Chapter 8

Maggie felt as if her blood had turned to ice.

Miles. Mercurial. Unpredictable. Dangerous.

He was the son of the president of Rxcellance, the company at which Maggie had cut her teeth in pharmaceutical development. He was the man who had tormented her and others for fun and profit. He was the reason her stomach turned every time she smelled men’s cologne.

Maggie had thought his reign of terror had ended along with his job and his freedom. Now he had crawled out from whatever rock under which he had been hiding, from whatever prison cell in which he’d been languishing, to start the game anew.

How he’d found Maggie was a mystery. The why was obvious.

He wanted to hurt Maggie. To punish her. To make her pay for helping put him away.

Maggie crumpled the note and shoved it into her gym bag. She withdrew her sweaty tank top and used it to wipe the ketchup from the lock. She tried to insert the key. It bounced around, dancing in her shaking hand. She swung the gym bag onto her back and used both hands to steady the key. It shuddered up and down, left then right before finally sliding home. Maggie twisted it. The lock leapt up.

Maggie slid onto the bench seat, locked herself in and drove home, her mind on past conspiracies, old grudges and another door: the entrance to her old apartment, inked in blood that would never wash clean.

  

Home, the third address in as many years to earn that title, was a rented bungalow at the bottom of a cul-de-sac on the town’s eastside. Canary yellow with shutters painted a blue-purple that Constantine insisted on calling “blurple,” the house had the benefit of being easy to describe to pizza delivery drivers.

Maggie pulled into the driveway and Constantine bounded out to meet her wearing a t-shirt that read This Attraction Is Closed. He scooped her out of the car and carried her into the house.

This had become their tradition since their engagement. Maggie would arrive home. Constantine would carry her over the threshold, nuzzling her neck, calling her “cara mia” in his best Gomez Addams impression.

“How was work? How was the gym?”

She hesitated, unwilling to start the evening with bad news, unsure if she was trying to protect Constantine or herself. “Not so good. And not so good.”

He placed her on her feet in the small foyer and origamied his arms across his chest. “How not so good?”

“Well, two more customers collapsed in the store. And Miles left a love note on my car at the gym.”

Constantine gaped. “Miles? As in Miles Montgomery, son of the owner of the company formerly known as Rxcellance? What’s he doing here? What’s he doing anywhere?”

“He’s in our little corner of the Midwest to torment me. But that’s just a guess.”

Constantine’s face darkened. “What did the note say?”

Maggie dragged a hand through her gym bag and brought out the crumpled paper. Constantine flayed it open. Read. He looked up. “It’s a little light on content.”

“But not context. He’d coated the Studebaker’s keyhole with ketchup, which happens to look a lot like blood.”

Constantine crushed the paper into a wad. “A hemoglobin trip down memory lane. A little reminder of the gift he impaled to your door?”

Maggie felt a shockwave begin at the epicenter of her spine. She rubbed her arms briskly, relegating quakes to tremors. “At least he used a dupe rather than the real thing.”

Constantine looked at her full-on. “This time. We know what he’s capable of.”

She knew, God, how she knew.

“I hate to state the obvious…” Constantine said. “Actually, that’s not true. I love to state the obvious. But shouldn’t you call up former rodeo clown and current cop Austin Tacious?”

Maggie plucked the furrowed paper from Constantine’s hand. “His name is Austin Reynolds,” she said of the ex-boyfriend with whom she now shared a zip code, “and he was a bull rider. And, no, I shouldn’t. He’s a homicide detective, remember?”

“Oh, right. Guess we’ll wait until after you’re murdered to contact him.”

Gallows humor, Constantine’s favorite portal to denial, his own Wall behind which he shoved pain and worry.

“Miles isn’t going to murder me. He’s just going to torture me for old time’s sake.” She showed her teeth, more grimace than smile. Constantine frowned, his shoulders climbing to kiss his ears.

She put a hand behind his neck and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry. If I get another condiment-accompanied nastygram, I’ll contact the police, maybe get a restraining order.”

“Perfect. Miles is a big respecter of paperwork.”

Maggie dropped her hand to her side. “What exactly do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know,” he said softly, finding the runaway hand, knitting his fingers through hers. “Stay safe? Never get hurt again? Live forever?”

Maggie smiled, genuinely this time. “I’ll do my best on all counts.”

She tossed her purse and gym bag on a battered entryway table and plunked onto a rust and gold sofa overrun with riotous paisley. A hand-me-down from Pop. A reminder of her childhood.

Constantine sank down beside her. “Tell me about the other not-so-good news. You said more customers collapsed at Petrosian’s?”

She nodded. “A mother and daughter. I found them lying on the floor unconscious and struggling to breathe.”

“Like the other customer—” He waved his hand in the air as if trying to crank-start his brain. “Colton something?”

“Ellis—and maybe. Although I hope it ends better for the mother and daughter.” She swallowed. “We got news this morning that Colton Ellis died.”

Constantine blew out a puff of air. “I’m sorry, Mags. You did your best.”

Maggie wondered about that. Maybe if she’d spotted him a little sooner, pumped his chest a little longer, remembered how she’d handled his medication, he would still be alive.

“The whole thing gives me a bad feeling,” she said, her voice whisper-soft. “Like this is all more than a coincidence. Like a mistake was made.”

“A mistake? In medication?” Constantine dropped his voice to match hers. “By you?”

“Petrosian and I pored over the records, did a physical inventory of what was on hand.” Defensiveness had sneaked back into her voice, belying her words, stealing her certainty. “Everything was in order.”

“So why does your face look like that?”

“Because I can’t remember.”

“Can’t remember what?”

She pressed her fingertips into her temples. “What I did. What I didn’t do. My role on the days that Colton Ellis and the Whitleys came into Petrosian’s. I remember helping Colton, broad stroke stuff. But the specifics? It’s all a little foggy.”

An eleven formed between Constantine’s brows. “You’ve been foggy for a while. Testy, too. In fact, I’d say you haven’t been yourself since…since what happened.”

What happened.

Both of them euphemized the act, nicknamed it, dancing around the attack that had left Maggie unconscious—and later, unclear. They hadn’t always avoided naming the assault, calling out the assailant, railing against the violence and all that followed. Yet as time passed, so did Maggie’s willingness to talk about it. It was classic Maggie; if she didn’t think about it, maybe it didn’t exist.

“You know it’s ironic, right?” Constantine said gently. “The founding member of the Hypochondriac Association of America refusing to see a doctor?”

“Cemeteries are full of people who were accused of hypochondria,” she said, jutting her chin. “Besides, I’m not refusing to go to the doctor. I’m just waiting for the right time.”

“Like your funeral?” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Come on, Mags. You’ve got to go in, see what’s behind the headaches, the fuzziness, the irritability.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” she said irritably, “and I’m not irritable.”

“Of course not. I’m just worried about you. Like, really worried.” Constantine pulled her in for a kiss. “I almost forgot. I have some good news.” He paused dramatically. “I’m gainfully employed.”

“That’s wonderful! Tell me everything.”

“You know how it’s been hard for me to find a job ever since I quit Tech Inc. and moved to Hollow Pine?” She nodded. “Well, now I’m consulting for Tech Inc.!”

Maggie tilted her head. “Wait, what? You’re consulting for the company you left and swore you’d never return to?”

“Exactly. Except now that I’m an independent subcontractor I get to call my own shots. For example, I can now work half-days.”

“And by half-days you mean twelve hours?”

“Well, yes, but I can also work remotely, which gives me more time to hang out with my favorite human.”

She opened her mouth to ask more about the job when her phone sounded, a custom ringtone with De Niro’s voice from Taxi Driver: “You talkin’ to me?”

She dashed across the room and spelunked in her purse for her cell. She pulled it free of Post-It notes, Luna bars and expired coupons and checked the screen, certain that Pop’s broad, red face would be smiling back. Instead, Levon Petrosian’s profile picture popped up.

She tried to remember the last time Petrosian had called her at home. She came up with never. Had he found someone else unconscious in the store? Discovered an error she had made? Decided that her propensity for finding bodies was bad for business?

“This is Maggie,” she said in her most professional voice.

“Ms. O’Malley, this is Mr. Petrosian.”

Always Mr. Petrosian. Never Levon or Lev, as Polly affectionately called him. He cleared his throat. “I’m wondering if you can come in early tomorrow. I have some things I wish to discuss with you.”

She swallowed. “Discuss?”

“Yes, recent events I believe warrant a conversation. Can you come in at six thirty?”

That sounds awful, she thought. “That sounds great,” she said. “I’ll see you then.”

She ended the call and placed the phone on the entryway table, her mind already tabulating the terrible possibilities that were sure to come.