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Hale sighed, squinting against the dazzling whiteness all around him as the sun slid out from behind a cloud.
No . . . she met someone there herself. A planned meeting. There was no other explanation.
And that someone had killed her.
Hale just didn’t want to believe it.
By the time he was pressing the button to open his garage door, he felt as if he could sleep for a millennium, except his mind was buzzing. Buzzing and buzzing and making him feel slightly ill.
Walking into the kitchen from the garage, he threw his keys onto the island and beelined to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of water. He drank half of it down, then reached into the cupboard above the microwave, which held the liquor. Grabbing a bottle of Scotch with one hand, he pulled out an old-fashioned glass with the other and poured himself a liberal dose. As he took a long swallow, he eyed the clock. Not quite noon on a Sunday.
Sighing, he sat down and pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket. Text messages galore. He had no energy to answer them. Seeing his battery was almost dead, he crossed the kitchen and plugged the device into the charger on the small counter he and Kristina used as a desk.
He and Kristina.
He felt guilty every time her name crossed his mind. And sad. And boggled.
His cell phone suddenly trilled its default ring. He was still standing by it, so he picked it up and looked at the caller ID. It was Sylvie. “Hey,” he said by way of answering, aware how lifeless his voice was but incapable of punching it up.
“Hey,” she said back at him in a worried tone. “I saw on the morning news about Kristina. How is she?”
He had an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh at the absurdity of what he was about to say. “She’s dead.”
“Dead?” she gasped. “No!”
“I’m sorry. I just came from Ocean Park. She was in surgery, but . . .” He trailed off.
“But they said she was hurt at the Carmichael house in Seaside. That she was hit by an overhead beam. What does that mean? Where was she? God, Hale. What . . . what . . . ?” Sylvie, his right-hand woman, the clearest head in the office whenever there was a crisis, was clearly overwhelmed.
“I don’t know. I don’t get it. Kristina let herself in through one of the windows that doesn’t stay shut.”
“But why?”
“It looks like she was meeting someone. Look, Sylvie, I’m beat. I was up all night, and, oh, my son was born last night.”
“He was?” She was distracted.
“He’s coming home tomorrow.”
“Oh . . . oh . . . good. Oh, my God. How’s Savannah? Does she know about Kristina?”
“She knows.”
“My God, Hale. I’m sorry. Who was Kristina meeting? Why at the Carmichaels’?”
“I wish I knew.”
The front bell suddenly began its long chiming peal. Kristina had insisted on the bell, and Hale had protested that he could rotate the tires in the time it took the chimes to finish.
“Sylvie, there’s someone at the door. Damn, I hope it’s not a reporter,” he said, realizing who might be dropping by unannounced today of all days.
“I’ll let you go.”
“Kristina selected a nanny,” he said as he headed for the door. “I’m going to need her number, and I think it’s at work. Kristina had it plugged in her phone, but—”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. Victoria Phelan. She told me all about her.”
“Victoria Phelan. That’s right.”
