Page 26 of A Deeper Darkness

Retrieve. The word registered. Thank God. Ally wasn’t dead. Would she be able to ever get a phone call again from an institution and not assume the worst?

“Is she ill?”

“No. She’s fine. We can discuss this when you arrive. Can you come now?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Mrs. Donovan, I hope you know… Well, we are all so very upset by your loss.”

“Thank you, Headmaster. And thank you for the flowers.” Susan glanced at the arrangement the school had sent, already wilted and brown, the heads dropping off the lilies onto the kitchen counter. “They’re lovely.”

“Of course. We wanted… That’s neither here nor there. We’ll see you shortly.”

Susan gathered up her purse and keys, thankful for the distraction. The headmaster’s crisp, no-nonsense voice hinted at something, though Susan was damned if she could figure out what.

The phone began to ring again as she left the kitchen. She glanced back over her shoulder at the caller ID, saw a familiar number. Betty Croswell. Well, it was just a matter of time before the wives started seeking her out to find out about the service.

Later,she thought.I’ll deal with that later.

Chapter Fourteen

Washington, D.C.

Detective Darren Fletcher

After the grueling talk with Betty Croswell, Fletcher had Hart drop him at his house and crashed for a few hours. Without sleep, his mind wasn’t going to work properly, anyway. He woke from his nest on the couch with a sore neck, waded through a month’s worth ofWashington Posts stacked on the floor as he stumbled toward the kitchen, passed by a year’s worth of books he hadn’t had time to read stacked on the tiny dining room table. The kitchen was still decked out in 1970s avocado appliances and speckled linoleum.

But it served its purpose: a semiclean space to house his coffeemaker.

He started the coffee brewing and found a clean cup.

He needed a maid.

And a decorator.

And a very large trash compactor.

Despite the fact his case had kept him out all night and half the morning, he liked that it now had a wee bit of intrigue. A husband off the rails, obviously lying to his family, made for interesting investigating. It was better than that carjacking he’d caught a few nights ago. That upset him. Guy just minding his own business jacked at a stoplight, then dumped on the street. A freaking war hero, at that. Managed to survive three tours and saved God knew how many lives before coming home and biting it because some junkie needed to drive out to Prince George’s County to get a fix.

The world was a seriously fucked-up place.

He opened the refrigerator, found the remnants of a Cinnabon he’d neglected to finish and tossed it in the microwave. He didn’t want to think about how old the pastry was. Sipped on the coffee, leaned against his counter. Massaged his stiff neck.

Military.

A war hero carjacked in Southeast. A PTSD mess shot in Georgetown.

Connected?

Naw.

The microwave dinged. He pulled the slick wax paper out, dumped the half-eaten and very hot bun onto a paper plate, and carefully gnawed.

Military.

Hmm.

He set the plate on the counter and went to his office. Flipped open the laptop. Searched the obituary for the carjacking victim, Edward Donovan.