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“No one killed anyone,” Reed argued as a heavyset woman walked across the lot, aimed her remote at a silver Toyota, pressed a button and the little car beeped a response, its lights blinking.
“Hell, yeah, she did,” Yelkis insisted. “Your reporter wife? She killed Sylvie just as sure as if she steered that damn boat right into her head.” He pointed an accusing finger at Reed. “Sylvie dived in to save your bitch of a wife. And let me tell you, Nikki Gillette ain’t gonna get away with it.” He sneered Nikki’s name and the muscles in Reed’s back tightened reflexively even though he told himself not to take the bait.
“Yeah,” Yelkis went on. “That wife of yours? Rich from the get-go. She’s skated all her life, the daughter of a big-time judge and then married to a cop, but it ain’t gonna work. Not this time!” His jaw jutted forward, silently daring Reed to lunge at him.
Reed’s jaw was so tight it ached. “I don’t think—”
“Good! Don’t think and don’t goddamned argue with me.” Yelkis jabbed his finger straight at Reed’s chest. “Nikki Gillette is the reason my Sylvie’s gone! She’s the reason my kids don’t have a mother no more.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said automatically, still seething inside.
“Yeah, sure.”
From the corner of his eye, Reed saw Priscilla’s pale face pressed against the truck’s rear window and he hurt for the girl, understood Yelkis’s frustration, but deep down wanted to argue with the man, defend Nikki, tell Yelkis to fuck the hell off. He didn’t. Not when he noticed the streaks of mascara running down Priscilla’s wan face.
Bart Yelkis was still raving. “You and your wife and the whole goddamned police department are going to pay. That was my kids’ mama who died in there tonight.” He hooked a thumb toward the hospital. “Don’t think l’m gonna forget who’s responsible!” With that he stalked back to his truck, snarled at his kids as he climbed in, then started the truck and backed up. He threw the pickup into gear. Tires chirped as he tore out of the lot, barely slowing to wheel onto the quiet street.
Reed wanted to disbelieve Yelkis.
But he knew it was the truth.
He wanted to rail at the heavens but didn’t figure God was listening.
And he wanted to throttle his wayward, bullheaded wife. Instead he climbed behind the wheel of his Jeep and stared at the hospital through the bug-spattered windshield. Four stories of windows— patches glowing dimly in the night. Wide glass doors beneath a portico where a glowing red sign read: EMERGENCY ENTRANCE. Sprawled before it all, a wide, nearly empty parking lot illuminated by lampposts and the blue of moonlight.
His cell phone buzzed and he saw it was Delacroix. The word, it seemed, was out. He hesitated, then answered.
“You heard?” she asked. “About Detective Morrisette?”
“Yeah.” A knot swelled in his throat.
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” he forced out. “Me too.” Tears stung at the back of his eyes. Hot, unwanted drops of anger, frustration and grief.
“You okay?”
No! I’m not okay.
I don’t even know what “okay” is right now! “Yeah,” he lied. “Fine.”
“You sure?”
Shit no. I’m not sure about any damned thing right now.
“Reed?” she asked.
“I said I’m fine,” he said sharply. His chin wobbled, and tears began to drizzle down his face. But he kept his voice steady. Somehow. “I’m good. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He swiped the hot tears away.
“Okay. Hang in there.”
He clicked off and slid a glance at the passenger seat, where Morrisette had spent so many hours navigating, swearing, checking her phone, confiding in him and just bullshitting about the world. He could almost see her spiked platinum hair, the eyebrow stud she once wore and the ever-present snakeskin boots.
Shit. He pounded a fist into the dash.
Shit, shit, shit!
She was gone.
