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"Because she might be involved," Carson concluded in that same monotone.
Sabrina blew out her breath. They were up against a wall, and she knew it. "It's possible," she said at last.
"In what way?"
Silence.
"I asked you a question." Carson's wooden tone was gone, and irritation glinted in his eyes. "Stop dancing around the issue. And stop protecting me like a goddamned child. What's Susan's alleged involvement in this? I have a right to know."
"Yes, you do." Sabrina should have realized there was no putting one over on him. "But you're not going to like it."
"I'm sure I won't. But I am going to hear it."
"Fair enough." Sabrina turned to Dylan. "You've been wrestling with this for a while. For once, I'm less personally involved. I'll provide the details. You fill in whatever you need to."
Dylan nodded, looking as troubled as she felt.
Sabrina proceeded to tell Carson everything—about the verbal slip Susan had made in her office, about Dylan's intrinsic concerns about her skewed priorities, and about the various scenarios they'd bandied around with Whitman and Barton.
"No wonder you had no time for ring shopping," Carson said tersely when she was through. He adjusted his pillow, propped one arm behind his head in a deceptively casual gesture. But there was a vein pulsing at his temple, and a hard glitter in his eyes. "You've certainly been busy."
"You're ripping mad at us," Sabrina stated.
"I haven't gotten that far. I'm still trying to visualize Susan as being capable of hiring someone to stab Russ to death and to burn you two to a crisp." Carson inclined his head toward Dylan. "Is Susan the personal matter you wanted to talk to me about the night I got shot?"
"Yeah, but purely from an ethical standpoint; nothing of this magnitude," Dylan qualified. "I was bugged, really bugged, by the vibes I was picking up from Susan—her priorities, her agenda with regard to YouthOp, even the allocation of the charity's funds. I knew that by coming to you I was taking the risk of pissing you off. I didn't have anything solid to go on. And, yeah, I realized you'd probably dismiss my misgivings as garbage. But I couldn't live with myself if I didn't say something. If Susan was taking you for a ride, or at least taking your money for a ride, you deserved to know."
Carson stared into space for a long, silent moment. When he spoke, his tone was, once again, emotionless. "Look, Dylan, I've got the same keen instincts you do. I might not be objective on the subject of Susan, but I do know her. Sure, she loves the limelight. She also loves living the high life. Would she compromise her integrity, even screw around with the YouthOp books, if it meant cashing out? Maybe. Would she kill anyone who stood in her way? I can't even fathom it. How did she know there were two Molotov cocktails tossed through your window? Only she can answer that."
With a hard swallow, he continued. "In any case, let's play this out in brutal extreme. Say Susan was ripping off money from YouthOp and, when Russ discovered what was going on, she hired someone to get rid of him. Then, she found out I have a daughter, which translated into an obstacle in Susan's path to me and my money. So she got her punk to knock off Sabrina. Sounds preposterous to me, but you could make a case for it, saying she had motive. But now comes the major stumbling block in this theory. Me. Why the hell would Susan shoot me? She'd get nothing if I were dead. Plus, the woman loves me. Hell yeah, I know she also loves the wealth and notoriety I give her. But there's no way you're convincing me she'd put a bullet in my back."
"No arguments on that one," Dylan replied. "It's the sticking point for us, too—all of us, Whitman and Barton included." He cleared his throat. "I don't want to hang the woman, Carson. I'm as confused as you are. I'm not happy with the Molotov cocktail coincidence, or any of the theories that have spun off from it. But let's put those aside. I don't believe she'd shoot you. She's crazy about you. The whole scenario falls flat right there. On top of which, I can't even picture the woman holding a gun, much less using it—on anyone, least of all you. Hiring someone is one thing. But killing someone herself? Uh-uh. Not even a stranger, much less the man she loves. Susan's emotional, she's squeamish, and she's not exactly the rustic type."
"If you're trying to find solid reasoning that'll convince you Susan's not guilty, you can chuck that description. It won't fly," Carson stated flatly, even as an odd expression flickered across his face. "Susan's a survivor. Believe me, she's not squeamish. Emotional, yes, but gutsy. As for the rustic part, you've never seen her camping. You wouldn't recognize her."
"Um-hum. Susan and I discussed that camping trip when we were in the ICU lounge," Sabrina recalled aloud. "It sounds like she holds her own. Then again, that's not a surprise, given the way she grew up. She described that rural town in upstate New York where she lived before moving to Manhattan. She milked cows, planted tomatoes, and did all kinds of outdoorsy things. Sounded pretty rustic to me. I guess that life on a farm teaches you all kind of skills—"
Abruptly, Sabrina broke off, as she remembered another conversation. And, suddenly, the reason for Carson's odd expression made all the sense in the world.
"Carson," she said quietly, "when we were discussing Stan's marksmanship, you told me he drove up to Susan's parents' farm with you to do some target practice. Did Susan shoot, too? Can Susan shoot?"
"Yeah, Susan can shoot." Carson's lips tightened. "Damned well. Not as well as Stan, but close. But she doesn't want me dead, and she doesn't own a twenty-two."
"Not a surprise," came Detective Whitman's voice from the doorway. "Mr. Molotov probably got it for her. She'd be an idiot to use her own gun. And one thing Susan Lane is not, is an idiot."
Neither Sabrina, Dylan, or Carson had seen Jeannie and Frank arrive. But arrive they had. They'd eased open the doorway, and were standing just inside the room.
"We weren't eavesdropping," Frank supplied. "The nurse said to go right in."
"Looks like you've already done that," Carson observed dryly.
"You're right." They completed the process, shutting the door behind them, and pulling over two chairs to sit down.
"Where is Ms. Lane, by the way?" Jeannie asked.
"Not in the hospital, or we wouldn't be having this talk," Dylan supplied. "She left about an hour ago, went home to take a hot bath and a three-hour nap. She's a wreck from the day—for a change." Dropping the sarcasm, he shot Jeannie a questioning look. "Did you get the warrant?"
"No sweat. We'll be paying YouthOp a visit tomorrow. We also did lots of other homework." She hesitated, glancing uncertainly at Carson.
