A soft beeping pulled Fenway into consciousness. She gradually became aware of other sounds: faraway voices, echoes of footfalls, wheels from carts scooting across tile floors.
She opened her eyes. A beige room greeted her.
She looked to her right. An IV went into her arm, an oxygen monitor on her finger. A few machines quietly whirred; one beeped with every heartbeat.
She looked to the side. Her left arm, heavily bandaged over the bullet wound, ended in a boxer splint over her left hand. Dez sat in a straight-backed chair next to the bed, a book of crossword puzzles on her lap, eyes closed and head back.
“Hi, Dez,” Fenway said. Her voice came out as a croak.
Dez’s eyes popped open. “Oh, you’re awake,” she said. “Thank God. Took you long enough.”
“Nice to see you too.”
“The nurse is going to want to see you,” Dez said, pushing the call button.
“How long was I out?”
“About fifteen hours,” Dez said. “It’s half-past six.”
“In the morning?
“Yes.”
“What did I miss?”
Dez nodded. “Well,” she said, “Olivia is getting out of the hospital tonight, going back with her mom. She’s having nightmares, scared out of her mind, but Tracey’s taking her home.”
“Good.”
“And just a few hours after y’all took down Everett Michaels, with Rachel showing us the evidence that the mayor and Fletch had, we finally found the other accounts that SRB—and Mr. Michaels—had been hiding on the whole Red Skies distribution network.”
“Did Natalie kill that other guy at the house?”
“No, she shot his leg pretty good, though. He’s talking, too. His mom came here from Seoul just to get into the Nozithrapham clinical study, just like Scorrelli’s mom, but she recovered. Michaels seemed to have a bunch of henchmen he paid off with free pharmaceuticals for their parents.”
“Is Nozithrapham coming off the market?”
“I don’t know what the FDA is going to do. That’ll take months.” Dez crossed her arms. “Anyway, we’ve got names of a lot of the people paid off through SRB. The two senators who took the bribes deny everything, of course, but everyone is calling for their resignations. The ATF has taken over, though. I expect a hard slog.”
“Has Fletch been released?”
“His paperwork is in process—he should be released later today. He’s none too happy about how this all went down. He’s talking about suing the sheriff’s department.”
Fenway nodded. “At least he’s going to be with his daughter again.”
When the nurse came in, she asked Fenway a barrage of questions. An internist came in as well, and tapped her on her knees and wrists and feet then asked more questions. They nodded grimly but seemed satisfied by her answers as they left.
“So what else happened in the last fifteen hours?” Fenway asked.
“Funny you should ask,” said Dez. She pulled a folder out of her case, took out a paper, and handed it to Fenway.
Fenway looked at the sheet for a moment. “Dez, this is a candidate filing form.”
“Yep,” Dez agreed. “Deadline is in two weeks.”
“And it’s all been filled out for me.”
“It certainly has,” Dez said. “All you’ve got to do is sign at the bottom and hand it into the county clerk.”
“But I’m not running,” Fenway protested. “I’ve got the nursing boards to study for. I’ve got other jobs I need to start applying for.”
“Well, that’s all well and good, Fenway, but the people need you here. We need you here. Rachel, Mark, Migs, Piper, me—and especially McVie. We need you here.”
“You might need me here,” Fenway said, shaking her head, “but there’s no way I’ll win this election. Too many people against the idea. Believe me, I can think of a lot better ways to spend this three hundred dollar filing fee.”
“Oh, it won’t be three hundred dollars.”
“Sure it is. That’s the filing fee, isn’t it?”
“You’ll want to look at this other paper,” Dez said, pulling a second sheet out of the folder. “See, the filing fee gets waived if you get three percent of the voting population of the county to sign for your candidate nomination.”
Fenway looked skeptical. “There are half a million people in this county. That’s fifteen thousand signatures.”
“Four hundred and twenty-two thousand people in Dominguez County, if you want to get technical,” Dez responded, “but only fifty-two percent of them are registered voters. And three percent of that is—” Dez looked at the sheet, “six thousand, five hundred and eighty-four.”
“There’s no way you got sixty-five hundred signatures in two days,” Fenway said.
Dez handed her the paper, a printout from the county registrar.
Number of signatures required 6,584
Number of signatures submitted 17,708
Fenway’s mouth dropped open.
“And it wasn’t two days,” Dez said. “We’ve been gathering signatures for weeks.”
Fenway pressed her lips together and averted her eyes.
“What is it, Fenway?”
“Dez, you might want me to run for coroner, but I really screwed up on this,” she said. “I went to Natalie’s place by myself. I thought Natalie was the bad guy, when instead she was the best of the good guys. I didn’t realize Michaels followed me there. I almost got Rachel killed. I almost got us all killed.”
Dez sat back in her chair. “You ever heard of something called impostor syndrome?”
“I’m serious, Dez. I was a liability.”
“No,” Dez said. “You forced his hand. He would have kept under the radar, moving the chess pieces around, and we’d never take anything but pawns. You disrupted everything he tried in the last week.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” Dez said. “If it weren’t for you, Fletch would be locked up for a crime he didn’t commit. Olivia might be dead—we might not even have known she’d been kidnapped. Rachel might be dead. The feds might have egg on their face. And we might have gotten a drug kingpin as coroner, in a position to cover up drug overdoses, murders, you name it. You seriously think you were a liability?”
“I almost got them killed,” Fenway repeated, softer this time.
“And then you saved their lives and made sure Everett Michaels will never hurt anyone again.”
“Natalie took the other one down. Don’t forget about her.” Fenway paused. “Will she forgive me for thinking she was the kingpin?”
Dez laughed. “Natalie thought it was hilarious. She couldn’t stop laughing. I think everything is okay with her.”
“Do you think I could see her and apologize?”
Dez shrugged. “She’s already gone. Moved on to her next assignment. Probably has a whole new identity being set up as we speak. Oh—she told me she’d see you in Valhalla. Whatever that means.”
Fenway smiled wistfully.
“So,” Dez continued, “are you going to take that down to the county clerk and get it signed?”
Fenway looked at Dez, then nodded.
• • •
The hospital discharged Fenway that afternoon, and McVie picked her up to drive her home. Fenway’s hand was starting to throb as she got in the car, but the doctor had said the fracture to the fourth metacarpal was lined up well. If she was lucky, she wouldn’t even need a cast. He offered her a few Oxycontin for the pain. She refused.
“You know,” McVie said as he drove, “you were a no-show for our lunch date yesterday. I don’t usually take getting stood up very well.”
“Yeah, sorry,” Fenway said. “I was unconscious from a loss of blood, and I totally lost track of time. Plus someone tried to kill me.”
“If you’re going to lie, Fenway, at least make your story realistic.”
Fenway laughed. “So, are you back?”
McVie looked sideways at Fenway. “You mean…”
“Are you sheriff again?”
“Oh,” McVie said. “Yes. They reinstated me this morning.”
“Good,” Fenway said. “What did you think I meant?”
“Uh, I thought you might have been asking if I’m back with Amy.”
Fenway nodded. “Well, I guess that’s something I’d like to know if you’re going to call it a lunch date.”
“She served me with separation papers as soon as I got reinstated,” McVie said.
“Oh,” Fenway said. “I’m sorry. That must be rough.”
McVie shrugged. “At least I know it’s over. The last couple of years have been such a roller coaster.”
“What’s going to happen to Megan?”
“She’ll get to choose who she wants to live with. I hope it’s me, because Amy doesn’t really set boundaries with Megan. But it probably won’t be.”
Fenway was quiet.
“So, I mean,” McVie continued, trying to sound casual, “I was sort of half-joking when I said we had a lunch date, but, uh, if you wouldn’t mind it being a real date, then I’d like that, too.”
“You have literally been legally separated for six hours,” Fenway said. “Isn’t there a rule about that?”
“I don’t think so,” Craig said. “It’s probably not a rule that Amy’s following, anyway.”
Fenway smiled. “Well, part of me thinks it’s a bad idea, just because you’re the closest thing to a boss that I have.”
“Not really,” Craig said. “You report to the people of Dominguez County, not to me. Just because I appointed you doesn’t mean I’m your boss.” He cleared his throat. “And besides,” he continued, “I’m going for another position.”
Fenway looked at Craig. “You’re not going for re-election?”
Craig shook his head. “I’m submitted my paperwork this morning. I’m going to run for mayor.”
“Against Barry Klein.”
“Yep,” he smiled. “Your dad has already told me he’ll endorse me. That’s gotta get under Barry’s skin.”
They arrived at Fenway’s complex and they walked up the flight of stairs to Fenway’s apartment. A large, flat box leaned up against the wall in front of 214.
“What’s that?” Fenway said. “Did you send that?”
“Nope,” Craig said.
She looked at the box; the return address was Seattle. “It’s from Akeel,” she said.
“Akeel?”
“One of my old friends from Seattle,” she said, opening the door.
McVie took the box inside, and Fenway opened up one end. She saw a picture frame.
“Oh, this can’t be what I think it is,” Fenway mused. She grabbed ahold of the frame with her right hand. “Help me take this off, Craig.” He took ahold of the box from the other end and pulled; the box slid off easily.
It was the painting of the shore on the other side of the butterfly waystation.
“This is the painting I drove up to Seattle to get,” Fenway said, “and Dez called me home about the mayor before I could get it. I didn’t think I’d be able to go back for a few months.”
She picked up the box to move it and an envelope fell out with her name on it in Akeel’s handwriting. She picked up the envelope and opened it; her key to the storage unit fell out, along with a handwritten note.
And you thought we were just about mindblowing sex, didn’t you? You don’t think I’m paying attention, but I do. You told me how important this painting of your mom’s was to you. When I realized you left the key to the storage locker here, I thought I’d do something nice. I hope the painting makes it to you in one piece, but I insured it with the shipping company for a ridiculous amount of money, so I bet it got to you fine.
Next time you come up here, you can plan to stay for more than one night. I’d like that, as a matter of fact.
—Akeel
McVie looked at Fenway expectantly.
She cleared her throat. “Akeel obviously got the painting and spent an obscene amount of money shipping it to me.”
McVie paused. “Is there something I should know about?”
“No,” Fenway said. “Well, the guy is an ex-boyfriend.”
“And he’s doing above-and-beyond things for you?”
Fenway shrugged. “We’re a thousand miles from each other, and we broke up two years ago. It’s ancient history.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Come on, Craig,” Fenway said, “don’t start getting all jealous on me when we haven’t even been on a real date. As if you’ve forgotten that you were officially married yesterday.”
McVie smiled. “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “Okay, real date? Tomorrow night, dinner.”
Fenway considered for a moment and then shook her head. “Not tomorrow,” she said. “Give me a few days to recover. I’ve lost a lot of blood and my hand is broken. And I have to figure out how to get dressed with only one hand. And—I’m exhausted. I don’t want to fall asleep on you.”
“Oh, sure. I understand.” She could hear the disappointment in his voice.
“But soon,” Fenway said, taking hold of McVie’s hand. “Before my hand is fixed, but after I figure out how to manage.”
“Sure,” Craig said. “I’d like that.”
They stood there for a minute.
“Anything else you need before I go? You want me to hang the painting for you?”
“I think I can do that,” Fenway said.
“I’ve got two good hands.”
Fenway remembered back to the night they’d spent together two months before, and the kiss they shared in the front seat of his Highlander. Yes, yes, he did have two good hands.
“Jars I can open, anything like that?”
“I think I’m good,” Fenway said. “You’re still at the motel?”
He nodded. “I’m apartment hunting tomorrow,” he said. “Forty-three years old and I feel like I just got out of college. I haven’t shared a common wall with anyone in years.”
“You know, there might be an open unit around here. We could, you know, be neighbors.” Fenway gave him a coquettish smile.
“Yeah, just what I need, your dad as my landlord,” McVie said.
She walked him to the door, and they smiled at each other. They shared an awkward hug, not quite sure what to do, before McVie turned, smiled, and walked out.
She made some coffee, struggling to pour and grind the beans with just one good hand. It took a few extra minutes, but she finally got it brewing. She went to her computer, thinking she’d try to find what she needed to know about running for coroner. But she thought about the folder Dr. Klein had put on the counter in her office a few days before. She thought of the pain and regret and anger she felt.
She typed Professor Solomon Delacroix into the search box.
She didn’t know what she expected to find, but after learning about the video stills, she was absolutely positive that her Russian Lit professor had other victims.
The first hit, though, linked to a news story from the Seattle Times from the day before.
He was dead.
Professor Solomon Delacroix’s body had been found by a boater in the Squalicum waterway, just a couple of nautical miles from the Bellingham marina. Professor Delacroix, an avid swimmer, hadn’t returned from his usual early-morning swim at the university pool on Wednesday morning.
Police speculated that the cause of death was accidental.
Fenway, stunned, looked for additional stories, but could find nothing else online, except that Delacroix had been teaching a summer session class on The Brothers Karamazov.
The coffeemaker beeped, and Fenway stood at the kitchen counter, drinking her coffee, piecing together the timeline. The accident had occurred only about thirty-six hours after she had told her father about being raped. She found herself wondering if he had a reason besides retrieving her car to send his private plane to the Seattle area.
She sat down on the floor, heavily, being careful of her broken hand, and put her good hand over her face. She felt like she should have been grateful that the man who did that to her couldn’t hurt her—or anyone else—ever again.
But she didn’t feel grateful.
The tears started, and she didn’t know where they came from. Anger, relief, resentment, anxiety for the future—she couldn’t untangle the emotions to pinpoint the cause. But she couldn’t stop. And for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to be overwhelmed. Tomorrow she would regain control. Tomorrow, she would file her paperwork with the county clerk and officially begin her campaign for coroner. Tomorrow, she would revel in the fact that McVie was suddenly, wondrously, available and interested. Tomorrow, she would allow herself to wonder if her father had entangled himself in her professor’s death.
Not tonight, though. Not tonight.