With a small smile, he broke off a piece of her chocolate bar. The audacity of the move shocked her. She grabbed the chocolate bar, pulled her chair and person back from the table.
“Don’t you love chocolate? It makes the day more special.” He smiled a little, and chills ran down her spine.
Aubrey stood, picking up her cup and the chocolate. “I need to get back upstairs.”
“Oh, don’t go just yet. Let’s talk some more.”
“Thanks, but I’m going to head up.”
“How is your husband?”
She didn’t answer, just started toward the coffee urns again to top off.
She heard the man approaching from behind.
“Aubrey, right? Aubrey Hamilton? Really, how is your husband? His name is Josh, if I recall.”
Aubrey whirled around, out of patience. “Good night.” She started away, but he grabbed her arm.
“I asked you a question. How is dear Josh?” His voice was no longer friendly and inquisitive. Now it was filled with menace.
She tried to pull her arm from his grasp, but he had her in a steel grip. “He’s dead, you sick bastard. My husband died five years ago.”
“Now, now. Doesn’t do to lie. I saw you with him earlier in the week. In the elevator. Yes, I’m sure it was you.”
“That’s just a friend of mine. My husband is dead.”
The man stroked his chin. He spoke almost to himself, sotto voce. “Really? After all this time, too. Fascinating.”
She jerked on her arm. He let go, and she started away.
“Mrs. Hamilton?”
She turned to glance back at him.
“If you hear from him, do let me know.” He handed her a card.
Aubrey was too shocked to do anything but take it. She -finally came to her senses and scurried back to the elevator. The man didn’t follow her, just stood grinning by the coffee urns.
When the doors closed, she remembered to breathe.
She was shaking, her hands trembling so hard that hot coffee sloshed out of the opening in the lid, spilling on the card and burning her hand.
“Son of a bitch!”
The elevator stopped on the fifth floor while she was cursing. The nurse on duty saw her and jumped up from behind the desk. “Are you okay?”
Aubrey nodded, left the elevator, cradling her hand. “Coffee burn.”
“Let me see it,” the nurse commanded. Aubrey stopped and held out her hand. The nurse tsked over it for a moment, then said, “Go rinse it in cool water. It’s not too bad. Hey, by the way, your -mother-in-law is awake.”
“Thanks,” Aubrey said. Great. Just what she needed. She went to the room and set her coffee and the ruined card on the small shelf above the radiator, then made eye contact with Daisy, who was burning mad. Aubrey could see it in her eyes.
“Are you okay?”
One big blink for no.
“Do you hurt? I can get the nurse to supplement your last shot.”
Another single blink.
Aubrey sighed. “I wish I could read your mind, Daisy. Or that you could write. Do you want to try?”
Two blinks. Yes.
“Okay.” This was something they’d been working on. Daisy wanted to communicate, but she hadn’t had enough energy to make the pen move properly. Decoding her chicken scratchings had been difficult. The doctors said with practice she’d get better. But there was one word she had managed to write, several times.
Aubrey got out her Sharpie and notepad and placed the pen in Daisy’s grasp. Aubrey held the pad up at an angle so Daisy could see it properly. She wrote shakily, halting, but miraculously, the word finally made it onto the page. Aubrey turned it around and read it.
Josh?
She sighed, heavy and impatient. How many times were they going to go through this?
“Daisy, Josh is dead.”
Her tone lacked conviction, and Daisy started a string of blinks indicating emphatic nos.
“The man you saw here isn’t Josh. That’s Chase. He’s my friend, my . . . boyfriend. He’s a freelance writer from Chicago. Josh passed away five years ago.”
Daisy waved the pen toward the pad again. Aubrey obliged, and the older woman wrote some more. Her hand fell to her side, limp. Aubrey looked at the pad again.
Not dead.
Jesus. What the hell was going on today?
She patted Daisy’s arm and nodded. “Okay, Daisy. Time for you to get some sleep.”
She started to press Daisy’s morphine button, but Daisy had already closed her eyes and was starting to drift.
Aubrey stepped back to her uncomfortable chair and wedged herself on the cushion, legs drawn up underneath her.
What had just happened? Who was the man who’d appeared downstairs, asking about Josh? And why did he seem so familiar?
She picked up the coffee-stained card gingerly, as if it were a bomb that might go off. DC Investigations—Private, Secure, Discreet. There was no address, just a handwritten phone number, the last three digits smeared out of recognition from the coffee spill. Shit. She held it to the light. Maybe that last number was a seven, or a four? She turned the card over and saw a name written on the back.
Derek Allen.
She knew that name. But where from?