Rita Herron - Mysterious Circumstances

“I came as soon as I heard.”

Hall’s face looked ruddy with emotions, his tie hanging askew as if he’d been twisting it in the car. The sweltering summer heat drifting through the door also marked his skin with perspiration. “What happened?” Hall asked.

Craig gestured toward Olivia before explaining. “Dr. Hall, this is Olivia Thornbird, Dr. Thornbird’s—”

“I know who she is.” Hall’s look bordered between a scowl and regret. “Miss Thornbird has been to my office several times in the past few months.”

Craig nodded. “Of course.” She would have been looking for a story. Or maybe she’d covered some of the disreputable events that had occurred at the research park already. He made a mental note to check the newspaper archives.

“It appears that my father killed himself,” Olivia said before he could finish, “because of some research he was doing regarding the Savannah Suicides.”

Hall’s face blanched. “How do you know it had something to do with his work?”

“We don’t,” Craig said, vying for damage control. “The medical examiner will have to determine cause of death, and if Dr. Thornbird was suffering from any other medical problems.” Craig indicated Thornbird’s computer and the cluttered oak desk. “We are confiscating all of his research notes and hope you’ll provide us with a liaison to interpret them.”

Hall scraped a hand over his forehead. “Certainly. We’ll do whatever we can to expedite the investigation.”

Craig grunted. CIRP had a reputation for keeping certain projects classified, even from the feds. With the current state of the world and constant threat of terrorism, studying biological and chemical warfare had to rank at the top of their priorities. The security they enforced upon the employees and their research projects at Nighthawk Island was cutting-edge, but their secrecy suspicious.

Hall offered Olivia a conciliatory smile. “Miss Thornbird, please allow CIRP to pay the expenses for your father’s burial. He was a valued employee of the scientific community and will be sorely missed.”

Olivia’s face paled at the mention of a funeral, and Craig was tempted to reach out and offer her a comforting hand, but she stiffened perceptibly when he stepped closer. “How valuable was he to you, Dr. Hall?” she asked.

Hall’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not certain what you mean.”

Olivia squared her shoulders. “I’ve heard about your community and the founders of CIRP. They actually killed two of their scientists for nearly exposing secretive work you were conducting. Perhaps that’s what happened to my father.”

Hall squared his shoulders. “Any disreputable activities that occurred in the past are to be left there,” he said curtly. “Since I assumed leadership of CIRP, things have changed. Recently one of our psychiatrists, Claire Kos, was instrumental in helping catch the serial killer stalking Savannah.”

“But it’s awfully coincidental that Savannah is suddenly stricken with something that might be a dangerous unknown virus when your team is conducting secretive research on Nighthawk Island.” Olivia’s voice held an undercurrent of accusations. “Perhaps my father discovered the truth about the rash these suicide victims had contracted. What if his findings lead back to CIRP? And you had him killed to keep him quiet?”

“You’re letting your grief make you irrational.” Hall’s eyes flickered with anger. “And I wouldn’t print false accusations like that in the paper, Miss Thornbird.”

“Oh, I’ll find proof to substantiate it before I print it.”

A vein in Hall’s forehead throbbed. “Your father shot himself, didn’t he?”

“That is the apparent cause of death,” Craig answered, in an attempt to defuse the volatile situation before it spiraled completely out of hand.

Olivia had a point, but so did Hall.

In fact, it had also occurred to him that Hall and the other scientists at CIRP might hurt Thornbird to keep him from discovering the truth about the virus.

Olivia’s words rushed back to haunt him.

My father was meticulous about safety precautions. If he was infected, it wasn’t accidental.

Could she be right? Could someone have infected Thornbird? If so, his suicide would be murder. And he had just asked Hall for a liaison to interpret the results…

Could Craig trust Hall and the next scientist, or would they alter results to cover for CIRP?

And what about Olivia—if she kept tossing out accusations, would she put herself in danger?

“OLIVIA, I’M GOING TO drive you home.”

Olivia shook her head. “I’d like to stay here a while longer.”

Craig’s sharp gaze cataloged the chalk lines outlining the space where her father’s body had fallen. The other cops were leaving, the house dusted and tattooed with the crime scene unit’s handiwork. The spectators and reporters had given up and gone home, too. “Even if I could let you do that—and I can’t,” Craig said, “—it’s not a good idea.” He took her elbow as if to guide her to the door. “You’re wiped out and need some rest.”

Emotionally drained would be the more correct assessment. Dead inside even closer.

But she’d be damned if she’d admit any weakness to the federal agent who’d made her life hell the last few weeks. Even if he did have the sexiest gray eyes she’d ever seen. And even if for a brief moment, his ironclad control had slipped and concern tinged his voice.

“I…I can’t leave,” she whispered, betraying herself as her gaze caught sight of the wedding photo of her father and mother on the end table by the couch. The realization that she was all alone in the world slammed into her with such force that the breath locked in her lungs.

“Is there someone I can call?” he asked quietly. “A family member? Friend? Boyfriend?”

“No…no one.” She swallowed back tears at how pathetic it all was. Just like her father, she’d drowned herself in work at the expense of forming close friendships. And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a date.

Emotions suddenly choked her, and she turned away, embarrassed and determined to regain control. “You don’t have to take care of me, Agent Horn.”

“Yes, I do.”

His gruff words hung in the air, thick with concern. Whatever his intention—to spy on her or offer her a semblance of comfort—guilt also riddled his voice.

She didn’t want his guilt or pity.

“I have my car,” she said, swinging back around. “I drove myself here. I can drive myself home.”

“Miss Independent, huh? You never need anyone, right?”

“That’s right.”

His gaze locked with hers, the day’s events traipsing through her mind like a bad headline. Tomorrow, her father’s suicide would be splattered across the papers. She’d need to make plans for the funeral. Think about a burial plot. A memorial service. A casket.

That is, when the medical examiner finally released the body.

It was all too much.

Feeling weak-kneed, she scrounged in her purse for her keys, but Horn placed his hand over hers. “I’m taking you home, Olivia. No arguments. If you want to come back tomorrow, I’ll bring you to get your car. But you’re not driving right now.”

For once in her life, she was too exhausted to argue, so she nodded and followed him to his nondescript sedan. The interior was clean, cool, unwelcoming—just like the man.

She gave him directions to the apartment she rented, one half of an older house that had been converted into duplexes. The night sounds and lights of Savannah passed by in a blur. Blues music floated from Emmet Park where locals often gathered to jam, the rumble of traffic and Saturday-night partygoers and tourists flooding River Street, reminding her that, although she was grieving, life went on.