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“Right. Except…” She brings a hand up and scrubs it over her face, an audible action that makes me wonder if she’s been sleeping. Is she finding a balance in my absence, or is she working herself to death, all to ensure I don’t come home to a mess? “He was in Jamaica recently, too.”
Instantly, like a rubber band retracting back with a snap, I tear my eyes from Mary’s and stare straight ahead. “He was in Jamaica?”
“Yes. Get this, he also works in pharmaceuticals.”
“And he attended a conference last week?” I shoot a look at the door like I expect Archer to charge through. “Shit, Aubs. This isn’tjustabout Arun anymore.”
“I think not. I’m reading over Weston’s reports now, then I was gonna try to call you anyway to discuss. Archer has taken back his no phone, no work ban?”
“No. I stole Mary’s phone. Have you told Fletch what you’ve found yet? And how did you find out about Weston? Maine is a long way from Copeland.”
“It was actually… uh… Tim.”
“Tim? He found Weston?”
“No. But he made a passing comment about how Arun was this social media wanker who blasted his business all over the internet. Arun was in Jamaica spouting off about that drug anyone with half a brain knows won’t work. They prey on scared patients and families, Chief. They’re selling bridges to people who are too overwhelmed to understand the bridge doesn’t exist.”
“And Tim’s contribution to this conversation? Which, by the way, is interesting to me that you’re discussing a case with the guy yousweeearyou’re not gonna bang.”
“I wasn’t discussing it with him.” Defensive, she huffs in the back of her throat. “I was eating at the bar last night and reading over Fletch’s investigation notes. Tim peeked every time he was near my end of the bar, and eventually, he mentioned how it makes sense if someone—a grieving family member or something—caught wind he was traveling…”
“Since he was a social media wanker?”
“Right. He didn’t take a step unless he posted it for his fans. Tim made a comment that only fools would do that, because any man with an enemy really shouldn’t make his whereabouts so easily known.”
“Okay.” Rolling my bottom lip between my teeth, I look down into my lap and nod. “Alright. So Tim theorizes Arun let the world know where he’d be. A bereaved widow or family memberfollowed him to Jamaica and… what? Stuffed poison down his throat?”
“Well… actually, Tim said how Arun publicized he’d be in a room filled with these same snake oil tycoons. So an angry widow might whack a bunch of them at once.”
“Only a true homicidally bent man would make such a leap,” I tease, side-eyeing the woman who side-eyes me. “So your theory is that there may bemorevics. And low and behold, a little digging around got you Marty from Maine.”
“Right. That was my hunch, and now I’m collecting my evidence. Once I’m done reading the report, I’ll contact Detective Fletcher.” Finally, she exhales, her tone lightening. “What’ve you been up to?”
“Wedding dress choosing.” Wrinkling my nose, I look around the room once more. “I need help.”
“Wait.” Raquel, the tox doctor I forgot existed, squeaks out in surprise. “You’re getting married… again?”
“He asked,” I sigh. “I agreed. But that was before I realized I would have to choose a dress and do my hair and all that other stuff.” I scowl at the offending—and oh, so pretty—gowns surrounding me. “I’m sitting in a room bursting with white and I need help. But you can’t tell Archer I asked for help, because you’re not even supposed to know about the wedding.”
“Hang on.” Aubree kills our call, stunning me into disbelief as the line cuts out and I’m left completely and utterly alone—except for Mary. But then the cell trills again, this time with an unsaved number and the video icon that demands I answer it.
Hitting the green button and holding the phone out, I’m presented with not just Aubree and her pink-streaked hair, but Raquel’s platinum-blonde locks. Raquel’s eyes, like Aubs’, are bright-blue and remind me of the water we bob on.
“Show us the options,” Aubs coaches. “Let us see what you’ve got, then you can try them on, and we’ll decide.”
“I dunno… I…” Grumbling, I fumble the phone and flip the camera, so the duo see the room, instead of me. “Mary suggested the shiv gown. Because it makes me?—”
“Sheath,” Mary steps forward, ducking into view. “The sheath gown, Doctors.” Then she looks over the phone at me and glowers. “Not a shiv.”
“Tomato,” I roll my eyes, “tomahto. She said it’ll make me look taller and show off my collarbones.”
“She’s probably right,” Raquel inserts. “Set the phone down and try the dress on. We can’t know until you put it on.”
“Do you think I should try a different cut?” Following instructions, I prop the phone on Felix’s bed, placing a pillow behind the device to keep it pointing where it should, then I step across to the gowns and run my fingers through one of the princess-y ones. “Maybe Archer wants a ballgown type.”
“So try them on,” Raquel enunciates her words. “We can’t know until we see.”
“Doctor Mayet.” Mary snags the shiv dress first and carefully pulls it off the hanger. “We’ll start with this one.”
