Maggie Shayne: Kill Me Again

Carrie rolled her blue, blue eyes. “He insists Kyle was driving.”

“Well, he’s not stupid, and he doesn’t want a ticket,” Bryan said. “Being that he’s taking his driving test in—what did you tell me—a week? Yeah, I’m sure he was trying to get some practice in. But since I can’t prove it, I’m not going to ticket him.”

“That’s quite all right, Officer,” Carrie said. “Because I intend to murder him.”

Or at least ground him for a weekend, Olivia thought.

“The question remains,” Bryan said. “Is this man the reclusive author Olivia believes he is?”

“May I see the card you found on him?” Olivia asked.

Carrie pulled the business card from her breast pocket and handed it over. It was smudged with black.

“What’s all over it?” Olivia asked, wrinkling her nose.

“I had to dust it,” Bryan said. “No usable prints. It’s useless to us.”

Olivia flipped the smudged card over, saw her own handwriting on the back and nodded. “Well, this is the card I sent to Aaron Westhaven. I have no doubt about that.” She looked into the room again, and this time found the man staring back at her, his expression curious now that he’d noticed the three of them looking at him as if he were a specimen in a zoo.

“Maybe he knew this could happen,” Olivia said, very softly, almost speaking to herself. “Maybe that’s why he’s always been so private, because he knew someone might come after him if he were out in the open.”

Bryan met her eyes, and they shared a silent exchange. He knew that was how she felt. He knew there was someone who would probably kill her if he ever found out she was still alive. He knew she wasn’t even using her own name, and hadn’t been for the past sixteen years. And he probably thought she was projecting.

She shook her head. “So what do I do but convince him to come out into the open, and the minute he does, he gets shot. God, I feel terrible.”

“You didn’t convince him. You invited him. You didn’t even expect him to accept. And he was free to say no,” Bryan said.

Carrie nodded her agreement. “Will you talk to him, Olivia?” she asked. “He’s completely in the dark here, and none too friendly—though I don’t blame him, given his situation. Even if you’ve never met him, you know more about him than any of the rest of us do. It has to help a little.”

“Of course I’ll talk to him.” Olivia held the man’s steady gaze through the glass. “I’ve been waiting years for the chance to talk to him.” His eyes were fixed on hers, and they were intense. A little chill whispered up her spine. She should have known he would be beautiful. Anyone who could write the way he did had to be beautiful inside and out.

“All right, you go talk to him, then,” Bryan said. “Call me if anything comes up. Meanwhile, I’m going to get back to the station, make some calls, figure out who his publisher is, or his editor, or his whatever. There must be someone, somewhere, who knows this guy.”

“Wait.” Olivia turned to Bryan. “Am I right in assuming you didn’t catch the person who did this to him?”

Lowering his head, Bryan pushed a hand through his hair. “We don’t have a clue. Not even a bullet casing. The bastard took it with him.”

Olivia was worried by that. “Mr. Westhaven doesn’t want publicity about his visit here. And I can’t help but think it’s pretty obvious now that he has good reason for that. Can we keep this quiet, at least for now?”

Bryan nodded. “I think that’s probably best. I’ll talk to the chief, but I expect he’ll agree. Dr. Overton?”

“Confidentiality is what we do best around here, Officer Kendall. As far as I’m concerned, he’s still Patient John Doe.”

“Can I keep this?” Olivia asked, holding up the business card.

“Yeah. Go on in. I’ll call you later,” Bryan said.

“I’d like a word with you, Olivia, on your way out,” Carrie said.

Olivia nodded and turned to the patient-room door. Her heart was lodged in her throat—because how was she supposed to anticipate her first conversation with someone she’d admired so much for so long, especially under these conditions? She was nervous, not wanting to make things worse for him. But she supposed any information would be welcome, so she opened the door and walked into his room, then crossed to his bedside.

“Hi,” she said. “My name is Olivia. And I’m pretty sure yours is Aaron.”

Aaron.

He’d expected a rush of memory to flood into his brain once he knew his name. But it didn’t. There wasn’t even a mild sense of recognition. Not of the name she spoke. Not of the woman, either. And he didn’t see how any conscious, breathing male could forget a woman who looked like she did.

She was a classic beauty. Dark brown eyes and thick black lashes. Sun-kissed skin, sable hair, even if it was all bundled up. She had a slender body and luscious, full lips. And best of all, she didn’t even seem aware of her looks. She didn’t dress to show them off, that was for sure.

Beyond that, though, she was the first person who’d walked into this room that he felt glad to see. He was actually interested in talking to her. The others had been boring. Not one of them had any useful information to share, but they’d all been full of questions he couldn’t answer. Doctors, nurses, cops.

Damn, he hated cops.

He didn’t know how he knew that, or why he hated them, but he knew it was true. It had to be true, as uncomfortable as he’d been with the one who’d been in here grilling him.

Someone had shot him. Shot him. He closed his eyes and thought, yeah, that sort of thing would tend to make a lot of people ask a lot of questions. Personally, it made him feel sick.

And now there was this…Olivia. She wasn’t a medical professional—unless she was a shrink. And she wasn’t a cop. He knew that for sure, though again, how he knew was a mystery.

“Olivia,” he said, repeating her name and waiting to see how it felt on his tongue. Familiar? Sadly, no. “Are we…lovers?” he asked.

Her eyes widened, and the word no burst from her lips before she could give it any thought. A rush of heat suffused her cheeks, and she didn’t meet his eyes.

He lowered his head as if disappointed, and said, “So we’re just friends, then?”

She frowned at him, tipping her head to one side and searching his face as she finally caught on. “Are you teasing me? A man in your condition?”

“My condition isn’t all that bad. Doc Redhead out there tells me I’m fine. Aside from the fact that the only thing in my head right now is a massive ache, I actually feel pretty good for a guy who just took a bullet. And no, I wasn’t teasing. Not entirely. I was hoping to God they finally found someone who knows me. Intimately.” He sighed heavily, told himself to quit with the self-pity and get on with this. “So how do you know me, Olivia?”

“I don’t,” she said. “I’m sorry, but we’ve never actually met.”

Nodding, and trying not to literally deflate in disappointment, he said, “Figures. It’s just about in keeping with the way my day’s been going, I guess.”

He pursed his lips and reminded himself that this poor woman wasn’t the one who’d shot him. Then again, how could he even be sure of that much?

He looked at her again, and thought, no, she wasn’t the kind to put a bullet in a man. Not like that—not in the back of his head. She was stiff, kind of wary, maybe a little repressed, but not mean. Not a killer.

“Why don’t you sit down, Olivia, and tell me about myself?”

“I’ll try.” She moved to the chair beside the bed and adjusted it to a position she liked, a little closer, angled toward him so she could see his face. Then she sat down, her lithe frame folding itself into the chair in a smooth, easy motion. She crossed her legs at the ankles, leaned her knees to one side. “I didn’t expect you to be so…”