“You’ll have to sign—”
“It will be covered,” he says. “She has excellent benefits, she’s a CBI agent.”
“No kidding? Wow. Do you have any idea why she’d try to hurt herself? They’re going to want to do a psych consult...”
“She didn’t hurt herself. Someone did this to her. I’m sure of it.”
77
THE WRIGHTS’ HOUSE
Lauren stands in her dining room, watching the ambulance shriek away. The mess the paramedics have made is incredible. The floor is littered with plastic wrappings, discarded needle caps, tubing. They should come with a disclaimer—yes, we’ll save your life, but only if you clean up the mess.
“Watch out. Is that puke? Ugh, grody.”
She has nearly forgotten the kid—who looks familiar—standing bug-eyed in her living room.
“Who are you, exactly?”
“Bode Greer. Ski Magazine. My man Zack promised an interview. What do you say we sit down, and you can tell me what the heck just happened? That was your sister, right?”
“I remember you. You interviewed Mindy.”
“I did. Best single-issue sales we’ve had in years. I was hoping for a follow-up, now that we know who she really is.”
Who she really is. The words are a knife to Lauren’s already fragile heart.
“You want to know who she really is? I’ll tell you. She’s my daughter. And this situation is a private family matter. I don’t know how or why you’ve insinuated yourself in at this particular moment, or what sort of bargain you and that Armstrong man made, but you’re not welcome here. I have no comment for you, and there will be no interviews with my daughter. And I swear to you, if you write about this, I’ll sue you and your magazine. Now, get out. You can see yourself to the door.”
There is honey on the table. “Tsk,” she murmurs. “Messy, messy, Juliet.”
She picks up the teacup from where it’s fallen on the floor.
“Hey, isn’t this, like, a crime scene or something? Don’t the cops need to see everything the way it is?”
She eyes him coldly. “I told you to leave, and I meant it. Get out, or I’ll call the police and have you forcibly removed.”
Bode puts up his hands and reverses his ball cap. “Fine, fine. I’m out.”
She locks the door behind him. There is little time; she has to get everything cleaned up and get to Mindy.
Stupid Juliet. Just had to go sticking her nose in. Lauren could have handled all of this if her dumb little sister hadn’t decided to solve the crime of the century.
She hums one of Mindy’s favorite songs, something from a band called Imagine Dragons, as she thoroughly washes the cups and teapot, pours the honey down the drain, follows it with hot, hot water. It wouldn’t do to have anyone else get ill, then she might be blamed, and she can’t let that happen.
She washes the teapot and sets the kettle to boil. She leaves the groceries melting in their bags on the counter where Zack and the reporter left them; it seems appropriate that she would forget about them in the chaos.
She makes a fresh pot of tea, pulls a new cup and saucer from the cabinet and sets them on the table. She tries to think what color lipstick Juliet had on, but can’t remember. It must have been something very subtle—probably that Burt’s Bees Pomegranate lip balm she carts around everywhere. Mindy uses it, too.
Down the hall in Mindy’s—my daughter’s—room, she finds a tube on the night table. Back in the dining room, she pours some tea into the cup, carefully picks it up and kisses the edge, then runs her finger across the nude smear. Perfect. She throws the cup and its contents to the floor, making sure it lands where Juliet fell.
She takes in the scene. Yes, this works. All is as it was.
The letters...she moves quickly to her bedroom and slides the dresser away from the wall. Sure enough, the manila envelope of secrets is gone.
Mindy, Mindy, Mindy. You are so naughty. She should feel panic, but she is past that. Now, it’s all about self-preservation.
She takes a quick look through her daughter’s room, doesn’t find them. The bathroom—ah, yes. Here they are. Under the sink, wedged against the wall. She takes the package and heads back to the living room.
One last thing...from under the kitchen sink, she takes the bottle of straight ethylene glycol that she borrowed from the garage. Jasper loves to save a dime here and there, and orders gallons of it online to make his own antifreeze, hating how much the brand names charge. She wipes it clean of her fingerprints, and sets it back in its proper place, making sure to coat it lightly in dust she swipes from the corner of the garage. A spider scuttles out of her way, frightened by the intrusion.
She watches its retreat. Normally she would rout it out immediately; she can’t stand the idea it may drop onto her shoulders as she passes through to her car unawares, but a reprieve is given. She feels a strange kinship with the small creature, hiding fearfully in its dirty corner. It will do anything it can to survive. It is at the mercy of its environment, of the people it comes in contact with. Any moment could be its last.
Just like her.
*
Bode Greer waits until the car pulls out of the driveway, debating. What kind of woman takes fifteen minutes to follow her dying sister to the hospital? What has she been doing in there? The Lauren Wright he remembers is not this woman. The interview had been fun. They’d been in the lodge at the top of Copper Mountain. Mindy had finished her last practice runs before the big events started, the interviews were standard at this point. He’d felt lucky to get one with her; everyone wanted to talk to the young phenom.
During the interview, Mindy’s mother had been charming, self-deprecating, offering to buy hot chocolate for him and Mindy as they spoke. She’d hovered a bit, yes, but in a pleasantly protective way. Mindy hadn’t seemed to mind at all. It was clear they were very close.
The woman he met upstairs is cold, calculating, awful. She makes his gonads shrivel. There is something very, very wrong with her. With all of this.
He’s torn. Go back to the house, try to get in and see what she’s just done, or follow her.
In the end, he thinks about what Zack Armstrong might want. Bode has a good feeling about the man. He seems like a straight shooter.
He puts the car in gear and follows her down the hill.
78
CBI LAB
DENVER, COLORADO
Parks packs up his bag for the chopper ride to Vail, shoving everything in without rhyme or reason. Starr is standing by the windows, looking out to the helipad, talking on her phone. He beckons to her, and she raises a finger. He taps his watch, and she nods.
The case is coming together. Lauren Wright’s DNA at the crime scene is explainable by only a few scenarios. Parks, with the long-honed instincts of a veteran homicide detective, feels certain the link between the two women has something to do with Vivian Armstrong’s incarceration at University Hospital.
The subpoena for Armstrong’s records came in two hours ago, and Starr has been on the phone since the document was served, combing through the files from afar. The 1990s have already been scanned and archived, so it’s not taking as long as it could to find the information they need.
Starr hangs up and rushes over. “Let’s go. I’ll brief you guys on the way.”
They clamber into the chopper, put on their headsets, and are airborne moments later. Starr’s voice comes over the headset, tinny against the whapping rotors.