Hush

“I understand. Can I get this? I appreciate your taking the time.”

“No, it’s on me. But there is one thing you can do.”

Of course, she thought. Reporters like him were relentless.

“What?” she asked.

“Why don’t you nose around a little bit at the clinic?”

Lake caught her breath. “You want me to spy? I-”

“Hear me out. These clinics are like fortresses-it’s going to be impossible for anyone to get in and investigate without real proof of wrongdoing. Having you on the inside gives us a big advantage.”

“What exactly would I be looking for?” she asked tentatively.

“Tough to say since this woman didn’t give specifics. I’d see if you could find out what their real success rates are and compare them to what they tell prospective patients. I’d go through as many patient records as you can and make a note of what procedures people are having. Does anything seem excessive?”

She stared at the wooden bar, trying to decide what to do. The idea scared the hell out of her. She could barely handle Brie snooping. And as far as Lake knew, the killer could be watching her, too.

Archer studied her, clearly sensing her hesitancy.

“Look, I know this might put you in an awkward situation. But this could be an important story that needs to see the light of day. And time is of the essence. If Keaton’s death is related to any wrongdoing, they may try to destroy the evidence.”

“All right,” she said finally. “I’ll see what I can find. What’s the name of the woman who called you? I should start with her file.”

“Alexis Hunt,” he said, scrawling his signature on the credit card receipt. “Would you have a legitimate reason to be going through patient records?”

“No. Technically I don’t have the right to look at them.”

“Be very careful, then. And call me if you find anything.”

She withdrew a business card from her purse and as she handed it to him, the tips of her fingers touched his.

“My home number is on there, too.”

“Have you got kids yourself?” he asked.

“Two-they’re away at camp right now.” The thought of them flooded her with worry all over again. “How about you?”

“A twenty-three-year-old stepson from my former marriage. I kind of think of him as my own, though. Are you walking out now?”

“I’m going to finish my beer,” she said.

“Okay. Good luck-and call me if you run into any trouble.”

She watched him leave, threading his way confidently through the tables, seemingly oblivious to the out-of- towners who trailed him with their eyes. As she picked up her glass, she caught a man sitting solo focus on her and then quickly glance down. Women alone at hotel bars were always slightly suspect, she knew, but she didn’t want to leave until she had made sense of all the thoughts colliding in her head.

She’d probably been foolish to let Archer tap her as a spy. For him it was all about the story and making a major splash on Reveal. But for her it was a whole different game. She was already in a precarious situation, and this could make things even worse. Right now there were warning signs that the killer suspected she knew something about the murder. If Keaton’s death was tied to wrongdoing at the clinic and she learned what that wrongdoing was, the killer would have a concrete reason to harm her. And if there was wrongdoing that wasn’t tied to Keaton’s death, her spying would expose her to danger from a new front. It was double jeopardy.

And yet, she also knew that learning the truth could ultimately help her escape from the nightmare she’d found herself living through. The police would focus on the clinic and not on her.

She massaged her temples, thinking desperately. She was done with her research at the clinic, but she’d have to show up tomorrow pretending she still needed to do more-and she’d have to be careful not to make anyone, especially snoopy Brie, suspicious. The patient files were in the same storage room as the files she’d been researching, so at least she’d have a reason to be in that room. But what would she be looking for exactly?

An idea suddenly gurgled up in her mind: What if she spoke to Alexis Hunt directly? That way she might have a clearer sense of what she needed to search for. She’d need to talk to her soon. Lake rifled through her purse for her BlackBerry and called 411. There was an A. Hunt at 20 East Seventy-eighth Street. Archer had called the woman high maintenance. Well, that fit with the Upper East Side address.

Lake eased herself off the bar stool, deciding to make the call then and there-but outside, where there’d be less noise. As she strode from the bar, she thought she caught the man alone at the table checking her out again-this time above a folded newspaper. Did he assume she was an aging hooker?

Spilling out of the revolving door on Park Avenue, she saw that the sidewalk was churning with tourists, all eager for cabs, so she turned onto Forty-ninth Street and found a quiet spot midway down the block. She held her breath as she waited for someone to pick up the phone. After four rings a woman offered a blunt hello.

“Alexis Hunt?” Lake asked.

“Who is this?” the woman demanded.

“My name is Lake Warren. I-I know you have some concerns about the Advanced Fertility Center. I’d really like to discuss them with you.”

“Are you a patient there?”

“No, but-there’s a chance I may be able to help you. Can we meet and talk?”

“How did you get my name?” No nonsense. Not the least bit friendly.

“Kit Archer.” Lake hated having to use his name but she could tell if she didn’t, Alexis was quickly going to hang up.

“Do you work with him?”

“No, but I spoke with him. I have some concerns like you do.”

A few seconds of silence followed.

“All right,” she said. “I’m just off Madison on Seventy-eighth. How long will it take for you to get here?”

“You want me to come now?” Lake asked, startled.

“I don’t do lunch, if that’s what you had in mind.”

“Okay, I can come now,” Lake said. “I’m about ten minutes away.”

Lake hailed a cab and collapsed against the backseat. She couldn’t believe she’d done this. Calling Archer was one thing; meeting with a patient was definitely crossing the line. It felt like such a bold move, one that might even annoy Archer if he found out. But she’d already set it into motion, and it was too late to turn back now.

Alexis Hunt’s apartment was in a pricey-looking prewar building. The doorman rang up and then directed Lake to 14B, which turned out to be one of only two apartments on the fourteenth floor. From the voice on the phone and the tiny bit Lake knew of her background, Lake had formed a picture of Alexis in her mind: someone older, hardened and bitter from what she’d gone through, perhaps even furious at the world that boxed smart, ambitious women into marrying late and thus trying to conceive when the odds were against them. So Lake was startled, then, when the door swung open and she was greeted by a fairly pretty, composed woman who seemed no older than thirty- two or thirty-three. She had blond hair styled in a plain, preppy bob, green eyes, and a tiny mouth dabbed with berry-colored lipstick. Though she was slightly overweight, she wore a green-and-white wrap dress that flattered her figure, the kind you often saw on well-heeled suburban women who still dressed to go into town. She didn’t look like a nut job. She looked like someone who was about to share her recipe for spinach and artichoke dip.

“Come in,” was all she said. Lake stepped inside and followed her into the living room.

The apartment was what you might expect in that building-classy but blandly decorated in muted blues and greens. Lake could see a small library off one end of the living room and a dining room at the other, and she guessed there were probably two bedrooms off the long hallway. There was something oddly unlived-in about the space-no mail or keys scattered on the hall table, no magazine left open on the couch.

“I’m still not clear who you are or why you called me,” Alexis said bluntly. She took a seat on an antique straight-back chair, the least comfortable-looking piece in the room. Maybe she doesn’t