Closer Than Blood

bottle of wine. She met him at the door, but she didn’t invite him inside.

“Darius,” she said, “I think you might have the wrong idea here.”

“I wasn’t being presumptuous,” he said, before reading her body language and the cool expression on her face.

“I mean, I’m sorry.” There was no smile on her face, no trace of anything that indicated any kind of sympathy for the awkwardness of the moment.

“I’m not interested,” she said. He lowered the wine bottle to his side.

“We’re not lovers,” she said.

“What happened was fun, but only a little bit fun.” His face went red. Tori Connelly was dismissing him. If he’d felt that he might have gotten his game back the night before ... if he felt that whatever his cheating wife had done to him was now erased by sex with a beautiful woman, he was misguided.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I guess I made a mistake.” Darius didn’t know it at the time, but he was so right about that. So very, very right. And now Alex Connelly was dead. He dialed the number Detective Eddie Kaminski had left the night of Alex Connelly’s murder, the night that Tori Connelly had been shot. It went to voice mail and he did as commanded.

“Darius Fulton here. I want to come in and talk to you. In person.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Tacoma

Corazon White rolled a cart with a snack for Tori Connelly, a task that a nurse would never have to do if not for the budget cutbacks that left the hospital short staffed. Mrs. Connelly had somehow managed to make a bad situation worse. The gunshot victim’s latest annoyance was her request for an egg white omelet and side of whole wheat toast “no crust please” and “a dark juice of either acai or pomegranate.”

“We have orange, tomato, or pineapple,” Corazon said while she took her order and did her vitals for the doctor’s rounds earlier that morning. Tori frowned and fussed with the IV line again.

“This is a hospital, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course it is.”

“Surely, you’ve heard of the benefits of dark juices.” She wanted to play dumb and say her name wasn’t Shirley. Mrs. Connelly was getting on her nerves.

“Yes, I have.”

“Well, your dietician here ought to have his or her work permit pulled. The juices you offer might as well be colored sugar water, because you’re not giving your patients anything of value.” The “work permit” phrase was a slam and Corazon knew it. She’d also waitressed through nursing school and knew that such arguments can never be won.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. It turned out she could do next to nothing. Mrs. Connelly wasn’t getting any pomegranate juice. She was getting orange like everyone else on the floor.

“Best I could do,” Corazon said, wheeling the tray into the room.

“Your best is not going to be noted on my comment card. If you have one here. I guess one would be surprised if you did.” Corazon wanted to say something rude back, but she held her tongue. The woman with the wound on her thigh and the perfect haircut thought she was in a spa or hotel, not a hospital. She sure wasn’t acting like a woman who had just lost her husband in a violent shooting. She started to pull the curtain, even though the room was without a second bed.

“I know you’ll want some peace to eat your meal, Mrs. Connelly.” After her encounter with “the bitch in 561D,” Corazon did only the minimum required. She saw the patient. She tried not to engage her. The woman on the other side of the perma-drawn curtain didn’t seem to mind. Being alone and being the subject of hospital gossip didn’t trouble her one iota. Corazon stalled when she came to get the food tray. Tori Connelly was on the phone and Corazon didn’t want to disturb her. Instead, she parked herself a few steps inside the doorway.

“Do not call me back,” Tori said. A short pause.

“Are you listening? I do not want to talk to you. Not for a while.” Her tone was demanding and exceedingly direct.

“I won’t say another word about it and neither will you.” The next pause was a bit longer.

“You will do what I say. Good-bye.” Corazon wasn’t completely sure what she heard, but she’d been browbeaten by Tori Connelly once and that was enough. She waited a second, and then made her presence known by rattling the metal cart.

“Hope you’re feeling better,” she said. Tori looked at the young nurse when the curtain parted. She was wary. Her eyes fixed on Corazon’s.

“Talking to my sister just now.”

“Oh, your chart says you don’t have any family,” Corazon said, careful not to sound like she was anything but bored with her patient. She disliked this lady, but she knew the type. They’d make trouble for anyone they could. Making trouble was a sport for those who could afford to play the game.

“She’s coming from Seattle,” Tori said.

“Seattle’s pretty.”

“And boring. You’d like my sister.” Corazon wasn’t sure who was the subject of the put-down—the sister or her. She was just glad that whenever Tori Connelly was discharged, she’d be rid of her. Her sister, poor thing, was stuck with that woman for the rest of her life.

“I want to see the doctor. A real doctor. Not a nurse. Not a trainee.” Tori pulled herself up.

“I want out of here. I can rest more comfortably at home.” Corazon figured they both could.

“The doctor will be in soon. Just rest, okay?” She left the room glad that the patient wanted to leave and feeling sorry for the sister who was stuck with such a . . . Class-A bitch, she thought. Yeah, that’s what she is.

There was something oddly gratifying about the e-mails—knowing that she would see them, react to them, and they’d make love.

I miss you. I miss how you feel in my arms.

You are being cold to me. How come?

What have I done?

I saw you yesterday outside. I waved but you ignored me. I don’t get it.

Your husband is a fool. He’s not taking care of you. Not like I would.

Please. Don’t do this to me. Give me another chance.

Not every message got a reply, but those that did were unfailingly direct.

Stop.

I don’t want to see you again.

My husband knows what happened and he loves me enough to forgive me.

It is over.

Smooth jazz played from the stereo in the other room, but it did little to abate the tension in the air. The lovely little house in Fircrest never held a vibe that matched its charming Cape Cod exterior. Laura and Parker Connelly were mother and son, but they were increasingly at odds. Alex Connelly’s brutal murder on the other side of town had done nothing to bring them together. The two residents in that little house knew firsthand that times of crisis aren’t always measured in the positive. Sometimes there was no bright side.

“Honey,” Laura Connelly said, putting her hand on her son’s shoulder as she cleared the dishes from the kitchen table, “I’m worried about you.” She had fixed him his “unhealthy favorite” fish and chips with chipotle mayo and a carrot-and-cabbage slaw. It was a thousand calories a serving and the house smelled like a fast-food joint. Laura didn’t mind. She noticed a widening gap in their relationship and she wanted more than anything to win him back. Whatever secrets he’d been keeping had been wearing on her.

“I’m doing okay, Mom,” he said unconvincingly. He fished a French fry off her plate as she started for the sink, a wobbly stack of dishes in hand.

“Are you, really?” Without turning around, Laura started rinsing plates in preparation for loading the dishwasher. Avoiding eye contact was a strategy. Her son hated confrontation.

“You haven’t talked much about your father’s death.” Parker pushed back his chair and looked over at his mother.