The Lies That Bind (4 page)

“Don’t forget, you need to link each new stitch to the previous section’s stitches.”

“Oh, God, whatever that means,” she moaned.

I went over to my bag and pulled out a thick manila file folder of reference material. After a quick riffling, I found what I was looking for: a close-up photograph of someone’s hand, sewing the stitch.

“Oh,” she said when I showed her the photo. “That’s what it’s supposed to look like?”

“Yes.” Exactly as I’d showed everyone twenty minutes ago, but I didn’t say that. For a lot of people, this was complicated stuff. I handed her the photo to use as a guide.

“It’s pretty.” She stared at the picture. “This helps a lot.”

“Good. Hold on to that for as long as you need it.”

“Thanks.”

There was a low-level buzz and Cynthia Hardesty grabbed her cell phone. “I’ve got to take a quick break,” she said, staring at her smart phone as she pushed her fingers across the screen. “I need to take care of some personal business.”

Except she called it
bidness
. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe she thought it sounded cool, but it really didn’t. One thing that bothered me was that she didn’t seem to take the class seriously. She was much too busy with her
bidness
.

“Would you mind if I ran out for a minute, too?” Alice said. “I’ve finished my sewing and I’m afraid Stuart might be asleep if I wait much longer.”

“No problem,” I said, taking a quick look at her stitching job. “You’re doing really well.”

“Thanks,” she said, with a note of pride. “Be right back.”

“Oh, can I be excused, too?” Whitney asked, her arm bobbing up like an overeager student’s. She nudged Gina. “I need to make those reservations, remember?”

“Oh, right,” Gina said, and winked at me. “She’s got a hot date Friday night.”

“Shh, don’t jinx it,” Whitney said.

“Go ahead,” I said, checking my watch. “I need to talk to someone down the hall. But I should be right back.”

“Are we taking a break?” Marianne asked, looking up for the first time.

“We’ll be taking an official thirty-minute dinner break in a while, but if anyone needs a minute right now, go ahead. For those staying, please continue to work on sewing your signature pages.”

“Before you go,” Jennifer said, “can you show me how that loopy knot thing works again? I’m all thumbs.”

“Yes.” I stopped at her station and demonstrated the weaver’s knot again, pointing out the importance of kinking the linen thread. Then I went around the room and showed each student the kink in the thread, just to be sure everyone was on base.

After Jennifer assured me she could do it on her own, I left the room and headed for Layla’s office. For the last hour, my mind had been fretting about our argument over the
Oliver Twist
. I’d appreciated her making nice when she brought Alice into the class, but I was still anxious.

I’d formed a plan. I would ask her if I could buy back the book. Or, if that didn’t appeal to her, I could call Ian McCullough, the Covington Library’s head curator and an old college friend of my brother Austin—and my ex-fiancé. And when I say
fiancé
, I mean we liked each other a lot and tried to pretend it was love, but we both knew it wasn’t. We’re still great friends. Ian might have had a way of tracking down an actual true first edition of
Oliver Twist
. If he was successful, the Covington might consider it good publicity to donate the book to the Twisted festival auction. It went against the grain to help Layla Fontaine, but the last thing I needed was to have her blackball me in the book arts community because, God forbid, I had too many scruples.

Scruples. How boring!

I skirted the gallery, dark now except for the few pin spots illuminating the wood-block prints and a faint stream of moonlight seeping through the skylight.

From across the wide space, I saw a figure silhouetted against the window of the front door. It was probably one of my students making her phone call, but I couldn’t tell which one. I didn’t see any of the others who’d taken a break. They might’ve gone outside or down to the mudroom for some privacy. It seemed awfully quiet in here, even with two classes in session. Naomi’s pop-up book display created odd shadows on the lower gallery wall. I shivered and wondered why they didn’t turn up the heat a little.

The long north hall leading to Layla’s office was even darker than the gallery. The lights were off, which was odd. Someone from the staff always worked late when classes were held, but both Karalee’s and Marky’s offices were dark. I had to feel my way along the wall as I walked.

I thought about Ned, who ran and maintained the printing press. He never seemed to leave and often closed up on the nights when classes were in session. Did he live in one of the dark rooms down the hall? Maybe it was the absence of light that made me nervous, but I couldn’t help thinking that Ned was one of those guys you heard about on the news.
He was quiet and kept his yard clean. Who knew he’d stored the bodies of six ex-wives in his freezer?
You could never be sure about guys like Ned.

That wasn’t fair. Ned was a nice guy. It was just too dark in here and my thoughts were turning morbid.

As I got closer to Layla’s office, I could make out a thin line of light under her closed door. I hoped that meant she was still working in there. Maybe she didn’t realize the hall lights were off.

“Layla?” I called.

There was no answer. Perhaps she’d already gone home. I took one more step and nearly tumbled over something on the floor.

I flailed my arms out to balance myself, then found the wall and leaned against it. “Damn. Who leaves stuff in the middle of the hall?”

I didn’t know what it was, but it was something substantial. A bundle of laundry, maybe? I reached down to try to move it and heard a groan.

It wasn’t a bundle of anything. It was a body.

“Oh, my God.” I grabbed my phone from my pocket and dialed 911. When the dispatcher answered, I cried, “Somebody’s been hurt or—or . . .”

They’re dead.
I didn’t say it out loud. I’d heard a groan. They had to be alive.

“I need your location, ma’am,” the woman said.

I gave her the information.

“Are they breathing?” she asked.

“So far. I’ll check to make sure.” Duh, good idea. It was still so dark, I could barely see my own hands in front of my face, but my eyes were beginning to adjust. I hunched down and felt an arm, covered by a soft wool sweater, indicating it was probably a woman. Moving my hand up her arm, I felt her shoulder, then her neck. There was a weak pulse. She was still breathing.

“She’s alive, but very weak,” I said. “Hurry, please.”

“We have a squad car in the area, ma’am,” the dispatcher said. “Please don’t panic. They’re less than two minutes away.”

“I’m not panicking,” I said, standing. “I just can’t see anything. Are you sending an ambulance, too?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll stay on the line until the police arrive.”

“Thanks.”

The door to another office opened suddenly. Naomi peered into the hall. “What’s going on out here?”

A sliver of light from her desk lamp cast her in shadow and did nothing to light up the situation in the hall.

“What are you doing in there?” I asked.

“I’m trying to work,” she said, her tone petulant.

“Really sorry to bother you, but somebody passed out in the hall.” Hey, I could be cranky, too. She wasn’t the only one whose peace and quiet had been disturbed. “Can you turn on some more lights? I can’t see a thing.”

Naomi didn’t move, just stared at the body. “What happened?”

“How should I know? Turn on some lights. This woman fainted or something.” I was getting crabbier by the minute. I hated stumbling over bodies.

“Oh, my God.” Naomi fumbled for the light switch on the wall outside her office door, but nothing happened. “Sorry, I guess the hall light’s burned out. I’ll have to get it fixed.”

She flipped her office light on and opened the door all the way, and the hall was illuminated. She tried to open Layla’s door, but it was locked. She skirted the body and tried Karalee’s office. It was unlocked so she shoved the door open and turned on the light.

“How’s that?”

“Much better.” As I said it, I could hear a siren wailing in the distance. “Police should be here any second now.”

“Is she breathing?” Naomi asked, still staring at the body.

“Barely,” I said.

Naomi wrung her hands. “It’s a good thing you found her. You probably saved her life.”

“I just happened to come along,” I said modestly, clasping my hands together. They felt tacky. I held them up to the light, then wished I hadn’t.

Blood. My stomach twirled and my head started to spin. I really hated blood. “Idiot,” I muttered. I couldn’t help it, though. The sight of blood made me sick. I took deep breaths and stared at the woman on the floor. Since she was bleeding, she must’ve hit her head on something. Something sharp or hard enough to draw blood.

As I stared more closely at the woman, my insides took an even more unwelcome dip. That fuzzy black angora sweater looked alarmingly familiar.

“Oh, no.” I inched back until my butt hit the wall.

“What’s wrong?” Naomi demanded.

Icy chills slithered down my spine, worse than I’d ever felt before. God help me, I had just saved the life of Minka LaBoeuf.

The blast of sirens brought everyone out of the classrooms. I managed to keep the hall clear while Naomi ran to the front door and led the two police officers through the gallery to the hall. One officer looked around while the other knelt and checked for a pulse.

“Watch out,” I muttered. “There’s blood.”

The officer kneeling looked up at me. “You found her?”

I nodded, then shivered and looked away.

“Okay, good job.” He grabbed his walkie-talkie and called for an ambulance. He was answered by a squawk, then the dispatcher responded, “Ambulance en route.”

“I’ll wait up front,” I said, and walked back to the gallery, where all the lights were now glaringly bright. Alice rushed over and met me.

“What happened?” she whispered. She looked even more pale than when she’d first showed up in class. “Is somebody sick?”

“Somebody’s been hurt,” I said.

Tom, Cynthia, and Gina crowded behind Alice.

“Who is it?” Tom asked, staring past me into the hall.

“Another instructor,” I said, unable to utter Minka’s name out loud.

“It’s Minka LaBoeuf,” Naomi announced from behind me. “Brooklyn saved her life.”

I winced. “No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did,” Naomi insisted, then added, “Brooklyn found her and called nine-one-one. Look, she’s got Minka’s blood all over her hands.”

Oh, great. I knew she meant that in a nice way, but it really didn’t sound good.

“I . . . I need to wash my hands,” I whispered, staring at the dried streaks of blood.

“How did you get her blood on your hands?” Cynthia asked, her eyes focused on my outstretched hands.

Her tone carried a strong hint of accusation and I was about to shoot back something when Alice took hold of my arm and said gently, “Let’s go wash your hands.”

Just then, the tall, good-looking Hispanic officer whose badge read “Ortiz” zeroed in on me. “You found the victim.”

“Yes, I did,” I said.
Soldier up, Wainwright,
I thought, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “She was passed out in the hall. I stumbled over her on my way to Layla Fontaine’s office and called the police.”

“Who’s Layla Fontaine?”

“She runs this place,” I said. “Her office is at the end of the hall. I think she must’ve gone home already.”

“What do you do here?” he asked, taking notes.

“I’m just one of the instructors.” I waved my hand toward Naomi. “This is Naomi Fontaine. She’s the facilities coordinator for the center.”

“But—but I didn’t do anything,” Naomi declared, her wide-eyed gaze whipping back and forth between Officer Ortiz and me. “I opened my office door and Minka was lying there, and Brooklyn was kneeling over her.”

I shot her a look. “They already know that.”

“It’s okay, ma’am,” Ortiz said calmly.

No, it wasn’t. Was Naomi deliberately trying to throw me under the bus? Whatever happened to me being the big hero, saving Minka’s life? You couldn’t trust anyone anymore.

“Where’s Layla?” Tom asked, looking around.

“She went home,” Cynthia said through clenched teeth. “Brooklyn just said that. Try to keep up.”

Someone was even crankier than I was.

The cop tending to Minka called from the hallway, “Can somebody turn on the hall light?”

“It’s not working,” Naomi explained to Ortiz.

He walked a few feet into the hall, stretched his arm up, and tested one of the exposed bulbs by twisting it. The hall filled with light.

“Now that’s weird,” Gina said, her eyes big and round.

Cynthia frowned in agreement.

Another blast of a siren announced the arrival of the ambulance. Two EMTs rushed through the gallery carrying their packs filled with equipment. I managed to corral the onlookers away from the hall to give the techs enough space to pass through.

Whitney walked over and joined us. “What’s going on? I thought I heard a siren. Are we on a break?”

Gina grabbed her arm. “Girl, where were you?”

“I was on the phone,” Whitney said defensively, then lowered her voice to add, “That skinny guy let me use one of those storage rooms down the hall so I’d have some privacy.”

Was she talking about Ned? I looked around the gallery, but he was nowhere in sight.

“Somebody was attacked while you were gone,” Gina whispered excitedly.

“We don’t know that,” I said quickly.