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She was getting two mugs down from the cupboard, like she did it every day. Having her in their space was easy. Natural. “No. Thanks though. I’ll make something later.” She lifted the carafe and poured them each a cup while he threw a bagel in the toaster. It was early, even for Jules, but at least when she got up, there’d be coffee.
“So,” she said as she glided around the island where he’d almost undressed her the night before. He’d never look at the granite slab the same way.
“What aren’t you telling me?” She set his cup down, then slid into one of the table chairs. “I thought we were done with bombshells when you mentioned Ted might be starring on your most wanted list.” She paused blowing on her coffee to raise her brows at him over the rim.
She needed to take this seriously, even if Ted was her best friend. Even if they’d shared everything before this. He pulled out a chair and sat. “Listen, he has all the right alibis, but we need to talk to him, and until then, I want you safe. I know it’s probably a no-brainer, but he can’t know we’re looking into the possibility that he could be involved.”
Sasha’s gaze shot up to meet his. “I’d never put you or your investigation at risk like that.” She sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. “But I still feel as though I’m having to divide my loyalties. For so long, Ted has been the one person I’ve confided in.”
He tamped down the jealousy. She had her own life, one that involved her best friend. Nothing would make him stand in the way of that—unless he tried to hurt her. “I get it. I do. I’m sorry this has been hard on you.” He reached across the table and swiped his thumb over her knuckles. She shrugged off his apology, then took a sip of her coffee. “And I’m sorry what I have to tell you won’t make it easier. The writing on your booth at the hotel? We discovered it was written in blood. The blood of yesterday’s homicide victim.”
A low, distressed sound gurgled in the back of her throat. She pulled her hand away from his touch and hugged her arms around her stomach. Her body was rigid, jaw tense. “You know,” she whispered. “After my family died, I sometimes thought that nothing bad could happen again, because something so horrific had occurred already. Of course, I realize how silly that is now. Bad things happen all the time. I just feel so guilty.” She sniffled. “People are dying—maybe because of me? Someone in my family? People with lives of their own.”
The despair in her eyes gutted him. “No,” he said firmly. “Not you. People are dying because a predator is killing them.”
A tear rolled down her cheek, and he brushed it away. “We’re going to get them.” Since he’d been woken by the call, there was an odd tingling at the back of his neck. Something he’d experienced in the past—right before shit hit the fan. They were narrowing in on a suspect. Between the number of interviews they’d been conducting and the forensic evidence still pending, they were going to nab someone, and soon.
Chapter Seventeen
Sasha had spent the last two hours trying to think of anything else but the homicide victim’s final moments, and Melissa Fletcher. Could she sleep with the lights out? Did that eerie whistle replay in her head over and over? A shiver worked through her body, fear twined with anger. Who else had to die, and why? Julie had come down for breakfast before going off to class, giving her a brief reprieve from being inside her own head, and a change of clothes from her closet. She wandered the house, just to move. The last time she’d built up a healthy sweat with a long run was the day she’d found a child being held captive less than two miles from her home.
She drew in a breath, trying to slow the beat of her anxious heart. That was a mistake though, because she could detect the faint scent of sandalwood and cedar in the air. Something that was becoming incredibly addicting and only made her pulse race faster. Gus was unlike anyone she’d ever met before. When they were together, something clicked. But she couldn’t think about that now. Not when everything inside was so stirred up. Not until the person the police were hunting for was discovered.
The harsh trill of her cell phone made her jump, and she covered her racing heart with her hand. She was going to give herself a heart attack. Blowing out a sharp breath, she picked up the device. Ted. Shoot. She stared at the phone, biting at her lip as it continued to ring. Had Gus already interviewed him? Maybe he was calling because he was upset at being dragged into her problems. Not for one moment did she believe Ted had anything to do with kidnapping, murder, or planting the explosive that detonated beneath Gus’s car. Still, she trusted Gus. His instincts were well-honed and he wanted to keep her safe. The phone stopped ringing, and the tension tightening her belly loosened. Then it started ringing again.
She could answer and not mention anything about the case or where she was. Or she could continue to ignore the man who had been her rock since before grade school. What a sorry excuse for a friend she’d been lately. Her finger hesitated over the icon to accept the call. One moment passed, then another before she jammed her thumb against it and lifted the receiver to her ear.
“Hi, Ted.” She wrapped one arm around her waist and paced to the kitchen window to look out.
“Sash.” His voice broke over the receiver, edged with the type of despair only audible when something truly devastating happened.
Her breathing fastened. “What is it?”
“My mom. She’s in the hospital, Sash. They’re saying it was a stroke. God, I can’t lose her. I’m not ready for this.” His sob sliced through her, and she gripped the countertop to steady herself. Ted’s mother, Rose, was an amazing woman, and the bond she shared with her son was extraordinary.
“Oh, oh my goodness. When did this happen?” Her voice was just as shaky as she felt.
“I just heard. You were my first call. I’m leaving the State Police building now—I had a meeting with Detective Lambert. I think he was the one who stopped at your house. The hospital called right as we wrapped up to say … to say she was in the intensive care unit. I don’t know if she’s going to make it.”
He’d spoken with Gus, and if he was leaving the barracks of his own free will, that had to mean his alibis were solid. “How can I help?” She’d do anything to ease the pain in his voice.
He let out another sob, and a tissue being pulled from the box was clear through the phone. “Come to the hospital? I’m so afraid of what might happen.”
She paused. Slow down. Think. Her car was inaccessible, and Gus had told her not to tell Ted where she was staying. This was Ted, though. She knew his favorite food was peanut butter, marshmallow, and banana sandwiches. That he loved classical music and had a passion for teaching Renaissance history. Growing up he’d had a guinea pig named Ham, short for Hamlet.
“I can pick you up.” A car door opened and shut. The engine hummed.
“I—”
“It’s okay. Detective Lambert told me you were staying with him for safety purposes since the explosion. Since I’m no longer a suspect in that whole crazy ordeal, he okayed me to come get you.”
Gus would never say that without giving her a head’s up. Would he? Then again, how would Ted know where she was staying? This was crazy. She was second-guessing Ted of all people, whose mother was in the ICU. Every second that she deliberated was a second that Ted might not have with his mother. “You have the address?”
“Yeah, Lambert noted it down. Be there in fifteen. I’m going to hang up in case the hospital calls.” His voice broke again at the mention of the hospital.
“Okay, of course.” She ended the call and dropped her arm to her side. Leaving without letting Gus know wasn’t an option, even though he already seemed to understand their plans. She shut her eyes and rubbed at the center of her forehead, trying to ease the stress headache brewing. Lifting her phone again, she dialed the number she had programmed into her phone since their first meeting. After three rings, the phone went to voicemail.
“Damn.” She glanced down at the phone and immediately tried Gus’s number again. He could be doing any number of things that would make answering his phone difficult. A voicemail message wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do.
