“Suicide?” I whispered, Broward’s strained face, his obvious stress, all of the signs, signs I should have seen, flooding my mind. Guilt settled on my shoulders, heavy and judgmental.

“No.” He leaned briefly away from me and rubbed his temples. “Murdered. Shot in his office.”

The guilt, for a brief moment, took a hiatus. It might have skipped Julia-town and landed in Brad-ville; he certainly looked as sick as I felt. His face pale, he stared forward, his body tense. Wherever he was, it was miles from here, miles from me. I reached out, touching his shoulder, and he turned to me, our eyes meeting, a sudden connection forming. I fought to stay still, to not react, but the look in his eyes when they met mine—it scared me. His face was dark and brooding, but his eyes? They were intense, fiery. They screamed pure fury, sparks flying from them, his temple jumping, and I realized, my eyes traveling over his body, that he was a tight coil of barely restrained rage.

Rage? Not the reaction I would expect when someone finds out his business partner is dead.

“Are you okay?” I asked softly.

He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and looked at me. And just like that, it was gone. The madness dissipated and he was calm and in control. The transformation scared me more than the fury had. He reached out, grabbing my hand reassuringly. “I’m fine. Just trying to understand it.” He stood, moving away from me, and yanked open a drawer by the door, grabbing his wallet and keys, his back to me.

My thoughts returned to Broward and the unexplainable situation. Murdered. In his office. My mind grasped at straws, trying desperately to convince itself that this was a random act of violence. “Was it a robbery?”

“They don’t know. I have to get to the office. The police want to talk to me.”

“To you? Why?” I stood up and walked over to my shoes, grabbing them and pulling them on.

Brad ignored my question and came up behind me, his strong arms wrapping around me tightly. “Are you okay?”

I turned to him and sank into his chest, gripping his shirt with my hands. “I don’t know. Yeah. No. I’m just trying to understand it.” I looked up into his worried face, searching it, the lines, his mouth, his eyes. They stared back at me, concern and compassion filling them, no hint of the fury that had monopolized them just moments earlier. I didn’t know what I hated more, when his eyes were unreadable or when I didn’t like what I read in them. I wiped away tears that were swelling and stood on my tiptoes, kissing him gently on the lips. “Let’s go.”

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Brad turned to follow, his hand finding the small of my back, the slight support appreciated. He grabbed the door, pulling it closed behind us and locking it. “The police will probably want to talk to you, too.”

“Me?” I stepped off the porch, going carefully down the back steps. Why would they want to talk to me?

“Yeah. If he was shot last night, you may have been the last person to see him alive.” He paused. “Other than, of course, the killer.”

Twenty

We decided to just leave my car at the bar, my nerves way past the level of safe driving. Brad drove us to the office, watching me closely the whole time, as if I were a piece of china with a hairline crack.

We didn’t speak on the drive. I was shaken, trying to put the pieces of what was happening together. It was as if the last twenty minutes had uprooted my world and set it back upside down. I had too much to think about, too much to process. My mind flipped back and forth between an image of Broward’s body, and the words I had overheard on Monday. The Magianos. It couldn’t be, there must be some other explanation. Not in our office, not with Broward. I clenched my eyes shut and sat back in the seat.

“You okay?” Brad’s voice, coming through my thick cloud.

“Yeah,” I mumbled, my eyes closed, the feeling of his hand on mine, gripping my palm, a soothing thumb caressing my wrist.

The car slowed and I heard a turn signal. We must be close. I wasn’t ready to face the office and all this day would entail. My stomach tightened at the thought of being questioned. I needed to figure out what to do.

* * *

BRAD ENTERED THE East Wing of the fourth floor of Clarke, De Luca & Broward. The East Wing was his domain, the area where expensive marriages came to die. Divorce Central. He was God in this wing. He noted that, despite this morning’s events, business was still being conducted. Both conference rooms were full, and two groups of clients waited in the lobby’s leather seating clusters. He walked through the elegant space and up to the three elevated secretarial desks that were the focus of the lobby. The only sign of trouble glistened from the blotchy faces and red-rimmed eyes of his secretaries, who rose at his approach. The three women, who ran the wing with iron, liver-spotted fists, were all in their late sixties, and all had been with him for over ten years. He stopped at their desks and nodded a hello.

Carol Featherston, the center and head secretary, spoke first. Never one to mince words, she skipped over pleasantries. “There is a detective waiting to speak with you.”

Brad nodded. “Give me a moment in my office, then send him in.”

“Certainly.” She swallowed hard, her wrinkled neck stretching and straining. “Brad, we were so sorry to hear about Kent. Despite your history, I know this must be a difficult time for you.” Her two clones, Diana and Beatrice, nodded in unison, both murmuring soft condolences. Brad nodded and walked around their desks, entering his large office set against the east wall of the building, a million-dollar view of downtown stretching its length. He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then walked behind his desk. Opening up a side cabinet, he set his briefcase inside, then sat in his dark leather chair. He closed his eyes briefly and collected his thoughts. There was a knock at his door, and Carol opened it, ushering in a tall, thin man, with short gray hair. The detective.

Let the games begin.

Twenty-One

The West Wing was chaos. Our front lobby was filled with employees, and I was stopped just inside the doors by one of the firm’s security guards. “Julia,” he said, recognizing me. “All employees are asked to wait here. The police are conducting interviews in the offices, and the hall with your office and Broward’s is closed for the investigators.”

I nodded and moved past him, into the waiting area. Looking around, I saw almost every employee of the wing, some huddled in small groups, some standing alone, and others pacing on cell phones. I sought out Sheila. Seeing her leaning against her desk, at the rear of the room, I walked over and touched her shoulder. She whirled at the contact, her elegant appearance marred by her tear-soaked face and shaking hands.




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