“It depends on what it is. Try me.”
“Earlier you said you were going fishing and that you’re going to use me as bait. I don’t understand what you’re trying to catch or why. Will you please explain?”
Libby and Niall are waiting for Mick when he arrives through the mudroom.
Passing Hemingway, he heads straight into the kitchen. His sister and brother-in-law appear to be okay, so he asks, “What’s so urgent?”
Libby says, “I didn’t want to contaminate any possible evidence, so I put the Pines & Quill journal down once I’d read the most recent entry. I left it open to that page so you can read it without picking it up.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Follow me. I don’t know what it means either,” Libby says. “But whatever it is, it isn’t good.”
When Mick bends over the oak stand and starts reading, Libby and Niall both watch the color drain from his face.
“Ms. Winters, you had quite an extraordinary evening,” Dr. Zimmerman smiles as she reaches out her hand.
Extending her hand to meet the doctor’s, Cynthia smiles. “Please call me Cynthia. Everything’s still a bit fuzzy. Can you help refresh my memory of what happened?”
“I don’t have all of the details, but from what Sean McPherson tells me, you were attacked by someone on the bluff over the bay. You’re fortunate that whoever did this to you only nicked your femoral artery. That was bad enough. If it had been severed, you would have bled out and died.”
The pieces in Cynthia’s memory start fitting together. And while she still doesn’t have the full picture, she remembers that Hemingway saved her from Jason, and that a storm-driven gust of wind toppled him over the side of the cliff.
“Did they find his body?” she asks the doctor.
Wrinkling her brows in question, “Whose body?” Dr. Zimmerman asks.
“The last thing I remember is that a blast of wind slapped Jason Hughes over the side of the cliff.”
“That’s interesting,” Dr. Zimmerman says. “There were no reported fatalities last night. I’d like to take a few of your vitals while we talk. Is that okay with you?”
“That’s fine. When will I be released?”
“I’m determining that right now,” Dr. Zimmerman says, smiling. “Libby MacCullough called and wants to know the same thing. Since you’re staying at Pines & Quill, you must be a writer,” she says, continuing her examination. “Please hold your head still and follow this pen light with your eyes.”
“Yes,” Cynthia answers. “I’m here working on a book.”
“Now breathe deeply. That’s it.” A moment passes. “Again.” Dr. Zimmerman takes gentle hold of Cynthia’s wrist. Her thumb, where it rests on Cynthia’s skin, is warm and soft. When she’s satisfied, she takes a chart from the table and writes something. The doctor’s cursive is precise and unexpectedly neat.
“Tell me about it. I’d like to hear.” And while Cynthia gives her a thumbnail sketch of the book, Dr. Zimmerman finishes her examination.
“I’ll dismiss you today if you will make, and keep,”—she emphasizes the word “keep” with a pointed look—“a promise.”
“I’m sure that I can. What is it?”
“You’ve lost a lot of blood, but not enough for a transfusion. In other words, because your body’s remaking blood, you have to rest. And by rest, I mean you need to remain still.”
“Yes, I’ll—”
“I’m not quite finished. You also have an impressive number of stitches on the inside of your upper thigh. They, too, need to rest.”
Waiting to make sure the doctor has finished, Cynthia says, “Yes, I promise that I’ll rest.”
“Then I’ll go call the MacCulloughs and let them know they can pick you up this afternoon. In the meantime, please lie still and get some rest.”
“Thank you. Thank you for everything.”
“You’re welcome. I hope we don’t meet again under these circumstances.”
A deep quiet settles over the room. Cynthia rests her eyes and tries to reconstruct the events of last night. In her mind’s eye, she sees herself being wheeled down a long corridor, and remembers ceiling lights flashing rhythmically through closed eyelids.
Mesmerized, she slips into sleep again.
“Niall, call the police and get them back out here. Let them know that Chris, Herb, Joe, and Toni are familiar with the case and we’d like one of them,” Mick says before leaving.
Fifteen years his senior, Libby stays on Mick’s heels as they run over the smooth walkway—fueled by fear—to Austen cottage.
Not bothering to knock, Mick pushes the door activation button. “The deadbolt’s been thrown,” he says over his shoulder to Libby as he rounds the corner of the cottage.
“Emma,” he shouts, sliding the glass door open. “Emma!”
Libby’s right behind him.
“Don’t touch anything,” Mick says, while his eyes drink everything in, looking for clues. “It doesn’t look like there’s been a struggle.”
“I can’t imagine where she’s gone, or why she’d throw the deadbolt and use the sliding glass door to leave,” Libby says.
“I don’t think she would have,” Mick answers, his voice laced with steel. “Please go back to the house and wait for the police. I’m going to my cabin, and then I’m going to Thoreau.”
“Why are you going to your cabin?”
“To get my gun. Call me when the police arrive.”
He pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’m putting my cell on vibrate so it’s silent when you call. I don’t want a ring to alert anyone of my presence.”
“Oh, my God, Mick. Be careful.”
From the tone of his people’s voices and the way they’re pacing the buttery pine floorboards in the kitchen, Hemingway knows that something is wrong.
He can smell their fear from the mudroom.
Alert to possible danger, Mick’s adrenalin spikes as he loads and holsters his Glock 22, the same type of service weapon he’d been issued when hired by the SFPD. Once a cop, always a cop, he thinks. And though the clip holster is meant for ultimate concealment inside his waistband, he doesn’t give a damn about that right now.
Stashing another magazine with fifteen rounds in his back pocket, he pulls on a pair of latex gloves and storms
