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  “He was shot, right? Presumably that was upsetting.”

  “The bullet only grazed his rear end. He’s fine. He should have told the police it was an accident.”

  “Was it?”

  “It must have been.”

  “But your dad says it wasn’t. And your mom?”

  “She can’t remember.”

  How convenient, Lindsay thought. She glanced at Nathan, who remained quiet. He seemed content for her to handle the questions for now. She turned back to Celia. “You’re sure she doesn’t remember?”

  “Are you suggesting my mother is lying?” Affronted, Celia turned to Nathan, who covered her hand supportively.

  Lindsay found this annoying. It wasn’t their job to counsel distraught clients. They were investigators, for God’s sake.

  “I’m not suggesting anything,” Lindsay replied levelly. “Just asking if you’re sure.”

  “My mother can’t remember. It isn’t an act—she never lies. She’s been released on bail with the condition that she receive counseling. I think the judge is hoping that her memory will eventually return. But…”

  “Yes?” Nathan encouraged her.

  “I don’t think it will. And that worries me because she’s so busy blaming herself for what happened, she isn’t even trying to protect herself.”

  “You’re not worried she might shoot your father again now that she’s out on bail?” Lindsay asked.

  “No! I’m telling you it was all an accident. She never intended to hurt him.”

  “Why doesn’t your father believe that?”

  “I don’t know.” Celia turned to Nathan. “Why is she being so mean?”

  Lindsay glanced at Nathan, reacting to his quickly truncated smile with a roll of her eyes. If he wanted to coddle this woman, that was his business. She had little patience for emotionally needy clients.

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” Nathan suggested, gently easing his hand away from Celia’s. “The morning of August 18. It was shortly after breakfast. Your parents were alone at their lodge in the Catskills when your father told your mom he wanted a divorce. I know it’s painful, Celia, but can you describe what happened next?”

  “I only know what Dad has told us. They argued and, according to him, Mom picked up the shotgun he uses for hunting pheasants and started threatening him.”

  “The gun was just sitting there?” Lindsay asked.

  “Apparently Dad had been planning a hunting expedition for later that day and he’d had his gun out of the cabinet where it was usually locked.”

  “Isn’t early morning the best time for hunting pheasants?” Lindsay asked.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Celia asked, turning again to Nathan for support.

  He just patted her hand. “She’s being thorough, Celia. That’s all.”

  Lindsay ignored the sidebars. “Was the gun loaded?”

  “Obviously, since my father was shot.”

  “Did your mother load it, or was it loaded when she picked it up?” Lindsay asked more specifically.

  “It was loaded. I think. Anyway, it went off—accidentally. Mom sort of lost consciousness for a while and when she came to, Dad asked her to phone for help because he’d been shot. I guess there was quite a bit of blood, even though his injury was minor.”

  “You don’t seem very upset about the fact that your father was shot.”

  “Well, I’m sorry it happened. But Dad wasn’t the one who ended up getting arrested and being charged with a crime he didn’t commit.”

  Lindsay could see that Celia was becoming overwrought again. She sighed and gave the woman a moment to collect herself. Celia drank some coffee and whispered something to Nathan. He said something back, his tone low and reassuring.

  Where did he get the patience?

  But then, Celia was an awfully pretty girl.

  Finally Lindsay could wait no longer. “If your mother accepts your father’s version of that day’s events, why can’t you?”

  “I know my mother. Nathan’s met her, too. Can you imagine Audrey shooting anyone?” she asked him.

  “Not easily,” he admitted. “But even good people make mistakes.”

  “Mistakes, yes, but shooting your husband?”

  “These weren’t normal circumstances,” Lindsay reminded her. “People change when they’re under duress. How long were your parents married?”

  “Twenty-five years.”

  “That’s a lot of time to have invested in a relationship. When your father told her he wanted a divorce she must have been devastated. Trust me, divorce never brings out the best in people.”

  “But that’s something else I can’t understand. My parents were happy together. Really, they were.”

  “Children are often the last to know about these things,” Nathan pointed out gently.

  “Maybe. I could probably accept that I simply wasn’t aware of the problems in their relationship. But I will never be able to accept that my mother would deliberately shoot my father. She was scared of his guns. Wouldn’t even touch them.”

  “Why isn’t your mother here with you?” Lindsay wondered.

  “She didn’t want me to hire an investigator,” Celia said. “But her lawyer thinks it’s a good idea. And since I knew Nathan…”

  “Right,” Lindsay said. She’d already decided to take on this case, but she wanted to make sure the parameters were wide-open. “We will need to question both of your parents. Do you think they’ll cooperate with us?”

  “I’ll make sure they do.”

  “Good. I think that wraps things up nicely,” she said crisply.

  Nathan offered to walk Celia to her car, and once they’d left, Lindsay reflected on the meeting. Celia seemed like a sweet, somewhat naive person, someone whose life had been uncomplicated until events completely beyond her control had shattered everything from the foundation up.

  Celia may have found her unsympathetic during the meeting, but the truth was Lindsay had related with her more than the other woman could have ever guessed.

  But Celia wasn’t paying them for sympathy. She wanted the truth.

  The facts of the shooting seemed incontrovertible. Though they often had visitors, Audrey and Maurice had been alone at the lodge that weekend—which was to be expected. If Maurice had planned to tell Audrey he wanted out of the marriage, he’d want privacy. Maurice couldn’t very well have shot himself in the butt with a shotgun—not even a grazing shot. So Audrey must have done it.

  The problem with the scenario, however, was that it didn’t fit with the personalities of the people involved. Unless Celia’s assessment of her parents and their troubles was all wrong.

  Celia was far from an objective bystander, after all.

  Finally Lindsay stood and stretched.

  Damn Nathan for knowing her so well. He’d guessed she’d be intrigued by this case, and she was.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  NATHAN CAME BY LINDSAY’S office after seeing Celia out. She’d already started working on another case.

  “You look busy.”

  “Try swamped.” She put a hand on a stack of case files that were all of pressing importance.

  “Want to pass some of those on to me?”

  Lindsay selected a couple files that required a lot of research—his specialty—freeing her up for the fieldwork she loved. She handed them to him.

  “See? Doesn’t that feel better already?”

  She had to admit that it did.

  And then he was gone, before she had a chance to talk to him about the Burchard case, or question him about Celia.

  The day was busy and she didn’t see Nathan again. Fieldwork kept her occupied until after eight in the evening, and by the time she made it to the Stool Pigeon for dinner and a few wind-down drinks, she was exhausted.

  Still, she didn’t expect to sleep well that night. Celia Burchard’s story was far different from her own, but the woman’s distress had sparked memories, nonetheless.
r />   At home, Lindsay watched reruns on TV, finally falling asleep around two in the morning. A few hours later she awoke suddenly with sadness pressing like a sandbag on her chest.

  The light from the hallway provided enough illumination for her to make her way to the bathroom. Not bothering to switch on the wall sconces by the mirror, she splashed cool water over her face.

  The dream was always the same. She was a child again, eight years old in a sun-filled playroom. Then she heard a woman scream. A man yell.

  The scene shifts and suddenly she was standing in a different room, darker, streaks of red everywhere. At first glance it seems like paint.

  Her father is in this room, too, about ten feet away. He’s staring right at her, and she can’t look at anything but him. Slowly understanding seeps through her. Something terrible has happened. The red stuff isn’t paint.

  Then she hears another scream and she wakes up.

  The dream ends there, always ends there.

  Once it had been a nightly occurrence. Now a month sometimes could pass without an episode, until, eventually, the dream found her again. Usually there was a trigger. Lindsay had no doubt what it was this time.

  The new case, Celia Burchard’s parents, there were just too many parallels.

  Wearily, she sank to the cotton mat by the tub. Waves of hot air pulsed from the nearby heat register and she waited for the warmth to sink in. Over the years she’d learned not to fight the sadness that came to her in her dreams but rather to go with it. Only once she’d touched bottom was it possible to drift upward again.

  With her head in her hands, she let the sorrow soak through every fiber of her being. Once she’d felt the depths of it, the utter loss and emptiness, she summoned a different memory, a happy one.

  She was six, recently enrolled in school, and she’d entered the kitchen, unexpectedly, only to find her parents were standing by the sink, kissing. They pulled apart with an embarrassed laugh when they saw her. Her mother offered her a cookie.

  Long ago Lindsay had concluded that her memories of her childhood were unreliable, as a whole. But this one she knew was true and she clung to it.

  Her parents had been happy, once.

  Her father had loved her mother. Once.

  Lindsay reached for a towel to wipe away the sweat that had accumulated on her face. Through the fabric she felt the cheekbones she’d inherited from her mother. The strong nose and firm jaw of her dad.

  As Nathan had said, life went on. In one form or another.

  Slowly she got back onto her feet, then went to her closet and changed into jeans and a sweater. No sense trying to sleep again, at least not until she’d sufficiently distracted herself. Work was always good for that.

  On her way out of the room, she touched a finger to the photo of her mother that she kept on her bureau. Her Mom’s smile calmed her, reminding her that not everything from her past had been terrible.

  She grabbed her handbag from the rack by the front door, locked up, then headed down the stairs to the street. Though her neighborhood was primarily residential, it was never completely quiet, not even in the dead of night. The noise of the traffic was reassuring as she made her way down the block. A young couple, arms linked, passed by on the opposite side of the street. They were talking passionately about something, oblivious to her existence a mere twenty feet away.

  She felt a touch of envy for their closeness and also curiosity. What could matter so much at two o’clock on a Thursday morning? She stopped to fish her keys from her purse, then made her way through the main door, up the stairs, to the office. She flicked on a few select lights, just enough so she wouldn’t bang her shin on any of the furniture.

  As she passed by Nadine’s desk she noticed an African violet next to the phone. That was new. Touching one of the leaves confirmed her guess—it wasn’t silk.

  Nadine meant well, but real plants needed watering and fertilizer and constant attention. Sooner, rather than later, they all died—at least every plant she’d ever owned did.

  Tomorrow she’d talk to Nadine and remind her of the company policy toward green stuff.

  In her office Lindsay switched on the desk lamp. Light pooled on the last file she’d been working on. Paperwork wasn’t a fun part of the job—that was one of the reasons she’d hired Nadine. But no receptionist was ever going to be able to take over the job of writing her reports for her.

  That afternoon she’d shot some video footage for a Workers’ Compensation case and now she sat down to compose the report. She turned on her computer, and while she waited for the programs to load, she reviewed the footage on her camcorder.

  As she watched, she shook her head ruefully. The claimant had made this case painfully easy, as he’d actually had the audacity to drive to his local gym for a workout, clearly not hampered by the injury he claimed made it impossible for him to drive a truck.

  Setting aside the camera, she started typing.

  “The following investigation was conducted by Lindsay Fox, of Fox Investigations, on October 17, 2009, in New York City.

  “On this date I observed Lyle P. Cuthbert leave his house at quarter to nine, driving his 2005 Ford Taurus. I followed Mr. Cuthbert to—”

  A noise from the reception area stopped Lindsay cold. She froze as she heard the distinctive scrape of a lock turning in a dead bolt. Good God, someone was breaking in.

  There wasn’t enough time to call for help. She fumbled with her key ring, then unlocked the bottom drawer where she kept her gun. The weight of the Glock in her hand was reassuring as she quietly crept away from her desk, to stand in the dark shadows behind the door.

  “Lindsay?”

  “Bloody hell.” It was Nathan. She let her arms fall to her sides as the adrenaline filtered out of her body.

  A moment later he appeared in the doorway. His gaze went immediately to the gun. “I scared you. Sorry about that.”

  He was wearing black jeans and a long sleeved gray T-shirt. Combined with the day’s growth on his cheeks and chin and his inscrutable eyes, he could have been auditioning for a role as a cat burglar.

  “What the hell are you doing here at this hour? And how did you get in?”

  “Nadine gave me a key. I work here now. Remember?”

  “One month,” she reminded him. “Then we reassess.”

  His gaze held hers. “It’s going to work out.”

  “How can you be so confident?”

  “I just am.” His gaze dropped to her gun again. “Are you going to put that away? You’re making me nervous.”

  She went to her desk and locked the gun back in the bottom drawer. Standing up, she brushed aside some hair that had fallen over her eye. She noticed Nathan watching her, his expression intent.

  “You still haven’t told me why you came to the office so late,” she said.

  “I was up with my sick nephew for a few hours, so my sister could get some rest. By the time Justin finally settled down, I wasn’t tired anymore.”

  She remembered that he had a sister, but she’d thought she was married. “Does your sister live with you now?”

  “Yeah. It’s a temporary thing. She split up with her husband a few months ago. By the way, I’ve set up a meeting tomorrow with Audrey Burchard. That’s why I’m here—to collect my notes and prepare some questions. I’m assuming you want to come to the interview?”

  She was very interested in meeting Celia’s mother and judging for herself whether the woman really was telling the truth about what she remembered. “What time?”

  “Celia arranged for us to drop in at the town house on Park Avenue at ten in the morning.”

  “I’ll have to do some juggling with my schedule. Want to take a cab from here?”

  “That’ll work.”

  Lindsay glanced at her watch. It was almost three. One good thing about this late night encounter with Nathan—it had put all thoughts of her nightmare out of her mind. “I think I’ll head home and get a few hours’ sleep.”


  He nodded. “I just need to grab that file. I made a copy for you, too.”

  “Great. I’ll read it at home.” Lindsay closed up her office, then met Nathan at the front door. He had two manila folders in his hand and he passed her one.

  “Thanks.” She was glad to see that he was still as methodical and conscientious as ever. They exited the office and she locked up behind them. Nathan followed her down the corridor and the stairs, until they were back on the street.

  Nathan kept walking with her as she headed toward her apartment, even though the subway entrance was in the opposite direction.

  “So what were you doing at the office so late?” he asked.

  “I often work at night. I like the quiet.”

  “Still a night owl, huh?”

  Suddenly she was reminded of one night when they’d been working late together. They’d been in an unmarked car, waiting outside an apartment building for the suspect they were tailing to make his move.

  They’d been listening to the radio and talking. The music was soft and romantic and a mood had settled over her, unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She’d felt safe and warm and extremely aware of the attractive man beside her.

  Until that moment, Nathan had never made an inappropriate comment or move, never given any indication that he might find her attractive, too.

  But that night she’d thought she saw an admiring light in his eyes. When she held his gaze, he’d shifted subtly in her direction. She must have moved toward him, too, because the next thing she knew they were kissing.

  There’d been an immediate spark between them, and soon the spark was a roaring blaze. They’d necked like teenagers, making love with their clothes on, and they might have gone even further, if Nathan hadn’t noticed the suspect leaving the apartment building. With their guy on the move, the moment between them was terminated with surgical precision.

  Later, they’d both acted as if it had never happened.

  And, three weeks after that, Lindsay had handed in her resignation.

  “Is this your building?” Nathan asked when she stopped walking.

  “Yes. See you tomorrow.” She turned to leave, but Nathan stopped her with a touch on her arm.