Page 2 of Enigma (Pros and Cons Mysteries #6)

T he Florida heat had enveloped Olive from the moment she stepped out of the airport. But it wasn’t the humidity that made her palms sweat as she stood on the sidewalk outside Lloyd Stewart’s house in Clearwater.

She paused and observed the area. Palm trees swayed in the early morning breeze, and the neighborhood was quiet except for the distant hum of air conditioning units working overtime against the oppressive temperature.

October in Florida could still be hot, but the temperature today went above and beyond normal expectations.

Lloyd’s house was typical for the area—two stories and beige stucco, with a red tile roof that had seen better days. The Gulf Coast was only a mile away, accessible via the water behind the house, and the whole area offered quiet suburban anonymity.

It was the perfect place for a retired doctor to live.

She’d been staring at this address online for three days, pulling it up on her laptop, closing it, then opening it again.

Last night she’d booked the red-eye flight after another sleepless hour of weighing her options. She’d taken leave from her investigative work at Aegis, so she was free to use her time as she wanted.

And what she wanted was to find answers.

She hadn’t even told Jason Stewart what she was doing.

That guilt sat heavy in her stomach ever since. As she’d gone to the airport. As she’d flown. As she’d picked up her rental car.

As she’d driven to this house.

She shoved aside the guilt as she walked up the concrete pathway, past the small, carefully maintained flower garden toward Lloyd Stewart’s home.

Olive paused at the front door, her finger hovering over the doorbell. Once she pressed it, there would be no going back.

She would have to explain to Lloyd why she was here, ask him questions that might destroy Jason’s relationship with his father, and potentially uncover facts that could end whatever hope she and Jason had of a future together.

But she needed to know the truth about her family, and Lloyd might provide that information.

Eight years ago, her dad, mom, and twin sisters had been murdered. Olive would be dead also if she hadn’t sneaked out of the house to go to a party that evening.

Sometimes, she wasn’t sure if she was the lucky or unlucky one. The weight of grief had been hard—almost impossible—to carry at times.

But unanswered questions had haunted her for long enough. The killer had never been found and was most likely still living out there as a free man.

It was time to find the truth and face it head-on. No more excuses.

Plus, she couldn’t move forward in her relationship with Jason until she knew if his father was somehow connected to the massacre of her family.

Her gut clenched at the thought.

Drawing in a deep breath, Olive pressed the doorbell.

The chime echoed through the house, a pleasant two-tone melody. But no footsteps approached.

Olive waited thirty seconds, then pressed it again, holding it longer this time.

The sound carried clearly, so she knew it was working.

“Mr. Stewart?” She knocked on the wooden door with her knuckles. “It’s Olive Sterling.”

Still nothing.

She stepped back and looked at the house more carefully. Lloyd’s silver Lexus sat in the driveway, and she saw lights on through the front windows despite the bright morning sun.

Her investigative instincts, honed by years of working cases for Aegis, kicked in.

She walked to the side of the house, her loafers quiet on the concrete driveway. The backyard was small but well-kept, with a screened porch that faced a small body of water behind the house.

That was when she noticed it.

The sliding glass door that led from what looked like the living room to the screened porch was slightly open. Maybe six inches, just enough to force the air conditioning to work harder.

It wasn’t something a careful retired doctor would leave open, especially not someone who’d lived in Florida long enough to know better.

Olive stepped onto the screened porch and approached the slider cautiously. She cupped her hands against the glass to peer inside.

Her breath caught.

She saw Lloyd Stewart.

He lay motionless on the living room floor.

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 her system. “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.