Dirty Secrets (6 page)

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.” He let out a sigh. “But I don’t want to talk about Mona any more. I want to talk about you. There are still so many things I want to know.”

“Okay. What do you want to know?”

He was quiet for few moments. “Why did you wait a whole year before dealing with your husband’s things?”

Emma huffed a surprised laugh. “You cut right to the chase, don’t you? Gosh.” She blew out a breath, sending her bangs dancing. “I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

Emma fixed her gaze on the gentle waves, remembering exactly what. “A few years before Will died, I was on an airplane, coming home from some conference. Sitting next to me was this old woman, crying. I asked her what was wrong and she told me that she was on her way home to Wisconsin. That her husband of forty-seven years had died the year before and her sister had come to help her with the funeral. After the funeral, her sister invited her to her condo in Florida for a few days, to rest. On the flight to her sister’s, the woman broke her hip and was forced to stay with her sister until she could move on her own, almost a year later.

“I’ll never forget how she cried. She said her husband’s shoes would still be in their foyer and his coat on the kitchen chair. She said going home after a year was like he’d died all over again. She had me crying so hard with her that the flight attendant thought she was my grandmother.”

Christopher was touched. Emma had always had such a tender heart. He’d always loved that about her. “You remembered that when your husband died.”

“Yeah. I was in New York when Will was killed. My book had just come out and hit the bestseller lists and I’d done a short interview on one of the TV morning shows. I was on top of the world and when I got home, Will and I were going out to celebrate. Instead, I got home just in time to sign the organ donor releases. My friend Kate took me home and I thought about that old woman as I was walking up to my front door. I couldn’t go in. Couldn’t stand to see his shoes in the foyer. I slept at Kate’s that night. Eventually I did go inside the house, but it was so hard.” She shrugged uncomfortably. “The next week, I got an invitation to lecture about the book, so I went away again. The next time I came home it was harder to go in and I stayed an even shorter time. Suddenly a year had passed and I realized what a coward I’d been.”

Christopher hated to hear her beat herself up. “Maybe you knew too much, Emma. Listening to all those grieving people in your practice all those years, maybe you knew how hard the road to acceptance was going to be. Sometimes knowing how long the road is makes it harder to take the first step.”

“Or the first bite,” Emma murmured. “That’s very wise, Christopher.” She looked up at him, admiration in her eyes, and his heart stumbled. “Thank you.”

His chest was tight, pressured. His groin even more so. He wanted her with every fiber of his being and if he didn’t move now, he’d never be able to give her the space and time she’d asked for. Abruptly he stood up. “We should be going now.” He pulled her to her feet, ignoring her surprised squeak. Gathered his coat and her shoes and started back toward the restaurant and his car.

“Christopher!” He stopped and looked back. She stood there, hands on her hips. Her very curvy hips. His mouth watered as it always had. “What’s wrong with you?”

He hesitated, then in three long strides was standing in front of her. His coat and her shoes were back on the sand and his arms were around her and his mouth was crushing hers. And she was kissing him back, frantically, as if she’d never get enough. Her arms lifted around his neck, her breasts pressed into his chest and he knew this was the dream he’d had every miserable night of his adolescent life. And longer.

She was on her toes, leaning up into him. Then her round, curvy ass was filling his hands and he lifted her off her feet, needing to feel her against him. Needing her to feel how much he wanted her. Her wild little whimpers of pleasure drove him insane and he ground himself into her softness, rubbing her up and down his rock hard, aching length. Torturing them both. He could have her here.
Right here. Right now
.

But they were on a public beach. His sanity returned with a slam and with it a healthy dose of guilt. He’d promised to give her time. He released her, sliding her down his body until her toes made purchase with the sand. Then let her go, turning to the water, his lungs working like a bellows. She should be angry with him. Maybe even slap his face. Instead, she rested her forehead against his upper arm and sighed.

“I think you’re right,” she said. “We should be going now.”

* * *

They walked back to the restaurant in half the time it had taken them to walk the beach. Earlier they’d been strolling and chatting. Now they were power walking and silent. His car stood nearly alone in Crabby Bill’s parking lot.

“Where’s your car?” he asked.

“I took a cab,” she said. “I’ll take one now. You can go home. Megan will be waiting for you.”

“Megan’s at her friend’s pajama party and I’m not going to let you take a cab. I’ll drive you to the hotel.” When she hesitated he rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to attack you in the car. Get in, Emma.” He pulled out of the parking lot and looked over at her. She was looking out the window, her lower lip pulled between her teeth. “Where are you staying?”

“The Don CeSar,” she murmured.

No other words were exchanged until he pulled in front of the St. Pete landmark hotel where uniformed doormen waited to assist the guests. “Not yet,” Christopher barked when one of them tried to open her door. He gentled his voice. “Emma. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you like that when I promised to give you time.”

Her smile was rueful. “I wanted it as much as you did, Christopher. Which is why I can’t ask you to come up.”

He ignored the spear of disappointment. “I understand. Can I see you tomorrow?”

Her smile faltered. “My flight leaves at seven thirty in the morning.”

His heart stopped. “You’re leaving? You can’t.”

“I didn’t plan to stay, Christopher. I’d planned to come, say my piece, and leave.”

He gritted his teeth. “Emma, I just got you back after seventeen fucking years. You’re not leaving me again.”

She sighed. “Tonight was so much more than I ever expected.
You’re
so much more than I expected.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “I need to cool down. So do you. Let me go home and sort this out in my mind. I’ll come back. I promise.” She leaned over and kissed him quickly on the lips. “Thank you, Christopher Walker. For making me feel alive again.” Then she was gone before he could say good-bye.

Chapter 5

Cincinnati, Sunday, February 28, 9:00 a.m.

Emma stood on the airport escalator, her palm vibrating as she gripped the heavy black rubber handrail. What a difference a week made. No longer did she dread the airport, the city. The house.

She still felt a sharp pang of loss when she glanced up to the place where Will had always waited with a single red rose. But it wasn’t
as
sharp, and the realization was a comfort in and of itself. The next time she came through it would be a little less sharp still. Until one day she’d be able to look up with a smile and think,
that’s where Will used to wait for me
. Christopher had been right. She’d known the road to acceptance all along, she’d just been overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the trip.

She glanced down at the handful of wildflowers she’d gripped all the way from Florida with a wistful smile. He’d been waiting for her in the lobby of her hotel this morning at six a.m., the wildflowers in his hand, and her heart had jumped for joy even as her mind screamed caution. He couldn’t let her go without saying good-bye, he’d said, so sweetly. Plus, she hadn’t given him her address and phone number. So he’d come back, early, and waited for her to come down.

Then driven her to the airport where he’d said his good-bye, a lusty kiss with his tongue in her mouth and his hand in her hair. Then he’d pressed a heavy manila envelope into her hand that wasn’t grasping the remaining life out of the wildflowers he’d picked in his own garden. “Read it when you’re alone,” he whispered, then kissed her again, leaving her knees weak and her heart racing.

She hadn’t read it yet. She would when she got home. Anxious to get there, she sailed past the poor souls that had checked luggage, her overnight bag over her shoulder, to where Kate waited outside with her car.

“Well, how did it go?” she asked when Emma hopped in.

Emma slanted her a wary look. “Fine.”

Kate’s lips twitched. “Nice flowers.”

Emma chuckled. “Drive me home and I’ll tell you all about it.”

* * *

St. Pete, Sunday, February 28, 9:15 a.m.

The lights were on in the lab and the yellow police tape no longer blocked the door. Pulling on a pair of protective goggles, Christopher ran his key card through the slot and pushed the door open, finding all three of his students hard at work putting the lab back to rights. “I guess Harris called you guys, too.” He’d found the detective’s message on his home answering machine when he’d returned from taking Emma to the airport.

Ian looked up from the gas chromatograph he was recalibrating, his eyes narrowed behind his goggles. “He did. He also said we’re still not to consider leavin’ town.”

“He said we should stay available to answer any questions,” Nate corrected mildly.

“It’s the same thing,” Ian insisted. “Especially since that damned detective has been doggin’ our every damn move. He’s going to get me deported.”

“He can’t do that,” Nate sighed, as if Ian’s concern had been voiced once too often.

“Well, I’m just glad to be getting back to work,” Tanya said quietly. “I’ve been going nuts with all that time to think.”

They all went still for a moment, all eyes drifting to the table where Darrell had worked. Christopher sighed. “It’s never going to be the same.” Then he straightened. “But we do have a deadline. Sutton at the USDA is waiting for our next report. When can we have it done?”

The three students looked at one another. “It’ll take us at least a week to do the samples that Darrell was working on,” Tanya said. “On top of our own work.”

“And another week to redo the samples that got destroyed in the break-in last month,” Ian added. “Perhaps another three to four weeks, Professor. Will they give us that much time?”

“I hope so. I know they were hoping to start testing the new methods in their own labs by spring.”

“Suppose you all tell me about these new methods.”

They turned as one. Detective Harris stood in the door, holding Darrell’s key card in his hand. Under one arm he carried the notebook Darrell had been using the night he was killed. Nate just sighed. Ian scowled. Tanya looked rattled.

Christopher frowned. “Harris. If you’re going to come in here you have to wear goggles.” He gave him a pair. “I thought you’d cleared us to get back to work.”

Harris put the goggles on without argument. “I did. I was hoping you’d all rush back here, because I wanted to talk to you all together. I need to know more about the work you’re doing here.”

Christopher shrugged, puzzled. “It’s no government secret, Detective. We’re working on some new ways to test for soil contaminants. Soil gets tested as part of environmental maintenance around factories and in construction sites before building permits can be issued. Private labs all over the country do this testing, but if they’re certified labs, they use standardized methods blessed by the USDA.”

“These are the same methods you’re working on,” Harris said.

“Improved methods,” Christopher clarified. “Ways to do the testing faster, but with equal or better accuracy. Part of proving our new methods are just as accurate as the old methods is by testing samples side by side with old and new methods. We’ve gathered soil samples from all over the state, sandy, peat, rocky—all different soil compositions. Now it’s just a matter of testing and recording data and cranking out the comparisons, old to new. It’s not rocket science. Really.”

Harris nodded. “And you record all your data where?”

Ian tapped his hardbound notebook. “First in these, then into the computer. That’s how we do all the statistical comparisons. With the computer.”

“Can you show me your notebooks?”

More puzzled, each of them did so, watching as Harris leafed through each page. “And when you’re done with one notebook,” he asked, “what do you do with it?”

“They’re official records,” Christopher said. “They can be used in court or for patents, that kind of thing, so we want to ensure we keep the data safe. When one notebook is finished, it’s sent to the University library to be copied. We used to microfiche in the old days, but now they put the copies on a CD. Then the library returns the notebooks and a CD to us so we can reference them as needed.”

“Why are you asking all these questions about our notebooks?” Ian asked.

Harris pointed at the bookshelf that sagged with old notebooks. “Can I see the book Darrell Roberts was working in before this one?” he asked, ignoring Ian’s question.

Annoyed, Ian pulled out Darrell’s last finished notebook. “This is it.”

“Put it on the table,” Harris directed, then put Darrell’s unfinished notebook beside it. He flipped through the older book, then opened the newer one.

Tanya made a distressed sound. “That’s not Darrell’s notebook.”

Harris raised a brow. “I know. But why did you say so?”

Tanya bit her lip. “Darrell was halfway through his book. That one only has a few pages. And the handwriting’s sloppy. Darrell was never sloppy.”

Harris looked at Christopher. “Our lab checked this book out. It’s Roberts’s handwriting, but it’s shaky. And all the pages were written at the same time, even though they’re dated days apart.”

Christopher slowly examined both books. “And there are gaps in the dates themselves from book to book,” he said heavily. He hadn’t really believed Darrell had been murdered until this moment. “Whoever killed him, took his latest notebook with him, because it wasn’t here when I found him. Why? These are just soil samples.” His throat thickened as the enormity of the situation struck him hard. “It’s just dirt.”

“Somebody didn’t want him testing their dirt, Professor,” Ian said quietly.

“This isn’t possible,” Nate protested weakly. “It’s . . . too fantastic.”

Christopher could not tear his eyes away from the fake notebook. It was Darrell’s handwriting, but Tanya was quite right. It was sloppy and that was something Darrell had never been. “Whatever was in that book is gone.”

“No, it’s not,” Tanya whispered and all eyes were suddenly on her pale face.

“What do you mean, Miss Meyer?” Harris asked sharply.

She licked her lips nervously. “After Darrell lost all his samples in the break-in last month, he got hypercompulsive about losing his data. He started scanning his notebook pages every night before he went home.” She looked over to the computer in the corner. “The files are on the hard drive.”

Christopher shook his head. “I don’t understand, Tanya. If he was so worried, why didn’t he say anything?”

Tanya sighed. “He thought it was too fantastic himself and he didn’t want you to think he was losing it. He said he knew he had to be wrong.” Her lips trembled and she pursed them hard. “He said it was just dirt.”

There was silence until Harris cleared his throat. “I’ll need access to the files that he scanned from his missing book,” Harris said and Christopher nodded, numbly.

“Right away.”

“I appreciate it.” Harris backed out the door, taking off his goggles. “And if you’re planning to work after hours, make sure you’re not alone.” He gave each of them a hard look before walking away.

Christopher waited until he heard the outer door slam. “Make sure you burn a copy of those files for me as well,” he said tersely. “I’ll be in my office.”

* * *

Cincinnati, Sunday, February 28, 1:00 p.m.

Emma put down the last page from Christopher’s envelope and carefully smoothed the worn page with a trembling hand. The envelope had been filled with letters. The yearbook letter and dozens of others. Some were love letters, but most were ordinary “here’s what happened to me today” kind of letters. All ended “All my love, Christopher.” All were letters he’d never sent, dating from their freshman year of high school until his sophomore year of college when they stopped. Abruptly.

That would have been the year he met and married Mona.

Dear Lord, she thought. All those years.
He was in love with me all that time.

But on top of the stack had been a letter he’d penned last night after dropping her off at the hotel. She read it again, her cheeks on fire. It was by turns sweet . . . and hot. Filled with longing, both emotional and most definitely physical, Christopher Walker had taken the term “chemistry” to a whole new level. She’d come home to cool down, but that didn’t look like it was going to happen any time soon.

She gathered the papers into a neat stack and carried them to her bedroom, loathe to leave the letters out where just anyone could see them. Specifically, where Kate’s prying eyes might spy them. Even though Kate knew the basic events of the weekend, the words in these letters were Christopher’s mind and heart and needed to be protected. On an impulse she slid them in the middle of a stack of printed pages that was the beginning of her next manuscript, the follow-up to
Bite-Sized
that her publisher had been asking for. That she’d had trouble writing.

Every time she sat down to write she’d felt like a cheat, a fraud. She’d been sure she’d be found out, exposed, the psychologist telling everyone how to deal with their grief when she’d been running from her own. Now she sat down in front of her computer, new ideas filling her mind. And she began to write the story of the old woman she’d met on the plane all those years ago. The woman who was afraid to go home because her husband’s shoes were in the foyer. The paragraphs flowed and the old woman’s story became her own. A story she was now unafraid to write.

So deep was she into her work that she didn’t notice the sunlight growing dim or the shadows growing longer as the sun went down. She didn’t hear the creak of her kitchen door opening, nor the footsteps on the stairs. A split second of warning was all she had before a big gloved hand covered her mouth and yanked her to her feet.

She struggled, her feet blindly kicking behind her.
No
. She bit the hand that covered her mouth and drew a breath to scream when with a grunt the hand let go. But her scream was cut off, a rag shoved in her throat, so deep she gagged.

He’ll rape me,
she thought, her lungs unable to get enough air.
God, please. No. I just started over. Please
 . . . She was pushed to her bed, the man’s knee shoved into her kidney as he held her down. Tears stung her eyes. Pain and fear warred as her mind tried to stay calm. He yanked at her hands, tying them behind her back. Then he tied her feet and wrapped another rag around her eyes.

The pressure lifted from her back and she gritted her teeth, preparing herself . . .

The bed creaked as he got to his feet.

But he didn’t touch her. Emma fought to breathe evenly through her nose as she listened. He was unzipping her overnight bag, dumping it on the floor. Ripping drawers from her bureau. She heard more sounds from over by her desk, the scrape of plastic, the dull clang of metal. A muttered curse.

Then he left her room. She heard him downstairs, moving all the boxes she and Kate had packed. She heard tape ripping from cardboard, again and again.

I have to get help,
she thought. He could come back when he finished doing . . . whatever it was he was doing. There was a phone on her nightstand.
I can do this,
she thought.
I’ve answered that phone in the dark a hundred times.
She inched toward the top corner of her bed, like a caterpillar, swung her legs over the side of the bed and struggled to sit up, as soundlessly as possible. The nightstand was against her knee. She leaned over, knocked the receiver off the phone with her chin. Nearly fainted with relief when she heard the dial tone. Nearly fainted from terror when she realized that he might hear it, too. He was still downstairs. In the kitchen now. She could hear the occasional clatter of dishes or silverware as he continued his search.

For what? Right now, that didn’t matter. What only mattered was calling for help. She bent her face close to the buttons and carefully she ran the tip of her nose over each one, grateful Will had insisted on a no-nonsense office-style phone. She pictured the position of the numbers nine and one.

911. She pushed the buttons with her nose, cursing the shrill tones that seemed to echo off the walls. She could clearly hear the calm voice of the operator asking her to state the nature of her emergency. Her grunts were muffled, but the operator understood. Help was on the way.