2

The long, awkward evening was finally over.

Exhaling, Trish felt around in her purse for her keys as Matt walked her to the door. The dinner he’d shared at the house last week—at her mother’s invitation—had been tolerable, thanks to Mom’s presence. Tonight’s movie . . . different story. Agreeable as Matt was, hard as he’d tried to generate some heat, there wasn’t a glimmer of spark. Whether that was due to lack of chemistry or to her lingering, heart-numbing grief, Trish had no idea.

But whatever the reason, there would be no more dates. She’d just have to convince her mother that any guilt she felt about usurping her daughter’s time was misplaced. That Trish’s social life was nonexistent by choice, not because she felt compelled to spend every free minute at her mom’s beck and call.

“Are you as parched as I am from that popcorn?”

At Matt’s not-so-subtle ploy to wrangle an invitation to come in, she muffled a groan. He must still be interested in her despite this dud of an evening she did not want to extend.

On the other hand, maybe she should ask him in—and set him straight as diplomatically as she could before he got too carried away.

She sighed. It wouldn’t be the most pleasant end to the evening, but putting off hard stuff never made dealing with it any easier.

“Would you like a soda or some coffee?”

“Either would be fine. Thanks.” He flashed her a smile, reached for her hand, and gave it a squeeze.

Great.

She freed her fingers on the pretense of opening the door and led the way inside. “Have a seat in the living room while I check on Mom.”

Without waiting for a response, Trish ditched her purse and sweater on a chair in the foyer and fled into the hall.

Once she was out of Matt’s sight, she paused to psyche herself up for the letdown she was about to deliver . . . as well as the consequences. The comfortable, relaxed relationship the two of them had enjoyed over the past year would be hard, if not impossible, to recapture. That’s what happened when romance entered the picture—particularly if one of the parties wasn’t feeling the love.

In truth, though, Matt had been . . . different, somehow . . . since the accident. There was a new, subtle tension in him. A disconcerting undercurrent of nervous energy. And his eyes had changed too. The curious, lingering hurt that had always lurked in their depths was gone. Now they seemed sharper . . . cooler . . . more calculating.

Or was she just paying more attention to nuances now that he was taking a personal interest in her?

No matter. After tonight, their relationship would be strictly business. She’d be pleasant, courteous, professional—but nothing more.

If fate was kind, he’d take that news with grace.

Light peeked through her mom’s cracked-open door as she approached, and Trish picked up her pace. Why was the lamp on? Her mother was always in bed by nine thirty, and it was almost eleven. Was she having a bad evening? And if so, why hadn’t the aide called her before she’d left at ten, as instructed?

Quashing her annoyance, she eased the door open and slipped into the room. Outside help might be necessary on weekdays while she was teaching, but situations like this were one of the reasons she preferred taking care of her mother’s needs herself at night and on weekends.

Soft light spilled onto the floral comforter covering the bed as Trish tiptoed over, feet silent on the plush carpet. Her mom was on her side, faced away from the door and the lamp, apparently asleep.

Her tension ebbed, and she let out an unsteady breath. She needed to get over her constant worry or she’d end up with high blood pressure and heart disease, like her mom.

At the bedside table, Trish leaned down to flip the lamp off. Paused as she spotted the cell phone lying on the comforter.

Why was it so close to her mother’s fingers . . . as if she’d dropped it?

And why was her mom so . . . still?

Dread congealing in her belly, Trish laid her fingers over the motionless hand on the comforter.

It was cool.

Too cool.

Suffocating panic ballooned inside her.

“Mom.” She touched her mother’s thin shoulder as she choked out the word.

No response.

“Mom!” Panic spiked the pitch of her voice.

Still no response.

She tugged her gently, until she could see her face.

Her mother’s eyes were open.

Sightless.

NO!

Trish scuttled back from the bed, chest heaving, as her mother rolled back onto her side.

NO! NO! NO! NO!

“Matt!” The desperate summons came out a mere whisper. As if her lungs had no air to support words.

She tried again. “Matt!”

This time anguish shrilled her call.

Footsteps pounded down the hall, and an instant later he was beside her.

“Trish—what’s wrong?” He grasped her shoulders, searching her face.

She waved a hand toward the bed. Tried to speak. Resorted to another spastic flip of her hand.

Matt surveyed the motionless form, then released her and circled the bed.

After a brief hesitation on the other side, he leaned close and pressed his fingers against her mother’s neck.

Several eternal beats ticked by. At last he straightened up, his troubled gaze meeting hers as he pulled out his own cell phone. While he punched in three numbers, he rejoined her and draped an arm around her shoulders.

Though he was inches away, Trish heard his side of the conversation as if it came from a great distance. His words sounded muffled while he explained the situation to the operator. Answered questions. Provided the requested information.

Only two phrases from the exchange registered clearly, echoing over and over in her brain.

She’s not breathing. I couldn’t find a pulse. She’s not breathing. I couldn’t find a pulse. She’s not breathing. I couldn’t find . . .

“Paramedics are on the way.” Matt slid his phone back into his pocket.

She stared at the opaque button on the front of his dress shirt, trying to accept the truth.

It didn’t matter when the paramedics arrived.

Her mom was gone.

She knew that even before the two-person crew swept into the bedroom a few minutes later with all their medical paraphernalia. Before the two police officers who’d arrived first had a quiet exchange with the technicians while they packed up the few items they’d taken from their kit. Before one of the officers joined them in the corner of the room where Matt had led her, out of the line of traffic.

“You’re the daughter, correct?”

“Yes.” Matt answered for her. “I told that to the 911 operator.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” The officer’s demeanor was sympathetic. “The paramedics say she was gone before we arrived.”

Trish choked back a sob at the heartbreaking finality of those words.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions. It might be more comfortable if we move to the living room.”

“No.” She crossed her arms in a rigid tuck against her chest. “I want to stay with m-my mom.”

“Trish . . . the living room would be better.” Matt touched her arm. “You need to sit down. You’re shaking.”

“I said I want to stay here.”

At her back-off tone, a muscle in Matt’s cheek clenched.

“Here is fine.” The officer pulled out a notebook and pen, altering his position to block her view of the bed. “Why don’t you both give me some basics? Name, address, contact information.”

After they complied, he flipped a page and focused on her. “Tell me what happened tonight.”

“Mom and I had dinner. Then Matt and I went to a m-movie.”

“What time was that?”

“About seven thirty.”

“Was your mother here alone for the rest of the evening?”

“Only after ten. There was a home-health aide with her most of the evening.”

“I’ll need her contact information.”

Trish gave him the woman’s name and the name of the service where she was employed.

“How old was your mother?”

Was.

Pressure built behind her eyes. “Sixty-f-five.”

“Did she have health issues?”

“Yes.” Trish told him about her heart condition, the injuries from the accident, the stroke. “But she was fine earlier. A little . . . cloudy . . . when she took her evening medication, but that can happen if she gets tired.”

Matt touched her arm again, twin creases embedded in his brow. “Is there . . . do you think she could have taken the wrong dose of one of her medications?”

She frowned at the bizarre question. “No. I’m the one who counts the pills. She only takes what I give her.”

“But she does take a lot of medicine, right? Ten, twelve different kinds every day?”

“Eleven.”

“That’s a lot of pills to juggle . . . and you have been kind of distracted lately.”

Her breath hitched. “Do you . . . are you suggesting I made a mistake?”

“I only bring it up because you said she was kind of fuzzy. You’ve had a tough two years, Trish . . . and details can slip through the cracks if you’re stressed. Like that burner you left on under the frying pan when I came to dinner last week.”

At his gentle reminder, her heart stumbled. She couldn’t deny that mistake. Nor the incident with the coffee filter the night he’d almost stayed for cake.

“And you thought we were supposed to go to the movie tonight at seven, not seven thirty.”

A quiver of unease snaked through her as she grappled with his stomach-churning implication. “Even if I did miscount one of the pills, Mom would have caught it. You know how sharp she is.”

“But didn’t you tell me one of her doctors adjusted her medication a few days ago? Isn’t it possible she might not have questioned a change? Especially if she was a little out of it tonight.”

“Does anyone else live here, ma’am?” The officer appraised her, a glint of suspicion sparking in his irises.

“No.” She tried to switch gears. To erase the dark doubts Matt had planted in her mind. “It’s just been me and Mom for the past eighteen months, since she came home from rehab.”

“Are there other family members you need to notify?”

“No.”

“Anything you’d like to add, sir?”

Matt explained his connection to her mother.

“Got it.” The officer closed his notebook. “If you folks will excuse me for a minute, I need to make a phone call.”

Trish watched him walk across the room and confer in low tones with the other officer and the departing paramedics. Numbness was setting in, and she felt herself drifting away from the scene. Almost as if she was having an out-of-body experience.

The distance was welcome. Insulating. Comforting.

Until Matt intruded, pulling her back to the harsh reality.

“I’m sorry, Trish.” He rested a hand on her shoulder.

Turning her back on the strangers in her mother’s room, she scrutinized him. “You don’t really believe I miscounted the medicine, do you?”

If she was seeking reassurance, his carefully worded response gave her none.

“I know you always did your best to take care of your mother. And I know how much you loved her.”

“She was all I had, Matt.” Her voice broke, and she sucked in a ragged breath. “I did everything I could to be here for her, to help her recover. Losing her too is . . . unthinkable.”

“I’m so sorry, Trish.”

The trite platitude grated like chalk on an old-fashioned blackboard.

She hugged herself and backed away, gripping her arms tight. “You don’t need to stay.”

He did a double take. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Stop saying that!” At her hysteria-tinged rebuke, the low rumble of conversation across the room ceased. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the police officers and paramedics look toward her.

She lowered her volume. “Go home, Matt.”

“I can’t leave you alone in the middle of all this.”

“Actually . . .” The police officer rejoined them. “I’m going to need both of you to leave. The medical examiner is on the way, along with a detective. The CSU won’t be far behind.”

“CSU.” Trish knew the acronym from TV police shows. “Why is the Crime Scene Unit coming?”

“We call them for any sudden or suspicious death.”

“Look . . . there’s nothing suspicious here.” Matt glared at the officer. “If anything did happen with the medication, it was a mistake. But her mom’s been in poor health anyway, and she had a heart condition. This was probably due to natural causes.”

“The medical examiner will determine that.”

“You want me to leave the house?” Trish was still trying to absorb this latest curve.

“Until we release the scene. Sometime tomorrow morning, I imagine. If you’d like to pack a bag, one of us can accompany you while you do that.”

“Why don’t you stay at my place overnight? I have a spare bedroom.” Matt edged closer.

She backed away. “No. I’ll . . . I’ll go to a hotel.”

The officer pulled his phone off his belt and skimmed the screen. “I need to take this.” He motioned to the uniformed woman across the room. “Officer Wilson will be happy to go with you while you pack a bag.”

He walked away, speaking in low tones, and the woman took his place across from her.

They weren’t letting her out of their sight.

They were treating this like it was a crime scene.

They were acting like she was a suspect.

This was surreal.

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” Matt echoed her thoughts, anger tightening his words. “This woman loved her mother. She’s obviously in shock.”

“We’re following standard crime scene procedure, sir.” The woman folded her arms.

“But this isn’t a crime scene!”

The petite officer drew herself up to her full height. “You may be right—but until we’re certain of that, we stick to protocol. Ma’am, I’d be happy to accompany you while you pack a bag.”

“Isn’t there somewhere in the house she could . . .”

“Let it go, Matt.” Trish massaged her throbbing temple, her voice dull. “My room’s across the hall.”

She didn’t look back toward her mom as the woman followed her out. Looking back wouldn’t change a thing, as she’d learned over the past two years. All you could do was carry on and move forward.

Or shatter.

Until now, she’d managed to carry on.

But after tonight, option number two was a very real possibility.