Susan set the glass down on the table with care.

“How many of those have you had?”

“Enough.”

“Did something happen? Are your girls with Eleanor?”

“Did something happen?” Susan began to laugh, a harsh, discordant sneer. “Did something happen, she asks. I don’t know, Dr. Owens. What do you think? My husband’s dead. Gone. Forever. Someone decided to end his life, and no one seems to have a clue why.”

“I’m working on that.”

“You’re a doctor, for God’s sake. Not a cop. Not a private investigator. Just a flunky who cuts up bodies for a living. And a wreck of one, too, it appears. How are
you
going to figure it out?”

Sam set her glass back on the table with exaggerated care. She watched Susan, knowing she had an opportunity here.

“Susan, you’re drunk.”

“So the fuck what? Like you didn’t get drunk after your husband died? And your kids?”

Sam felt the anger boiling inside of her, and took a breath. She still hated the venom in her voice.

“You don’t know the first thing about my life, so don’t you dare to presume anything about me.”

Susan focused on her. “Oh, of course not. Perfect Samantha.
Dr.
Samantha. He never stopped loving you, you know. He kept all your letters. All the pictures of the two of you. He hid them from me. But I knew. I found them.”

Susan got to her feet, and Sam instinctively took a step back.

Susan saw it, saw that she’d scared her perceived rival, and laughed.

“As if I’d bother.” Susan turned to the stairs and shouted, “Come on, girls. We’re going home.”

“Susan, you can’t drive.”

“Get out of my way,
Doctor
.”

“No. Sit down. You are a hot mess. Let me make you some tea.”

Susan spoke through gritted teeth. “I said, get out of my way.”

Sam was two inches taller than Susan, but no heavier. She squared her body, tightened up, prepared for the blow and stepped closer, trying to use her body as intimidation.

“Sit. Down.”

Susan got wild-eyed and coiled for a second, like she was going to punch Sam and make a run for it, then shook her head and reached for a chair. She collapsed in it heavily, sank her forehead to the table. Her voice was wavering with tears.

“Why do you even care how I feel?”

That took Sam aback. My God, did she come across as a callous, unfeeling bitch? Who wouldn’t be moved by this situation? And Sam especially, having gone through this kind of heartbreak, the rending apart of the soul. Maybe it was Susan Donovan that was the bitch.

“Why wouldn’t I? You’ve just been through a terrible loss. Grief plays tricks on the mind. I know that. I know what you’re going through. I also know getting drunk isn’t going to fix anything.”

Susan’s voice was still sharp. “You don’t know me. You don’t know the first thing about me.”

“I know enough about you to know that you’re wishing none of this had happened. That all you want is for him to come back.”

“I didn’t get drunk to bring him back.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because I’m scared.”

Sam sat at the table. She was tempted to take Susan’s hands, to lend physical comfort, but Susan was still weaving like a drunken cobra. She settled for soothing words.

“I know. I know exactly how you feel. Like part of you has died, too. That you’re missing something vital, your arm, your leg, and if you stand up too quickly, you’re going to topple over on the floor, and never want to get up. That it would be so much easier to just take a bottle of pills and lie down in your bed, and not have to feel this pain. That you don’t know why you haven’t done that already.”

Her voice softened. “I understand, Susan. I truly do. What you’ve got is much worse than a broken heart. It’s something utterly irreparable. I won’t lie to you. You will never be the same. Your life will never be the same. And after the funeral, especially then, you will be completely lost. But you have two gorgeous daughters who need you. They can’t lose everything. That wouldn’t be fair.”

Susan was looking at the table. Her hand flexed in and out of fists. She took another sip of her drink and met Sam’s eyes for the first time.

“Is that how you felt? Like you wanted to die, too?”

“Yes.” Dear God, she had. She’d felt that so many times she’d gone to stay with her friend Taylor to make sure she didn’t do anything stupid. At least if she was in someone else’s house, she’d worry about them having to clean up the mess.

“It took me months, Susan. I’m still not where I want to be. Look at me. I’ve developed…problems. The job I used to love seems more like a prison sentence. I can’t sleep, I barely eat. I drink too much. I don’t know if I’ll ever get there. But you have to. You have the girls. They will be your salvation in all of this.”

“Don’t you throw my girls at me.”

Sam sighed. “God, would you stop? I’m trying to help you.”

“They’re in danger.”

“No, they’re not. You are a wonderful mother—”

Susan brought her head up. “No, seriously. They’re in danger. Someone broke into our house today.”

Sam felt the muscles tense in her neck. It was one thing to threaten the adults, but if this freak started messing with Donovan’s kids…

“Tell me,” Sam commanded, and Susan gave her the story. About the stranger at the school, and the open door at the house. About the baseball cap she’d thrown away being dug out of the trash and left on her bed.

“Did they take anything?”

“No. From what I can tell, nothing else was disturbed, either. But I got out of there pretty damn quick.”

“We need to call Detective Fletcher and inform him.”

“I already did. He and his partner went out to fingerprint the house. That’s why we’re all here.”

Susan’s eyes were rimmed in red, and Sam could see she was faltering. The alcohol had caught up.

“Can I have that tea you offered earlier? Or better yet, a cup of coffee? Eleanor doesn’t have any decent black tea around. I looked earlier, before I found the scotch. Eleanor doesn’t usually drink this brand.” There was a note of accusation in her tone. Sam ignored it. Susan was just going to have to put aside this petty-jealousy nonsense. They had to work together.

“She bought it for me. It’s my favorite,” Sam said, rising automatically and going to the sink to get the water for the coffee. Her mind was spinning. The break-in was unexpected. What were they looking for? What was Fletcher thinking? She hated being on the outside of the investigation like this. At home, she was always welcome to offer her opinions and insights. Here, she just felt like she was getting in the way.

Perhaps Susan was the target, after all, and not Donovan?

No, that wasn’t right. What could a stay-at-home soccer mom do to draw down the ire of a murderer? It was much more likely that Donovan had come across something he wasn’t supposed to see, mentioned it to the wrong person and had been killed for his trouble.