CHAPTER
FOUR
Asher found a parking spot outside the medical building and shut off the engine. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest, doing his best to resist the temptation to flee.
But he needed help, and after seeing the picture in the newspaper of Brooke Adams hovering over the body of his buddy, Isaiah Michaels, he figured she was the one psychiatrist who might actually understand what he was going through.
Maybe.
Before he could change his mind, he climbed out of the vehicle and slammed the door with a little more force than necessary. Get it together, James.
The parking lot was almost full even this early in the morning, and he dodged several people as he made his way inside. As he’d been instructed when he called to make the appointment yesterday, he took the first elevator he came to and punched the button for the fifth floor.
When the doors opened, he stepped into a hallway and turned right, following the signs that said HEALING PATHWAYS, INC. to a wooden door. He pressed the handle and entered the lobby.
For a moment he stood still, taking in the details. Comfortable, but not luxurious by any stretch. Magazines sat on the coffee table in front of the tan leather couch. Three more cozy-looking chairs on the other side of the coffee table invited conversation and relaxation—something he doubted happened very often, but the illusion was nice. A water cooler and a Keurig in the corner beckoned. As did the candy bars in a small basket. Interesting. He helped himself to one and munched on it while he waited. Maybe the receptionist was running late. Sharon? Shelly? He couldn’t remember.
He’d been so stressed during the conversation when she said, “You’re in luck. We’ve had a cancellation and can get you in tomorrow,” that he hadn’t caught her name. He thought he’d have more time to prepare himself for the appointment.
Not sure he’d call that luck.
But he was here, so . . .
He glanced at his phone. 8:02. They opened at 8:00. And the door had been unlocked when he entered five minutes ago. Which meant someone had been here early.
Frowning, he approached the desk. The nameplate read SHARON HARDY. Okay, then, Sharon it was. “So, where are you, Sharon?” he murmured.
Asher stepped behind the desk to note a brown purse tucked into the foot space next to the chair. Steam rose from the coffee mug on the coaster beside the keyboard.
So, she was here somewhere and she hadn’t been gone too long from the desk. Bathroom? Getting paperwork ready for him to fill out? No, she’d have that at the desk. His appointment was at 8:30, but he’d always been a stickler for being early. This morning, nerves had just about gotten the best of him, so he’d bolted from his home and driven straight to the office.
So he’d wait. And pace.
Four steps into his trek across the width of the lobby, his phone rang. He grabbed it, grateful for the distraction. “Hello?”
“Hey, Mum.”
“I’m just calling to check on you. When you left yesterday, you seemed . . . well . . . out of sorts.”
“Because Nicholas was being a brat?”
She sighed. “Yes, he was, wasn’t he?”
Asher stopped his pacing, his sudden halt almost sending him off balance. “What?” She always took Nicholas’s side. He was the son who could do no wrong.
“I heard what he said when you two were in the kitchen and he didn’t think anyone was listening.”
“I saw you there but didn’t realize you’d heard what he said. So . . . what? You were spying on us?” He was almost amused at the thought of his prim, proper, upper-crust British, never-do-anything-wrong mother standing outside the kitchen door eavesdropping.
“Asher. Really? Spying? I should think not.”
“Of course not. Sorry.”
“I simply heard the tension in your voices and stopped because I didn’t want to interrupt. And I heard him say that you were an embarrassment to the family.”
“I see.” He closed his eyes. His parents’ wealth and status in their community had been a sore spot for him, and he’d always felt like an outsider. Mostly thanks to Nicholas and his constant pestering.
It was one of the reasons he’d stayed away and didn’t taint their gated neighborhood or dinner parties with his presence, but his sister, Lyric, had begged. And she was his weakness. So, in honor of her twenty-first birthday, he’d dressed in his best khakis, long-sleeved white-collared shirt, and blue blazer and shown up.
He’d gotten a few looks—probably thanks to the tattoo on his neck that he couldn’t completely hide even with the starchiest shirt in his closet—but for the most part, the guests had been cordial. Lyric had been thrilled to see him. Her flirtatious friends even more so. He grimaced. They were sweet, but he wasn’t the least bit interested in getting to know them, other than as his sister’s buddies.
“Asher? Are you there?”
“Yes, Mum, sorry.”
Another heavy sigh. “I just want you to know I set him straight. We may not understand why you chose the path you did, but you are not an embarrassment to the family.”
“Thanks. I’m glad to know that.”
“Asher . . .” She paused. “Are you getting help for your PTSD?”
“What PTSD?”
Another long pause. “I see.”
He figured she probably did.
One of the guests had popped the cork on a bottle of champagne and he’d had one of his moments. It had made things uncomfortable for those around him—including his snotty, stuck-up older brother, who’d been standing beside him and witnessed the episode.
“Get some help, you freak,” Nicholas had hissed after cornering Asher in the kitchen. “You have the whole world available to you, thanks to Dad and his position in the community. And you choose to behave like a miscreant. Who cares about those people thousands of miles away? You’re an American. Why don’t you start acting like it? And while you’re at it, get some control. Freaking out over a stupid popped cork? Honestly, you’re such an embarrassment.”
Asher looked into his brother’s eyes. “You have no idea how much control I’m exerting right now.” When he turned to leave before doing something he’d regret, his sister and mother were standing in the doorway.
“Shut up, Nicholas, and quit being such a jerk,” Lyric said, her tone mild, but it was the sadness in her eyes that had finally driven him to actually consider that he might need help.
The pictures of Brooke had made him think she could give it. And so here he was.
“I’ve got to go, Mum. I’ll talk to you later.” Where was the receptionist?
“Do you believe that I meant what I said?” she pressed. “That we don’t consider you an embarrassment?”
Did he? “I’m not sure, to be honest, but thank you for saying so. Seriously, I need to go.”
“All right. Goodbye then.”
“Bye.”
He hung up and stuffed his phone in the back pocket of his jeans.
It was time to get this over with before he changed his mind and chickened out. Off the lobby was another door that led to the back. He opened it and stuck his head around the corner.
Restrooms on either side, but no lights on in them, according to the dark cracks at the bottom. Two doors at the end of the hallway. The one on the left was closed, the one on the right, open. Asher walked toward it.
“Hello? Anyone here? Sharon? Ms. Hardy? Brooke?” He stepped just inside the doorway to the office and stopped to take in the destruction. “Whoa.”
The overturned file cabinets caught his attention first, followed by the desk drawers on the floor. The bookshelves were empty, their contents scattered across the hardwoods.
A foot sticking out from behind the desk snagged his gaze, and he rushed to find a woman sprawled facedown, a bullet hole in the back of her head.
Careful not to disturb the scene any more than he already had, Asher shut off his initial horror and knelt to press two fingers to the side of her neck.
Nothing. He grabbed his phone and punched in 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
A flicker of movement to his left. He jerked his head toward it just as a small pop sounded and a bullet whizzed past his left ear. Instinct kicked in even as flashes of his last gunfight in Afghanistan surged to the front of his memory. Asher threw himself behind the desk next to the dead woman. Another bullet shattered the small reading lamp in the corner.
“Hey! Shots fired!” Miracle of miracles, Asher still held the phone. He rattled off the address. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Footsteps entered the room and Asher realized this guy wasn’t leaving until he’d put a bullet in Asher’s brain just like the woman on the floor.
Heart pounding, Asher army-crawled to the edge of the desk and peered around it. Booted feet greeted him. It was act or die. He snaked a hand out, grabbed the calf, and yanked just as the guy pulled the trigger. Fully expecting to feel the burn of the bullet entering his body, Asher tightened his grip on the man’s leg.
Curses rang through the office as they fought. Asher clung, but the guy just wouldn’t go down.
Then a scream from the open doorway.
The attacker froze for a split second. Long enough to give Asher the moment he needed to throw a punch into the man’s knee. The guy shouted, dropped his weapon as he crumpled to the floor. Asher swept a foot out, snagged the gun with his heel, and sent it sliding under the desk. The killer rolled, kicking out and catching Asher in the side of the head.
Stars spun and his vision wavered. His slight hesitation gave the guy enough time to gain his feet and dart toward the woman standing in the doorway, gaping, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a briefcase in the other.
He briefly registered that it was Brooke Adams. Her moment of paralysis must have lifted, because she moved fast, flinging her coffee at the face of the man.
A harsh scream carried every ounce of his rage as he swiped at his eyes and stumbled through the door. Asher leapt to his feet and snatched his phone from the floor. Without a word to Brooke, he raced past her in time to see the attacker push through the exit door just beyond Sharon’s desk.
Stairs.
He slapped the device to his ear. “You still there?”
“Sir? Officers are on the way. What’s going on?”
“A woman’s been shot. Fatally. I’m in pursuit of the killer.” Quickly, he calculated where the stairs would come out if the guy went all the way down. Then decided he wouldn’t. He’d get off on one of the floors and find another way out.
“Sir? Sir? Don’t chase him. Let him go.”
“Not on my watch.”
“Are you law enforcement?”
“No. Former special ops.” Asher drew to a stop in the stairwell and listened.
Silence.
No footsteps. No doors opening and closing. “But it doesn’t matter,” he said. “I lost him.”
And now he had to go check on the woman he’d come to see—and wished with all his heart he could avoid.
Brooke knelt next to Sharon and knew she was dead. The wound in the back of her head offered no hope. Tears gathered and pooled. Who’d done this? And why? She’d thought she left the killing and the dying thousands of miles away in a country she did her best to forget existed.
And now this.
Footsteps hurried toward her and she looked up to see Asher James step back into the room. “He got away, but the police should be here any second.”
As though speaking the words had summoned them, two uniformed officers appeared in the doorway behind him. The first one pushed into the room, her hand resting on the weapon strapped to her hip. “What’s happening here?”
Brooke met the gaze of the officer who’d spoken. She looked young. Too young to be dealing with life and death on a daily basis. “Sharon’s dead.” Rough and thick with emotion, her voice didn’t even sound like hers. “The guy ran.”
“I chased him,” Asher said, “but he got away.”
The first officer hurried to drop to her knees next to Sharon and placed her fingers on her neck. “No pulse.”
Brooke caught a glance of the officer’s name tag. Johnson. Officer Johnson radioed her position along with the need for the medical examiner. When she finished rattling off her information, she turned to Brooke and Asher. “Tell us what happened.”
All Brooke could do was stare at her friend on the floor. Then nausea hit and sent her stumbling backward, aiming for the door.
“Ma’am? Where are you going?”
“I’m going to be sick.” She made it to the trash can in the bathroom. Once she’d lost her breakfast and her first two cups of coffee, she rinsed her mouth and drew in a deep breath, trying to get a handle on her stomach and emotions.
“You okay?” a voice asked from the doorway.
Asher.
She turned. “No.”
“I’m sorry you had to see her like that.”
Tears flooded her eyes and he moved swiftly to take her in his arms. Sobs threatened to break through and she bit them back. Crying doesn’t change anything, Brooke. Quit being a baby. She sniffed and swiped away the tears as though she could wipe away the sign of weakness at the same time but couldn’t quite bring herself to pull her forehead away from his chest. The comfort she felt just standing there—in basically a complete stranger’s arms—and letting him hold her floored her. Finally, she pulled back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to cry.”
He lifted a brow. “No need to apologize. I’d think crying might be called for in this situation.”
“No. I need to be strong and deal with this. She has a husband and two small children.” More tears surfaced and Brooke had to clamp down hard on her lip to hold them back.
“Hi, everything okay in here?”
Brooke looked around Asher to see a man dressed in khaki pants and a blue long-sleeved knit shirt. The badge on his belt said he was law enforcement. She shook her head. “Just trying to get myself together.”
“I’m Detective Lonnie Arnold.” He motioned to the woman to his left. “This is my partner, Detective Zoey Fisher. We’re going to secure the scene while Officer Johnson waits here with you two,” he said, pulling on a pair of gloves, followed by blue booties. “We’ll be back shortly.”
“We can sit in the lobby if you want,” Johnson said.
Brooke took a seat on the couch and Asher settled next to her. Officer Johnson took up a guarded stance next to the elevators while keeping Asher and Brooke in her line of sight through the open office door.
Sharon’s empty desk seemed to dominate the area, and Brooke did her best to avoid looking at it. She pulled out her cell phone. “I need to call Marcus.”
“Who’s that?”
“Marcus Lehman. This is his practice. He hired me when I left the Army and needed a job a couple of months ago.”
“He’s not here today?” Asher asked.
“No, he had an appointment at the bank first thing, then he was coming in.”
“Anybody else work here?”
“No. It was just the three of us.” She pressed fingers to her eyelids, then released them. “What now?” she asked.
Before he had a chance to answer, Detective Arnold returned. “I’ll need to get a statement from both of you.”
“Sure.”
“Separately, if you don’t mind.”
Brooke hesitated, then stood. “Of course. We can use the conference room.”
Once Brooke was seated with Detective Arnold, he pulled out a small notebook. “Could you give us a run-through of how you found Mrs. Hardy?”
Brooke described in detail how she’d come to the office door and was greeted with the chaos. “I could see Sharon’s feet from the door, but what had my attention were Asher and the killer. They were fighting and the guy ran.”
“Anything else? A description?”
She shook her head. “He had on a black ski mask. I . . . I’m sorry. It happened so fast. It’s all just a blur. Asher could probably help you with the description. He was a lot closer to the guy than I was.”
“Of course.”
Detective Arnold tilted his head. “What was Mrs. Hardy doing in your office?”
“She often fixed my coffee for me and left it sitting on my desk.”
“Everything out here looks fine, but your office is pretty torn up. Any thoughts on that?”
Brooke frowned. “No. I don’t keep anything of worth in there. I take my laptop home with me, so I have no idea why someone would do this.”
The detective made a few notes, then looked up. “Did Mrs. Hardy have any enemies that you know of?”
“No,” Brooke said. “I can’t imagine it. She’s a wonderful woman. Or . . . was.” She pressed fingers against her lips to still their tremble.
“What about her marriage? Any trouble there?”
Brooke flinched. “You don’t think—”
“I don’t know, ma’am, but whatever you can tell us will help figure it out.”
“Yes, she and her husband were having trouble.”
“Another woman?”
“No, it wasn’t that—at least she didn’t think it was. It was his job. He’s an engineer and his boss is making him work crazy hours. Sharon wanted him to look for something else so he could be home more. She said they were arguing a lot, but I sure don’t think it’s something he would kill her over.”
The detective shook his head. “You’d be surprised.”
“Maybe,” Brooke said, “but why do it here? I would think that would happen at home in the heat of the moment or something. Not following her to her office.”
“Possibly. Anything else you can think of?”
“No,” Brooke said. “I don’t believe for a minute that he would do this. They may have had some issues to work out, but they loved each other—which is why they were working on the issues.”
Detective Arnold grunted. “Okay, let’s go over this one more time.”
Brooke stifled a groan.