Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
I thought we’d moved past whatever reservations he had about being in a relationship. We’ve said “I love you.” I’ve spent time with his motorcycle club and gotten along with almost everyone. Or so I thought.
So why did he bolt a few nights ago, muttering something about a work emergency, and disappear? No texts. No calls. Nothing.
I sent a hope everything’s okay text the next morning.
The only thing keeping me from freaking out that my boyfriend’s dead in a ditch somewhere is the brief response he sent back—Busy but okay.
What does that even mean?
Should I send Shelby a text? Something casual? Hey, girl, I know we only send each other the occasional cat meme, but what’s up? Happen to know where my boyfriend is?
No. I shouldn’t do that. Should I?
She’s engaged to Jigsaw’s best friend, so she might know what’s going on. Or would contacting her cross a line into psycho girlfriend territory?
Does it matter? I’m actually worried about him.
“Margot?” My father taps his knuckles against the closed door and pushes it open. “We’ve got a pickup. At the Briarwood Home.”
I spin in my desk chair to face him. “Now?”
“Yes. A Mrs. Beckett. Nursing said she passed this afternoon.” He leans against the frame. “The family wants a quick turnaround. I know you’re busy with Mr. Hall’s arrangements but—”
“No, I’ll handle it.” I’ll have to obsess about Jigsaw later.
“Paul will go with you.” He gestures toward the hallway. “I’m still working on—”
“No, it’s fine. I’ve got it.”
Death doesn’t care about my love life.
“Speaking of Mr. Hall,” my father says. “Now that we have another event to plan—although I suspect this one will have far less fanfare than the biker’s—would you mind checking to see if April has some availability this week? We could use an extra set of hands. And I’d rather give your friend the work before calling in someone else.”
“Sure. I’ll reach out to her.”
I hurry upstairs and change into something more comfortable, but still professional, for a body removal. Stretchy black pants and a black knit top with a dark floral pattern. My goal is to blend in. Once we’re there, I’ll slip into my protective gear.
Paul’s waiting downstairs in a full suit and tie. Neat and polished as always. “Ready?” He holds up the van keys and jingles them in my direction. “I’ll drive.”
“Fine by me.” I eye his suit. “It’s after hours. You’re making me look underdressed.”
He chuckles. “To be honest, I just climbed into the same suit I wore for the Miller consultation this morning.”
“Ahhh, efficient laziness,” I tease. “Aren’t you clever.”
He grins, unbothered, and we share a laugh then head into the parking lot.
The drive to Briarwood is short. Paul distracts me with his insistence on singing along to Megadeth’s À tout le monde over and over. At least his off-key warbling takes my mind off of obsessing about Jigsaw’s silence.
“Here we are.” Paul shifts the van into Park near the staff entrance and glances over at me. “Ready?”
“Yup.”
He holds up a sheaf of paperwork. “All set.”
The scent of antiseptic and burnt coffee greets us in the narrow hallway. Could be worse. Paul stops to speak to a nurse. As far as nursing homes go, Briarwood is one of the nicer ones in the area. I still can’t imagine ever sending my father to a place like this.
“Room 209.” The nurse flashes a friendly smile at Paul. “Do you need help?”
“No, we’ve got it. Thank you, though,” Paul says, ever the professional.
“I think she likes you,” I whisper as we head toward Mrs. Beckett’s room.
He glances over his shoulder. “Yeah? She’s cute. Not sure if now’s the time to shoot my shot, though.”
“Probably not.” I steer my end of the stretcher down the wide hallway. Thankfully, it’s late. No residents linger in the hallway to watch as we remove their neighbor.
The door to 209 is shut tight. Paul twists the knob and pushes it open. The room’s larger than the average hospital room, but not by much. A tall, rectangular window looks out on a shadowy courtyard. A simple hospital bed in the middle.
And a man in blue scrubs looming over the bed with his back toward us.
Paul and I share a look. We both clear our throats.
The man jumps away from the bed, flipping the sheet up as he goes. He bends over slightly…doing heck only knows what before he turns and faces us. He’s handsome but creepy, like a waxy Ken doll come to life. Except, unlike a Ken doll, and judging by the tenting of his scrub pants, this guy seems really excited to be hanging out with the poor departed Mrs. Beckett.
“I, uh, was just saying goodbye.” The man waves his hands behind him. “She was a nice lady.”
“Yeaaaah.” Paul draws out the word and scowls. “We’ve got it from here,” he says, voice sharp and protective. “You need to go.”