These were evidence. Sort of. Of course the autopsy would reveal that Shelley had been pregnant. But the fact that she had known before she was murdered could be significant. Especially since she’d obviously felt the need to hide the evidence of her pregnancy.
Why would she have done that unless she’d feared repercussions?
CJ had been wrong. It did matter who the father was. If he was a married man or just a jerk who didn’t want children with—CJ swallowed hard—a known sex worker and drug addict, he may have taken matters into his own hands.
She should call Braddock.
CJ hesitated before reaching for her cell phone. The thought of talking to him ...
No. First she should go to the clinic and see if anyone there knew who the father was. Shelley had been excited. She very well could have gone on and on to whoever delivered the news to her.
After righting the mess she’d made, CJ made it as far as the living room before her knees gave out on her and she dropped into the closest chair.
She closed her eyes and fought the overwhelming ache twisting in her chest. This was so unfair. Shelley had talked about wanting a kid. On one of those rare occasions when she and CJ weren’t fighting, she’d enthused wildly about how she would never be like their mother. She would stay clean and be a good mother. Her baby would never dowithout the most important element of childhood—loving attention from his or her parents.
That was the deal. Their childhoods hadn’t been so screwed up because they were poor or lived in a less-than-desirable part of town. Their childhoods had been unstable and scary and miserable a good portion of the time because no one had been there to see after them.
CJ had done her best to be both mother and father, starting at age ten. But it hadn’t been enough.
Agony throbbed inside her.
Everything Shelley had ever set out to accomplish had blown up in her face. A lot of her choices had been bad ones, leaving no one to blame but herself. But sometimes fate just cheated her.
Like this time.
Anger propelled CJ to her feet. She could sit here feeling sorry for her sister’s misfortunes and guilty for not being better at taking care of her, or she could find out who killed her.
By the time CJ had snagged her bag, grabbed her keys, and stormed out to the car, she was damned pissed off.
Other than a decent burial, this was the one thing CJ could do for her sister.
Keep digging until she found Shelley’s killer.
The Mill Village Clinic
The clinic was closed.
CJ stared in disbelief at the opening hours. Since when was the clinic open only two days per week?
Wednesdays and Fridays only?
What were sick people supposed to do the other five days of the week?
CJ knew the answer: wait until they were sick enough to go to the ER. It cost everyone four times as much and the hospital ended up unable to collect.
Bad business all the way around.
Dammit.
Frustrated, she started back to her car. Detective Jenkins had parked across the street. She refused to be intimidated by his presence. He could follow her around twenty-four seven and she wasn’t going to do anything differently. Braddock could kiss her—
A Camry turned into the parking lot. CJ hesitated before opening her car door. Someone else who didn’t realize the clinic wouldn’t be open, she supposed. The vehicle was a little upscale for any of the village residents. Well, except maybe for the crime lords and slumlords. They generally drove nicer vehicles.
Maybe she could at least get the name of whoever was running the clinic. The physician’s signature on the patient visit form was impossible to make out. Big surprise there. If she had to track down the doctor in charge at home or at another clinic, she would.
A woman emerged from the Camry. “The clinic’s closed,” she announced without preamble.
Hello to you too. CJ was in no mood to take any crap. The lady would just have to deal with it. “Yeah, I see that.” She took a couple of steps toward the Camry. “Can you tell me the name of the doctor who runs the clinic?”
