A Share in Death

“I suppose it is,” he said after a moment, “but so were your expectations. You should, as they say,” his smile held no humor, “have left well enough alone.” Patrick studied her, seemed to come to some decision. “I’m sorry, Hannah.”

Hannah watched him lay his hand to the ruined sill, vault over it and walk away from her across the grass.

She sat on the toilet lid, a wet cloth pressed to her face. The tears had finally stopped and she felt drained, with that curious light-headedness that sometimes follows prolonged weeping. It had been years since she had cried like that, the sobs welling up from some place inside her she hadn’t been aware existed. Now she felt oddly peaceful, almost purged.

Patrick had been right, of course. What had she expected? Acceptance? Even love? It had been a fantasy, fed on need. She had created an image of the perfect son to fill some undefined void within herself.

Hannah sighed and dipped the cloth into the basin of cold water. Well, it was finished now. She had done what she set out to do—there was no point in lingering to humiliate herself even further. If the police would let her go, that is. She bathed her face once more with the cloth and then patted it gently with a towel, afraid to look in the mirror. It would be hours before the swelling subsided and she had better tackle Inspector Nash now. Otherwise she might lose her resolve altogether.

Hannah tried Kincaid’s suite first, hoping for moral support, but as she brushed her knuckles against the door, she found she couldn’t face him and turned away. Better to see Nash alone.

The hall was empty, the house silent, and Hannah realized she had no idea of the time. Lunch? Early afternoon? Teatime? The divisions had become meaningless to her. She stood a moment at the top of the stairs, rehearsing what she would say to Nash. Her mentor ill? A rush to

A share in death 141

return to Oxford, some urgent project at work?

Guilt flooded through her. How could she have forgotten Miles’ illness, these last few days. Not even a phone call to the clinic to check up on him, and after all he had done for her. It was high time she pulled herself together.

She heard no sound. Only the breath of air told her the door had opened behind her. Before she could turn, or speak, she felt a hard shove in the middle of her back.

As the stairs rushed up to meet her, her mind fastened on one small, inconsequential thing—the hand at her back had felt warm.

ir iiteen >^>

 

suffolk TO sussex to Wiltshire to Oxfordshire, ring around the roses. It made Gemma dizzy to think of the past two days. And tired.

 

Her clothes already looked as if they’d been slept in and this was only her second stop of the morning. Lavender Lane, Wildmeadow Estates. Ugh. What a horribly inappropriate name for this new housing estate on the outskirts of St. Albans. Boxlike clones of houses marched in neat rows across land that had been cleared of anything remotely resembling a wildflower. They didn’t look cheap, though— Mr. Edward Lyle must not be doing too badly.

The house belonging to the Lyles was indistinguishable from its neighbors. Gemma stopped the car and carefully noted the mileage in her notebook. Kincaid never remembered to record his and it exasperated her no end. Maybe on a Superintendent’s salary he could afford to be so careless. It must, she thought sardonically, be nice. Gemma sighed and wondered why she felt so out of sorts. She didn’t like working alone, that was part of it. She’d grown accustomed to Kincaid’s presence and found it oddly comforting— oddly because she remembered how nervous she’d been when first assigned to him.