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Never had she liked lying around, she’d never even been one to sun herself on a beach and soak up rays or spend hours on the couch watching television or reading. She’d always been athletic and ready for action, so this . . . this ennui was getting to her.
Add to that a mountain of regret and guilt eating away at her brain.
Which hadn’t been helped by her husband.
She was still steamed at Reed. Oh, she got where he was coming from, she didn’t blame him for that, but it was time to move on. They were both incredibly sad at the loss of the child, but she couldn’t stand recuperating and doing nothing despite her doctor’s suggestion to take it easy. She grabbed her new phone, the one she’d picked up after her visit with Dr. Kasey. Somehow she’d managed to transfer all the data to her new iPhone, but she’d done it by rote as her thoughts had been with the baby she’d lost. Even now, she blinked back tears.
“You need to give yourself permission to heal, to take the time,” Dr. Kasey had said, her dark eyes kind, her smile understanding. But what the doctor and her husband didn’t understand was that Nikki was better off doing something, anything, and the fact that there was potentially the story of the century at her fingertips only added to her need to get up and get going.
Worse yet, Norm Metzger had the nerve to call her for information on the investigation.
“What is it about ‘I’m recovering and shouldn’t be bothered’ you don’t understand?” she’d asked him when he’d identified himself and explained that he was looking for information on the bodies found at the Beaumont estate. Nikki would never have taken the call, but she’d recognized the number for the Sentinel and assumed erroneously that Millie was phoning her with information.
“But you were there,” Metzger had argued, “and you’re married to the lead investigator on the case.”
“So?”
“And it’s my story, Gillette. Not yours. Not anyone else’s at the paper.” He couldn’t hide the irritation in his voice.
Nikki got it. Metzger was still burned about the other crime cases she’d been a part of while he, ostensibly, was the police beat/crime reporter for the paper. He’d also seethed about her brush with fame as a published true crime author of three—count ’em!—three books. As close as he was to the editor, Norm probably figured his job was on the line. And it should be. If he wasn’t such a close golfing/poker buddy of Tom Fink, he would have been fired years before.
“Look, we’re on the same team here. We both work for the Sentinel, and God knows the paper needs a shot in the arm. So help me out here. What did you see at the Beaumont estate, and where are the police on this? The bodies have been ID’d as a couple of the Duval sisters, the girls that have been missing for about twenty years, the ones where their mother takes out ads in the newspaper to keep the public aware.”
“Right.”
“So you must have the inside track on the investigation.”
She bristled. “You know Detective Reed and I don’t discuss his cases.”
“Oh, come on, Gillette. You expect me to believe that?”
She bit her tongue, but her temper was rising and she clenched the phone so hard her hand hurt.
“I can’t believe it!” he said, his voice rising. “Listen, I know you’ve got the inside track on this one. Just like you did before with Blondell O’Henry and The Grave Robber. Nearly cost me my job, last time.”
She snapped. Could control herself not a second longer. “You don’t know anything, Metzger,” she charged. “And that’s the problem: You never have. If you really cared about your beat, you’d put more into it. Instead of phoning it in. You’re right, the paper’s in trouble and you aren’t helping.”
“You little bitch,” he said, almost snarling, all of his pent-up rage and jealousy boiling to the surface. “Born with a silver spoon, always getting into trouble, thinking you’re some hotshot author when you’ve got it made being married to the damned department! Like I said, ‘inside track.’ ”
“Don’t call again!” she advised, and as she clicked off heard him mutter, “Hormonal bitch.”
She wished she could have slammed down a receiver rather than just press a button. Geez, he pissed her off! And the remark about hormones. Obviously Metzger hadn’t heard of the Me Too movement. And considering her condition after the miscarriage, the barb cut deep.
Don’t let him get to you. He’s scared. Backed into a corner. Needs his job. Just do yours.
But his jab cut deep. She felt hot tears burn the back of her eyes.
“Screw it!”
She threw off the covers. Refused to cry.
Would not.
No more tears, she told herself, though her throat was clogged.
It was past time to get up and get going and yeah, her shoulder still ached and her arm was in a sling, and yeah, she felt horrible, just horrible about losing the baby. Then, oh, God, Morrisette. So awful. But lying in bed and stewing wouldn’t help anything.
She’d promised Reed she would take the doctor’s orders seriously and she would, but it wouldn’t help her to do nothing and go quietly out of her mind.
