Dark Pursuit

are we going to do about the body?”

Her grandfather rubbed his cheek with a gnarled finger. “It’s too late to go to the police. Even with Craig’s ties to the force, it may have worked if you’d called right away. But you fled the scene. They won’t buy your explanations.”

“Wait, they can’t pin the murders on her.” Margaret leaned forward. “The first one happened before she even moved to town.”

Kaitlan’s grandfather gave her a long-suffering look. “They’d say she was copycatting on this one. Craig would quickly admit he’d told her about the cloth—better that than become a suspect himself.”

“Oh.” Margaret’s face fell.

“But I don’t even know who the woman is!” Kaitlan burst.

Her grandfather scoffed. “She’s in your apartment. She’s dead. What more do they need?”

Kaitlan gripped the edge of the couch. “I’ll prove I didn’t do it. They have to believe me, I’m innocent!”

“Yes, you might prove it eventually. But in the meantime you’ll be arrested and denied bail. You’ll sit in jail for months while the newspapers parade all the ‘evidence’ before the public. They’ll convict you before the case ever goes to trial. Is that what you want?”

Kaitlan squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

Her grandfather rapped his cane against the floor. He focused across the room, brow furrowed. Interminable seconds passed by … a full minute. Still he said nothing.

“Grandfather—”

“Quiet!”

Kaitlan edged back against the couch.

Her grandfather focused on the wall.

Terror wormed its way through Kaitlan’s gut. Was he stumped already? Maybe he really couldn’t do this. Hadn’t Margaret indicated his mind wasn’t so sharp? And the way he talked about all this like it was some novel …

Her grandfather’s head snapped toward her. “I need fifteen minutes to sort this out. Get out, both of you.” He shooed a hand at them.

“But—”

“Go!”

Kaitlan looked at Margaret. Together they pushed off the couch. Kaitlan’s knees wobbled as she left the room.

Margaret closed the library door. “This way.” She pointed with her chin.

Kaitlan followed.

The kitchen smelled like a hot oven. “Oh.” Margaret made a face. “I was just putting together a casserole when you rang the bell.” She crossed to a counter with purpose, as if glad for something to do. She picked up a filled square glass pan, stuck it in the oven, and set the timer. Then she turned to face Kaitlan.

Like boxers at the ropes they leaned against opposite counters, eyeingeach other. The large center cooking island stood between them. Kaitlan stole a glance at the stove clock. Five-fifteen. So little time …

Margaret’s forehead zigzagged with worry. Not good. Kaitlan ran a hand over her face. “You’re wishing I’d never come.”

“That’s not it.” Margaret stared at the floor, both hands gripping the tile counter. She sighed deeply. “Your grandfather’s condition is called MTBI. Mild traumatic brain injury. It happened when his head was hit hard. The skull didn’t crack, but his brain was shoved around inside. Contre coup trauma, they call it.” Margaret shifted from one foot to the other. “He’s a lot better than he used to be. For the first year he struggled with balance. His concentration was nil. No sleep—unless he took pills. Terrible depression. Then he slowly started getting better. It was a major milestone when he tried to write again. Now antidepressants are keeping his mood more level.” She lifted a shoulder. “But he still can’t always think clearly. It’s strange how he comes in and out of it. At any time he might just … go blank. And he gets confused. Mixes things up.”

Kaitlan’s chest tightened. No way could she lose this last hope. “But he’s writing. He must be able to concentrate if he’s writing.”

Margaret shook her head. “Kaitlan, the last time I sneaked onto his computer to check, he’d done thirty pages at most. Thirty pages in an entire year. He used to complete two full books in that time. And by the way, despite his accusations, I’ve barely read any of that manuscript. I just wanted to see how much he’d written.”

Fear rattled through Kaitlan. “Are you telling me he can’t help me?”

“I don’t know.” Margaret gazed around the room, looking ready to cry. “He wants to.”

“Wanting isn’t enough.” Kaitlan’s voice turned off key. Nausea rolled through her stomach. This couldn’t be. What had she done? If she left here with no help, with that body still lying in her apartment, she was done for.

“Well.” Margaret fiddled with the neck of her blouse. “Let’s see what he comes up with.”

Kaitlan flung herself to the center island. “But you’re telling me he may not come through! What am I supposed to do then, just go home and wait for Craig to show up? I don’t have time, Margaret.”

“But none of this makes sense. Craig couldn’t really be planning to pick you up tonight. If he saw a body at your place he’d have to arrest you.”

“Exactly! Maybe that’s what he planned all along. What a way to throw everybody off his trail.”

Where had that thought come from? Kaitlan sagged against the island, trying to breathe. Could it possibly be true? He was a murderer—and planned to pin this crime on her? She pictured the scene. Her coming home from work, finding the body just before he showed up. What would an honest cop do but arrest his own girlfriend?

No. Craig wouldn’t, couldn’t do that to her.

But even now she felt the Craig she knew slipping away. Too much evidence stared her in the face.

Margaret pressed her fingers to the base of her throat. “You’ll just have to stay here. Hide out.”

“Fine, but there’s a body in my apartment!”

Margaret gave a distracted nod. “Well, I … we’ll just …” She looked around helplessly, hands rising to her cheeks. “D. will figure it out. He will. He’ll come through for you.”

Let’s hope so.

They waited.

Kaitlan sank into a chair at the table, head down, her mind like sludge. Margaret busied herself at the sink. After five long minutes Kaitlan pushed to her feet. “I’m going to the restroom.”

In the bathroom mirror she stared at herself with horror. Hollowed cheeks, makeup smeared, fear written all over her face. Panic rose up, closing her throat. Pregnant and now this. Trapped.

This couldn’t be happening. She loved Craig. She longed for him to step up and be a good father to their baby. Finally she was close to having the family she’d always wanted.

Some good it had done, pulling herself out of the gutter. Might as well go back to snorting crack.

What a stupid thought.

Still, it echoed in her head. Remember the elation? One hit and she’d forget all of this. She wouldn’t even care.

Know what? She should do it. Just go back to the streets. Lose herself in the cement jungle where no one would find her. Maybe some big city across the country, where they wouldn’t think to look. Atlanta. D.C. New York.

If her grandfather couldn’t help, that’s what she would do.

Kaitlan leaned her head against the cool glass, feeling her dreams blow away like rose petals in a fierce wind.

She’d believed she could stay clean forever. Going through the Twelve Step program, she’d found God, that “Higher Power,” and clung to Him for help. She’d prayed and prayed, turned herself around. She’d thought God was giving her a second chance, bringing someone like Craig into her life.

“I messed up, God, didn’t I? Are you punishing me for not going to church? For not being as close to you as I should? And now I’m pregnant—”

A knock on the door. “Kaitlan?”