Page 4 of Enigma

For a split second, Olive froze as her mind processed what she was seeing through the glass.

Lloyd lay on his back, one arm stretched out awkwardly, his usually neat silver hair disheveled.

Olive’s heart rate spiked.

Was he dead?

She grabbed the door handle and yanked the sliding glass door open. The metal track protested with a harsh scraping sound that cracked the otherwise quiet morning air.

“Mr. Stewart!” She rushed inside, the chill of the AC instantly hitting her.

Olive dropped to her knees on the hardwood floor beside Lloyd, her training taking over despite the surge of panic in her chest.

She pressed two fingers against his neck, feeling for a pulse.

His heartbeat was weak but steady. His breathing was shallow but regular. His skin had taken on a gray tint, his fingertips appeared bluish, and one of his hands rested near his heart—as if he’d been clutching it.

Had he experienced a heart attack?

That was what all the symptoms seemed to indicate.

“Lloyd?” She leaned closer to his face. “Can you hear me?”

A barely audible groan escaped his lips.

He was alive but barely conscious.

Olive reached for her phone and called 911.

“What’s your emergency?” a high-pitched voice asked.

“I need an ambulance and police at 2847 Pelican Drive in Clearwater.” Olive forced her voice to remain calm and professional despite the adrenaline coursing through hersystem. “I found a man, in his mid-sixties, unconscious in his home. I believe he had a heart attack.”

The dispatcher promised to send someone right out.

Forcing herself to focus, Olive carefully rolled Lloyd onto his side, tilting his head back just enough to keep his airway open. She tugged the top button of his shirt until it loosened.

“Hang on,” she whispered to Lloyd. “Not for my sake, but for Jason’s.”

Lloyd let out another soft moan.

As she waited with him, she scanned his house.

Years of working cases had taught her that first impressions of a scene were crucial. Details could be lost or contaminated once emergency responders arrived and began their work.

The coffee table was pushed askew by only an inch, its normal position marked by indentations in the area rug beneath it. Magazines that had probably been neatly stacked—she could picture Lloyd organizing them by date—were now scattered across the floor. Lloyd could have knocked them over when he collapsed.

As she waited for the rescue squad, Olive leaned closer to examine Lloyd.

That was when she saw it: a tiny puncture wound behind his right ear.

The mark was so small she almost missed it. The piercing was precise, professional-looking—like a pinprick from a very fine needle.

Someone had drugged him, she realized. This medical emergency was no accident.

This was a crime scene.

CHAPTER 3