When Shadows Fall

“Is that even legal, putting a stranger in charge of your estate?” Sam asked.

“It certainly is. And better a named stranger than a faceless government drone whose only interest is taking as much as possible for Uncle Sammy.” His lips moved into an approximation of a grin.

Sam felt a chill run down her spine. This dead stranger, this lawyer on the edge of the grave, this whole situation—it was too much. Xander picked up on her discomfort, reached a hand to her under the table. She squeezed it, then stood and murmured, “I’ll be right back. I need a sweater.”

Sam picked up her favorite cashmere pashmina from the living room couch and wrapped it around her shoulders. Feeling much less exposed, she marched back into the dining room in time to hear Xander say, “I think you need to explain yourself, Mr. Benedict, and quickly. Who exactly is Timothy Savage?”

Benedict ran a shaky finger along the rim of his mug. “You are aware, of course, of the circumstances surrounding Mr. Savage’s death?”

“Enlighten us.”

“Oh. You really don’t know.” Benedict’s voice took on a classic Southern ghoulishness, horror and delight coupled in a high-pitched whisper. He leaned forward as he said, “He killed himself. With a very nasty chemical agent he cooked up in his kitchen. Detergent suicide, is what they call it. Very big in Japan.”

Benedict’s earlier words hit Sam then. Left this life on his own terms. “But Mr. Savage was—”

Xander put a hand on her knee and stopped her. “A suicide. And he retained you last week to draw up a will, and named Dr. Owens as executrix. May I ask, who is the beneficiary? Does he have an heir?”

Another gummy grin from the ghoul.

“There are several people named in the will, but he’s left the bulk of the estate to a Mr. Henry Matcliff.” He was silent for a moment. “Unfortunately, Mr. Matcliff is proving difficult to locate. We wanted to alert you to the situation, and locate the primary beneficiary before contacting the rest of the heirs. We were hoping you would know where he is.”

This was getting ridiculous, and Sam wasn’t in the mood. The letter this morning had upset her terribly, and now this? No. She wasn’t going to let this go on a moment longer.

“I’d never heard of Mr. Savage until this morning. And I have no idea who this Matcliff character is. I’m sorry, Mr. Benedict, but I respectfully decline the offer of handling Mr. Savage’s estate. I trust your practice will do right by him.” She stood, and Benedict stood also in reflex, a look of shock on his face.

“But Dr. Owens, you’re the only one Mr. Savage trusted to handle things for him.”

“I said no, and I meant it. It’s late. I believe it’s time for you to go.”

“But—”

Xander stood and took three steps toward the front door. Benedict gathered up his things and followed. Once in the foyer, he said, “There’s more. You need to know he’s asked for you to do an autopsy on his body.”

Sam felt another chill down her back despite the pashmina. “What?”

“I’m afraid he was very specific. He clearly thought all of this through. He wanted you to be involved, Dr. Owens. He’s begging for your help...from the grave.”

She shook her head. “Stop trying to manipulate me. I don’t want anything to do with this.”

Benedict nodded grimly. “I understand you don’t want the responsibility, and there will be forms you’ll need to sign, declining the executor role. I will have them drawn up and sent to you. If you’re absolutely sure, that is.”

“I’m sure. You can send them to my office. And next time, Mr. Benedict, please be sure to call first. I could have saved you a long trip today.”

He hesitated, hands shaking silently, then shrugged and said, “I can’t force you to do something you don’t want to do, Dr. Owens, though I hope, once the shock has passed, you’ll reconsider. Perhaps we can speak again in the morning.”

“Perhaps not.”

Undeterred, Benedict said, “In the meantime, there is one last detail. Mr. Savage wanted you to have this.”

He dug in his pocket and dropped a small silver key into her hand. “He said you’d know what to do with it.”

Sam tried to hand it back. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be involved at all.”

Benedict ignored her, tipped a finger to his forehead in a goodbye salute then walked down the stairs and disappeared around the corner onto P Street.

* * *

Xander closed the door and watched Sam, clearly upset, stalk into the dining room and begin clearing the cups away. He didn’t like this, not one bit. For a stranger to seek her out was one thing, but to get her involved in a legal predicament, to write letters claiming she was in danger because he was contacting her and now this, leaving her holding the bag with his estate inside? If Timothy Savage weren’t already dead, Xander would have killed him himself.

He thought back to Savage’s letter. He said he’d compiled a list of people who could have murdered him. Who were these people? And why, if it was clearly a suicide, did Savage try to rope Sam into his world with the claim of murder?

There was something rotten in Denmark. Without a doubt.

The crash of broken china came from the kitchen. He hurried in to see Sam with a finger in her mouth, cursing under her breath.

“You okay?”

She shook her head. “Broke a cup and sliced my finger. It’s nothing, just an ouchy.”

She went pale as she said the words, and he knew it was a phrase she’d used with her kids. They slipped out, these motherly incantations, when she was highly upset, or drunk. This was the former—any pleasant tipsiness from the wine at dinner was long gone after the lawyer’s disconcerting visit.

“Let me see.” He went to her, pulled her into his arms. She was right; it was just a scratch, no worse than a paper cut. The bleeding had all but stopped. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the wound. “Better?”

Her shoulders began to shake. He thought there might be tears, but she was laughing quietly. She was back, pulled from the edge by his touch. She nodded.

“I’m fine. If you’d offered to kiss my boo-boo, I would have smacked your bum.”

“I might have enjoyed that. Seriously, are you okay?”

She kissed him, quick and hard, then pulled away and shut off the lights. She turned toward the stairs, let the wrap fall to the floor. “No, I’m not. Help me forget, Xander.”

And he did.

Chapter

7

SAM’S CELL PHONE rang at 10:30 p.m. Fletcher. She extricated herself from Xander’s sleeping form to answer the call. There was still something weird about being naked with Xander and talking to Fletcher. She grabbed the blue cotton button-down Xander had been wearing earlier, snuggled into it and went into the bathroom so she wouldn’t wake him, though she’d learned that as light as he slept, only an actual emergency would rouse him. Years of military training. She wished she could follow suit.

She shut the bathroom door, anyway. “Hey. You have news?”

Fletcher sounded tired, a certain weariness in his tone she understood completely. “Yeah. Did I wake you? I know you go to bed early.”

Some nights earlier than others.

“No, I’m awake. You don’t sound like you’re getting any beauty sleep, though.”

He laughed. “You know how it is. Things are popping, multiple cases, lots of craziness. Listen, I got a call back from the Lynchburg police. They say the dude, Timothy Savage, was a suicide. Took them a day to clear the air enough to retrieve the body. Detergent suicide isn’t deadly only for the victim, but for anyone else who might inhale it, accidentally or otherwise. It’s not a pretty death.”

“I know. Hydrogen sulfide gas is quite lethal. I assume asphyxiation was the cause of death?”

“I don’t know. They didn’t post him. It’s a small town, just a coroner on hand. They sent the chemicals in for testing, but he didn’t see the need for an autopsy. Apparently it was quite clear what had happened. There were warning signs on the windows, and a note, the whole shebang.”

“Lazy of them. All they needed to do was send the body to Richmond. Where is Mr. Savage now?”

“In the cooler at the mortician’s place.”

“Damn. Damn, damn, damn.” She leaned against the sink, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her dark hair was wild, sticking up all over, and her lips were swollen. She smoothed her hair down, thinking hard. Why had Timothy Savage drawn her into his mess?

“Sam? You still there?”

“Yes. My turn for show-and-tell. I had an interesting visitor tonight. Creepy lawyer from Lynchburg. Apparently Savage named me executrix of his estate, and demanded I do an autopsy on him. He left me a key, too, though I have no idea to what. This is getting weirder and weirder, Fletch.”

“Are you going to do it?” He sounded intrigued.

“No. No way. This is a job for the police, not me. I’ll recommend his body be sent to the OCME in Richmond, and ask my friend Meg Foreman to handle the case personally. But that’s as far as I go. I already declined the legal aspect. I just want to prep for my classes and get the semester under way.”

“Don’t kid a kidder, Sam. You’re totally on the hook.”

She looked herself in the eye. Spoke to the woman in the mirror, as much as to Fletcher. “I most certainly am not.”

“Yeah, you are. Sleep on it. If you still don’t want to be involved in the morning, I’ll back off. But if you’re in, I’ll go with you down to Lynchburg. It won’t kill you to post the dude.”

Permission granted, ma’am.

She did have several days before the semester officially began and she’d have to be at the university full-time.

Don’t be an idiot, Sam. This isn’t your problem. Don’t allow yourself to be drawn into someone else’s intrigue.

But something was eating at her. Something that made her say, “Fletcher, do you really think there’s a case here? More than a loony coming out of the woodwork?”

“Honestly? I don’t know, but it’s pretty clear someone wants you involved in this case. Which is why I’m coming along if you decide to go. Cover your back. Just in case.”

“Just in case. Great. I’ll think on it, Fletch.”

“Good. Call me first thing, let me know.”

“Night.”

She dropped her cell into the pocket of Xander’s shirt and went back to their bedroom. He was still out cold. She wasn’t tired anymore. Her head was aching, a residual effect from the wine at dinner, and more. She was gritting her teeth. Her shoulders were tense and her hands balled into fists.

Why are you fighting this so hard?

She took a few breaths, slowly let herself relax and went downstairs in the dark. The rain had never come, the storm scooting off to the east without a drop, and the moon was shining brightly, reflecting off the glass and metal as it bounced through the house. Without turning on a light, she collected her cashmere throw from the base of the stairs and tossed it over her shoulders. In the small butler’s pantry they used as a bar, she poured a finger of Laphroaig and went into the living room. Thor raised his head from his bed, saw his mistress wasn’t in harm’s way and went back to sleep with a sigh.

She had to be honest with herself. Her natural inclination was to hightail it down to Lynchburg and post Timothy Savage. She was fighting it, fighting it hard, but the investigator in her was overruling the new, calm, Zen, I’m a teacher now. She wanted to see what was behind all the craziness today.

She didn’t want the bother of being the executor of Savage’s estate; that was something better left to the courts. But giving the body a once-over, how could it hurt? Detergent suicide was becoming more and more common, though she’d only seen the abstracts written in the medical journals. Having firsthand knowledge would do nothing but enhance her repertoire.

With Fletcher there to pave the way with the local authorities, she figured she could be in and out in fewer than twenty-four hours. Technically, she should have the body transferred to the OCME in Richmond, but if there was an appropriate facility in Lynchburg she could handle it herself. Hydrogen sulfide gas meant they’d have to take some precautions, but so long as the body was washed and the room well ventilated, no special biological hazard precautions would be necessary.

Fletcher was right, damn the man. She was on the hook.

“When are you going to Lynchburg?”

Sam jumped and gave out a little scream. “Xander, you scared me. Can’t you clump down the stairs like a normal man? I’ve had cats that make more noise on the stairs than you.”

He grinned, his teeth flashing white in the moonlight. “Sorry, babe. I’ll try to sound more like an elephant next time.” He sat on the couch next to her, took her hand in his easily. He didn’t seem worried, or concerned, just curious. Thor started to rise, but Xander gestured for him to stay put.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“You were thinking so loud it woke me up. Want to talk about it?”

She traced the edge of his finger. “Fletcher wants to go to Lynchburg with me, thinks I should go ahead and post Savage’s body.”

“I think you should, too.”

Her head whipped up. He was smiling at her, a lopsided grin.

“What?”

“Oh, hon. It’s a mystery, and you love a good mystery. It’s going to eat at you until you do it, so why not go? Take a couple of days, drive south with your pet cop.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Teasing. Seriously, I think you should go for it. You’re ready for your classes. This will occupy all your brain matter until you figure it out.”

“I don’t know what the school will say. I’m supposed to be available in case any students need prep prior to the semester’s start.”

“They’ll be fine.”

They would. She was looking for excuses now, and she was all out of them. Only one thing left to do, and that was go. “All right. Fine. I’ll go post his body. But that’s it. Why don’t you come with me?”

“And do what? Watch while you cut the dude open?” He shook his head, tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “I love you, honey, but not that much. Thor and I will hang out on the mountain, get our forest fix, do some fishing and wait for you to come home to us.”

There was a note of melancholy in his tone, and Sam wondered if the city, her lifestyle, was getting to him. Of course it is, silly. He’s making a huge sacrifice to be with you. The least you can do is let him get away and reset. “Two days. Give me two days, and I’ll meet you at the cabin. Deal?”

He kissed her softly, briefly. “Deal. Now. Before you run off to Southern parts unknown, I have something for you.”

Sam couldn’t stop the smile. “A present?”

“Yep. Shut your eyes.”

She did, heard him rustling around, then he came back and she felt the couch sink under his weight.

“Okay. Open ’em.”

She could swear she felt her heart stop, just for a moment, then adrenaline poured through her system and it took off at Thoroughbred pace. There was a small robin’s-egg-blue box in his hand, with a familiar white ribbon tied in a lovely bow. Tiffany.

Oh, God. She looked up to see Xander smiling widely at her obvious discomfort.

“It’s not what you think. Well, not exactly. Open it.”

She was possessed by an irrational thought—run. Run, now, out the door, and don’t look back. But she took a breath and unwrapped the box.

Inside was an incredibly delicate band of diamonds set in platinum, so small, so perfectly tiny and exquisite they were nearly diaphanous. She couldn’t help herself; the words came out before she could think.

“Oh, Xander, it’s beautiful.”

“It reminds me of you. Strong, unbreakable, but fine and delicate and made of stars.” He took it from the box and picked up her right hand. “I know you aren’t ready to take a bigger step, so I had this made for your right hand. If you’re ever ready, we can move it to the left. But for now, I wanted you to have something of mine. Something of me. Something to remind you of us when you’re away from me.”

He put the ring on her finger, then brought it to his mouth and kissed it. She was speechless. The panic was gone, replaced by a warm, gentle pulsing in her chest that signaled happiness, safety. A feeling she hadn’t had in a very long time. Tears hit the edges of her eyes and she used her left hand to wipe them away, then touched her wet fingers to his lips. “I love it. And I love you.”

He was quiet for a minute. “I know you do, hon. I know.” He sighed. “Just promise me you won’t take too long.”

* * *

They didn’t see the face in the window, watching them hug, and kiss, and touch. They only had eyes for each other.

Chapter

8

DARKNESS NEVER ENDS, even in the daylight. This is something I learned when I was a child, locked away in a dark, dank room, with spiders and centipedes for companions, and the occasional rustle of a mouse, or a rat, or a snake that slipped in through the grate after its prey. I had a tattered blue blanket I assume belonged to some other child kept in the hole, which I used alternately as a pillow and a cover. There was a chipped sippy cup I could use to catch rainwater when it dripped through the ceiling. The floor was dirt, and there was a bucket in the corner. Once a day, there would be footsteps, closer and closer until they stopped. The small window in the steel door would open, and something edible would be shoved through. Bread. Cheese. Once in a glorious while, an apple. And on the special days, the days I was briefly, brutally visited, after—if I’d been good—I was given an orange.

I hate oranges.

I hate the dark.

And spiders and rats and snakes and mice and everything that reminds me of those days.

Everything but him.

I’ve often wondered how many children came before me. I don’t want to know how many came after. He told me, when we left, I couldn’t ever look back. Not to the time before, nor to my time there. Looking back would make me unhappy, and it was best to never, ever think about those dark days again. We would make a new life. A life looking forward. A life free from shadows, from pain and humiliation and sharp things in the night.

I did my best.

I always did my best.

Even before, on the special days, when they came for me, blindfolded me, walked me one hundred and fifteen steps to the cold place. They told me I was special. That I was beautiful. Perfect. And when they were inside me, tearing me open, squeezing the breath out of me with their weight hard on my flat chest, they said unspeakable words, words I shudder to remember. Words children shouldn’t know. Instructions children shouldn’t get.

Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

Every step I take, deeper into the forest, the bad words come to me. I stop, stand against a tree, take a deep breath. Conjure his face, his kind, loving face. But now the vision is marred, his skin pale and waxy, his tongue sticking out of his mouth, the emptiness of his bulging eyes, the blood on his body. I will never see him smile again, never hear him read to me, or do flash cards at dinner, or watch fireflies as they gather in the twilight.

Or chase away the nightmares.

The truth can’t help me now. I crumple to the ground, sobbing so hard my body shakes. The forest screams at me, cicadas and birds and crickets and bats in an alarming cacophony; the trees shriek and stamp their feet, waving their arms, trying to catch the wind. Leaves rain down on me, dead and yellow, and I hear them coming.

Oh, God, they’re coming. And there’s nowhere left for me to hide.

SATURDAY

“To think of shadows is a serious thing.”

—Victor Hugo

“Let not your heart be concerned with death, for the three corners of our life are at hand. Birth, life, death: this is the only cycle that matters. Death is the great equalizer. Whether your life is one year or one hundred years, you will be resurrected in me, and we shall all live forever when the shadows at last fall.”

—Curtis Lott

Chapter

9

Georgetown

SAM WOKE EARLY to the sun streaming in the bedroom windows. Xander was gone, a note on the bed saying he was out for a quick run. She remembered last night in a sudden rush and stared down at her right hand. The delicate diamonds flashed in the morning sunlight, and she smiled. Clever and romantic, Xander’s ring, as she was already thinking of it, anchored her to this life more than any emotion she’d had since Simon and the twins died.

The thought of them hurt, but she let it in, breathed through it, touched her new ring. She whispered, “Forgive me, my loves.”

Sam jumped in the shower, then dressed in flax-colored linen Bermuda shorts, leather loafers and a cream cotton tank top with a matching cashmere sweater, packed a large black-and-tan Longchamps bag, pulled her damp hair off her face with a headband. She brought the bag downstairs and called Fletcher.

He didn’t even say hello. “Morning, sunshine. You ready? We can be down there before lunch if we take off soon.”

Sam said, “You didn’t even know I was going to call.”

“Well, a little bird might have mentioned you were planning a trip south.”

“Xander? He called you?”

“Texted. He knew you’d want to get on the road early. I’m on my way to your place now. Think you could scrounge me up some breakfast?”

“Don’t you ever grocery shop, Fletch?”

“Sure I do. Sometimes. Well, maybe not, really. Just coffee is fine, if food is too much trouble.”

“Yes, Fletcher, cooking for you is always a bother. I’ll see you shortly.”

He was laughing when he hung up.

She went into the kitchen and hurriedly put together omelets and bacon, enough for three. She was assembling the last plate when she heard the men in the hallway, Xander’s deep voice answering a question from Fletcher’s tenor. She shook her head. Sometimes she wondered who was running her life. It certainly didn’t feel as if she was.

She shot Xander a look when he came in, and he smiled merrily at her. Fletcher tossed her a salute and without a word, the two men tucked in to the food. Sam brought a pot of coffee to the table and joined them. Thor drank water noisily from his bowl in the corner, not wanting to be left out of the moment. He came and sat next to Xander’s left leg, hoping for a bit of omelet. Xander was strict with Thor’s diet, but Sam saw him hand a piece of bacon to the dog under the table.

Sam toyed with a mushroom and watched the two men. So different, these two. Xander was dark-haired and dark-eyed, bigger, more heavily muscled. Fletcher was lighter in every way, square-jawed, brown eyes bordering on hazel, with brown hair. Both smart. Both honest and kind, and caring. Maybe a little too caring. Something about the morning suddenly felt wrong. What were they up to?

They both stopped eating and turned to her expectantly.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re staring,” Xander said.

“The way you do when you’re about to make a pronouncement,” Fletcher added.

She shook her head. “No pronouncements. Just wondering what this is all about. It’s like you both want me involved in this case.”

Fletcher shot Xander a glance, then cleared his throat. “It’s an intriguing case, and you’re damn good at what you do. And the man did ask for you personally.”

“But?”

“No but. That’s all.”

Xander set down his fork and said, “That’s not fair. But, when you’re occupied, you’re happier.”

Ah. There it was. The truth, at last. She didn’t know whether to laugh or smack him on the hand with her fork.

“And I’ve been malingering too long? A few days left before school starts, and I’ll drive the two of you crazy in the meantime if I don’t have my hands into something?”

Neither responded. For the first time, she noticed Xander wasn’t drenched in sweat, though he was dressed in his running clothes.

Sam lost her appetite, pushed her plate away. “You didn’t go for a run, did you?”