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“Detective Thronson.”
“That’s it.” The finger-snapping stopped. “Hasn’t she said anything. She knows what’s going on. She has to.”
“I’m sure she has a better idea than I do, but—” Elizabeth lifted her shoulders and tried to ignore the headache that had been threatening her since the funeral. The truth was, the police had been pretty tight-lipped about the accident and the circumstances surrounding Court’s death.
Even while escorting her to the viewing room in the morgue, Detective Thronson had been quiet, regarding her solemnly. It had been a traumatic day. Elizabeth hadn’t wanted to go, and she still remembered how it had felt.
She walked along the shiny tile floors of the hospital’s basement and was led to a window. On the other side of the glass, an attendant stood over a draped gurney. With a nod from Thronson who stood next to her—ready to catch her should she swoon, she supposed—the coroner’s assistant pulled down the sheet.
She mustered all her strength to gaze down on Court’s face after the coroner’s assistant lifted the sheet. Surprisingly, Court just looked like he was asleep, except for his skin tone—a mottled grayish color. The damage to his crushed chest was kept under the sheet, thank God, but it was still an effort for her to strangle out, “Yes, that’s my husband. Court Ellis.”
She felt a painful squeeze in her heart.
Until that very moment when she saw her husband’s lifeless face, the accident and his death had held a dreamlike, unreal quality. Yes, he hadn’t come home, but that hadn’t been abnormal and yes, she understood what everyone said, but the reality that Court was gone forever hadn’t really pierced deep into her soul until she identified his body.
Her knees did not give out, though she felt sorrow for the demise of the man whom she’d married, whom she’d once believed, fleetingly, was her soul mate. But as the attendant drew the sheet over Court’s head, hiding him, a small, wayward thought skittered through Elizabeth’s brain surprising her. I’m free. No, wait, Chloe and I are both free.
Her throat tightened at the notion and she told herself she was an awful person, but the idea lodged deep.
“So you’ve talked to her? Thronson?” Barbara said, breaking into Elizabeth’s reverie. “She’s phoned?”
A day after the viewing, Detective Thronson had phoned. And another time or two since. Oh, yes, Elizabeth had taken several calls from the police and none of them had been comfortable.
Barbara was glaring at her, her lips twisted again in disapproval.
“Why don’t you call the police yourself?” Elizabeth suggested and took another sip of wine. She was tired of the badgering and second-guessing. “Talk to Detective Thronson.”
Barbara considered, eyes narrowing. “Maybe I will.”
“Good.”
Unfortunately, the conversation wasn’t finished. Barbara asked, “So who was the woman Court was with again?”
“Her name was Whitney Bellhard.”
“Why was she in the car?”
Elizabeth lifted a shoulder and finished off the wine. She didn’t want to talk about this. Not now and probably not ever, at least not with Barbara.
“Well, it’s all very suspicious and didn’t I hear something about them racing?”
“I mentioned it.” Elizabeth had already relayed everything Detective Thronson had told her about the accident to her sister-in-law, but Barbara had been so focused on the funeral, she clearly hadn’t paid attention to the details.
Elizabeth told her again, “The detective said that several other drivers thought Court was in some kind of car race, that several witnesses reported a dark SUV weaving in and out of traffic about the same time Court’s BMW was doing the same thing. It’s just a theory.”
“What kind of SUV was it?”
“Barbara, I really don’t know.”
“Well, was it a big one, or smaller, like your black Ford?”
Elizabeth felt a shiver slide down her spine and she gave Barbara a long look. “I said I don’t know,” she repeated.
“Did this car hit Court’s, maybe?”
“Or Court just lost control.”
“He didn’t just lose control,” Barbara snapped. “That wasn’t Court.”
