CHAPTER
ELEVEN

McLean, Virginia
Susan Donovan

“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. God Bless Mommy, and Grammy, and Uncle Tim, and Fluffy … Mommy?”

“Yes, sugar bean?” Susan was used to Ally’s questions during bedtime prayers. Ally was her little philosopher. Vicky, on the other hand, merely said the words and closed her eyes contentedly, drifting off to sleep before Susan could ever get through a page of a bedtime story. Then again, she was younger, and quieter. Ally was just like Susan, but Vicky had Eddie’s personality—quiet, contained, simmering. And sleepy, even at her early bedtime. Eddie was a morning person. As long as she’d known him, he’d gone to bed early and gotten up with the dawn. He blamed it on too many years being dragged out of his rack by commanding officers in combat zones.

Eddie’s voice echoed in her ear. “Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!”

She shut her eyes for a moment, savoring the memory.

Ally was the night owl. She always found some pressing topic to discuss just as she was going to bed, something to turn over in her head as sleep approached.

“Mommy, is it okay to bless Daddy? If he’s in heaven, will he know? Will he hear me?”

Susan opened her eyes and swallowed the rising gorge that threatened to gush all over her daughter’s pink Hello Kitty sheets.

“Of course he will, sweetie. You can talk to him in heaven any time you want. He may not answer, but he hears you.”

“Like God? And baby Jesus?”

“Like God and baby Jesus. Exactly like that.”

“Good. God bless Daddy.” She snuggled deeper into her sheets. Susan pulled the blanket higher, tucking it under Ally’s arms. It was silent for a moment, peaceful, with nothing but Vicky’s quiet, breathy snores coming from the bedroom next door.

“Yes, sugar bean. God bless Daddy. Now go to sleep. Mommy has to make a phone call.”

“Night, Mommy.” Ally settled into her pillows, her eyes still wide. Susan knew her little girl would lie there for at least another thirty minutes, but tonight she wasn’t going to nag at her. She kissed her on the forehead and turned on the night-light, pulled the door nearly closed behind her.

She went down the too-quiet stairs and poured a glass of chardonnay. Took a big gulp and called the number Eleanor had given her this afternoon.

The voice on the other end of the line was soft and mildly surprised.

“Susan?”

“Hello, Dr. Owens.”

“Is everything okay?”

“No. Nothing’s okay. I want you to find out what happened to him. You have my permission to conduct the second autopsy.”

There was a whoosh of breath on the other end of the line.

“Thank you, Susan. I’ll do my best.”

“Am I really in danger?”

“I don’t know for sure. But I’d take precautions if I were you. Just in case.”

“Dr. Owens?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry you had to go through this, too. Good night.”

Susan hung up the phone, drank some more of her wine. When the glass was empty, she crossed the kitchen to Donovan’s office. It was time to get some answers.

Georgetown

Dr. Samantha Owens

Sam felt her breath hitch in her throat.

Eleanor had fixed up the guest room for her. It felt so strange to be sleeping under this roof again, after all these years. And there was no way the woman could have known that Sam and Donovan had made love for the first time in this very bed, with its hearty scrolled wrought-iron headboard, when Eleanor and Jack Donovan were out of town.

Do beds have memories? Can they recognize the feel of a body that’s been in them before? She’d shied away from lying down, but finally gave that up as foolishness and settled in on the downy white comforter.

Maybe she shouldn’t have had that last bit of scotch.

She sat up and peered into the glass. There was a minuscule drop left over. She upended it and let the musky iodine scent fill her nostrils.

Maybe she should have another.

She slid off the edge of the bed and went to the door. Eleanor was in the other wing, on the other side of the house. She wouldn’t know, much less mind. Though Sam doubted Eleanor dulled her pain with scotch and hand washing.

It was just … She knew it was irrational, but she was afraid that she would infect others with her bad fortune. It seemed to be happening all around her.

It was humiliating. Embarrassing. At work she could easily cover it up—after all, she dealt in blood and flesh and ran a clean shop, so no one blinked twice unless she became frantic about it.

But out here, in the real world, people noticed. Eleanor had watched her like a hawk since she arrived, weighing, assessing. Worrying silently.

Sam needed to get back to Nashville, back to Forensic Medical, where her quirks could be chalked up to legitimate hand cleaning, and the people around her knew when to avert their eyes.

She felt the sweat pop out on her forehead. She had to do it. She had to do it now.

She set the glass on the bureau and went into the bathroom, turned on the water in the sink. It was as if she’d summoned the urge. Summoned it right into her room, into her body.

She scrubbed, and hated herself a little more. She’d have to take the pills soon. Her willpower wasn’t enough when she was out of her routine, out of her element. It was pointless, anyway. The empirical part of her mind knew that. She couldn’t bring them back. Nothing she did would change that.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four.

She stopped counting at forty. Her breathing was back to normal. The ball of pain in her chest eased a bit. Their faces weren’t crowding her eyes.

She turned off the water and dried her hands.

Susan Donovan’s call brought mixed emotions. Overwhelming relief, to start. Then a strange kind of guilt, the pervasive revulsion for her job that had been circling her lately. As obsessed as she’d been with the man’s inner feelings for her, she never thought she’d find herself actually looking inside Donovan.

She grabbed a robe from the bottom of the bed, shrugged into it. She definitely needed another drink.