The Silence That Speaks

  “Good. Then we’re all set.” Casey’s words brought the conversation to a close.

  Emma took the hint and headed for the door. “Good luck,” she murmured to Claire.

  The minute the door shut, Claire began to laugh. “She’s a handful.”

  “Tell me about it.” Casey’s lips were twitching, too. “I feel like I’m negotiating with the rebellious teenage daughter I never had. But the truth is, her personality is working for us. She’s managed to piss off everyone at the hospital. They see her as a typical immature young woman—a kid who romanticized being a nurse and is now finding out the truth. Nursing means hard work, compassion that’s hard to muster under pressure and being up to your neck in bodily fluids. Given Emma’s attitude, no one would ever suspect that she’s a plant.”

  “Obviously that’s true,” Claire agreed. “Because Ryan’s downstairs already trying to get into whatever is on that flash drive.”

  “Good. I hope he deciphers it quickly. The clock is working against us. It’s only a matter of time before the killer decides to try again. You and I both know that security can only go so far. If someone wants Madeline and Conrad dead badly enough, they’ll find a way to breach our security team.”

  “We can’t let that happen.”

  “I know.” Casey took in Claire’s tone and body language, not to mention the pissed-off look on her face. “What happened with Sharon Gilding?”

  “Nothing good.” Claire explained Gilding’s reaction to her talent and that she’d all but thrown her out after fifteen minutes.

  “Nice,” Casey said drily. “She’s even more obnoxious than we thought.”

  “That’s not all.” Claire walked over, poured herself a glass of water and took a seat. “The negative energy that emanates from that woman is overwhelming. She’s arrogant, she’s bitter and she’s having a torrid affair with someone—someone who could help her climb the ladder. I’m not even sure if she gives a damn about the guy, only that she’s using him for her own purposes.”

  “She wants the chief of surgery job that Conrad is the frontrunner for.”

  “She more than wants it. She’s obsessed with it. She’d go to scary lengths to ensure that she’s the next chief of surgery.”

  “Scary? You mean like murder?”

  “I think she’s capable of it. I just can’t figure out if she’s tried it.”

  Casey processed that. “You have no idea who her lover is?”

  Claire frowned. “I tried. The images of what was going on were very graphic. Truthfully I wanted to throw up. But all I could make out was Gilding and the silhouette of a guy going at it like two rutting animals. Judging from his physique, I’d say he’s not tall and not thin. He’s got a solid build with that slight middle-aged paunch. But his face...” Claire made a fist and brought it down on the table. “Dammit. I just can’t make it out.”

  “You’ve done a hell of a job already.” Casey’s mind was working. “I can think of one guy who has that type of build and who’d be instrumental in getting Gilding that job. And it’s someone who’s not too popular with the hospital staff right now, but holds its future—and the future of the chief of surgery—in his hands.”

  “Jacob Casper,” Claire filled in.

  “You bet.” She paused. “Marc is going to be meeting with Casper. Talk to Marc and figure out a way that you can go together. I want to know how strong an energy you pick up there—and if it matches whatever you got from Bitch Doctor.”

  * * *

  A Starbucks was just three blocks from the hospital. One venti Americano and blueberry scone later, Trix sat down at the round table in the middle of the café. Trix put down the snack and pulled out a digital recorder, turning it on and placing it on the table.

  It was time to collect a sample to test the capabilities of Audio Detracktor. Trix needed to know just how accurate the app would be in separating and enhancing even the most insignificant of sounds. It would be interesting to hear what noise would be the Starbucks equivalent of a guitar pick bouncing off the stage, just as the Sound on Sound review had described.

  All the sounds of Starbucks filled the café. The squeal of the steam wands. The rush of hot coffee being poured from urns. The beep of the oven popping out freshly warmed pastries. The whirring of blenders mixing frappuccinos for the local teenagers.

  Two such teens were at the next table over, taking selfies and shrieking at their iPhones as friends sent them photos via Snapchat. The recorder captured the girls’ conversation—something about their plans over the holiday break. Two more girls joined them at the table carrying bright pink blended beverages—cotton candy frappuccinos OMG—and Trix heard the sound of their tall green straws as the girls slurped up the diabetes-inducing liquid. Talk about a sugar rush. Trix pitied their parents. But the straw sounds were perfect for the audio test.

  Satisfied that there was enough material captured, Trix finished the scone, packed up the recorder and began the walk to the subway, Americano in hand.

  * * *

  It was November, so darkness fell early. Cold. Windy. Naked trees casting shadows everywhere. And not even a sliver of moonlight to lessen the creepiness of the night.

  Madeline rubbed her arms to warm the internal chill that pervaded her body. Then she looked out her bedroom window and down at the street for the fifth time in the past hour.

  The same car was there, parked by the curb. A black sedan—maybe a Mercedes or a BMW. Madeline couldn’t make it out in the blackness, nor see how many occupants were inside. But the vehicle had been in the same spot for several hours now, right next to a fire hydrant. Once, a police car had made its rounds, turning down the street. Clearly having spotted the officers, the driver of the sedan had eased away, heading smoothly down the block.

  Ten minutes later, it was back.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence. The driver of that car was watching her apartment. Watching her.

  Trembling violently, Madeline turned away, trying to be rational. So a car was parked outside. It could be an airport service picking up a passenger. It could be someone who was waiting for a friend and didn’t want to go to a parking garage.

  Or it could be someone scrutinizing her apartment and her.

  She drew the blinds, telling herself that she was being paranoid. Why would someone be watching her apartment?

  Because they were trying to figure out the logistics of what was going on inside. They were trying to discern if there was a guard stationed in the apartment. And they were trying to determine how to get inside and finish what they started.

  Was someone planning to kill her right here in her apartment?

  Panic rising inside her, Madeline walked back to the window like a child who was terrified of a movie, but had to peek through their fingers to see what was happening, anyway. She shifted the blinds aside and pressed close to the window, squinting as she desperately tried to make out the driver or the license plate or something that could help her identify who and why the driver was there.

  Abruptly the car headlights came on, as if they’d spotted her and were zeroing in on her.

  Freezing in place, Madeline lost it entirely.

  She rushed to the bedroom door, yanked it open and hurried into the foyer.

  John was posted near the door, sitting on a folding chair and reading something on his iPad.

  “Ms. Westfield?” He stood up, seeing her ashen coloring. “Is everything okay?”

  “I don’t know.” Madeline was still rubbing her arms, more vigorously now. “There’s a car outside. It’s been sitting there for hours in direct view of my apartment.”

  John went straight to Madeline’s bedroom, and moved the curtain at her window ever so slightly. “The black sedan?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll call Patrick. He’ll cruise by and s
ee what’s up. I’ll stay here with you.” He’d already punched on his phone.

  “No. Wait.” Madeline had no idea what she was doing. She only knew she was doing it. “Before you call Patrick, I want to call another member of the FI team. He can stay with me while you and Patrick go out together.”

  John shook his head as he headed back out to the foyer. “You call whomever you want to. I’m contacting Patrick.”

  Madeline didn’t argue further. She just walked over to her bedside where her handbag was sitting. She picked it up and opened it, groping inside until she found what she wanted—the agreement she’d signed with Forensic Instincts. She unfolded it and turned to the last page. As she recalled, all their cell numbers were listed at the bottom.

  For a long moment, she stared at the sheet of paper.

  Then she did what she’d wanted to do since she’d hired the team.

  She called the person who had prompted her to seek out Forensic Instincts to begin with—the person she trusted most with her life.

  The phone rang three times before he answered.

  “Devereaux.”

  “Marc, it’s me.”

  “Maddy? What’s wrong?” He sounded worried.

  She told him what was going on.

  “John is calling Patrick,” she said. “But I’d feel better if you were here. I’m scared. I need someone I...” She paused. “I need you.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  19

  MARC AND PATRICK reached Madeline’s building at the same time. Patrick had driven his car over, and Marc had grabbed a taxi, paying him double to get him to East Eighty-Second in record time.

  Patrick was talking to the doorman, flashing his P.I. credentials and asking the uniformed man to watch his car, when Marc’s cab came screeching up to the curb.

  Marc jumped out, threw a bunch of bills at the driver and almost collided with Patrick in the doorway.

  “Hey.” Patrick’s brows rose in surprise. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “Madeline called me,” Marc said simply. “You check down by First Avenue. I think that’s where the car must be parked because Madeline’s apartment faces that side. I’ll go upstairs.”

  Patrick didn’t ask any more questions. He simply nodded.

  Marc flashed his ID as he blew by the doorman. Three minutes later, he was standing in front of Madeline’s apartment.

  He knocked, and waited while John checked him out through the peephole.

  The door opened. “Hey, Marc.” John stepped aside so he could enter. “Madeline mentioned that she was calling someone at FI. I think she’s overreacting. We’ve got things under control. I’m here with her, and Patrick is outside. He just texted me. If there’s someone watching this apartment, we’ll find out who it is and why they’re here.”

  “Go help Patrick. I’ll watch Madeline.” Marc tossed his coat on the side table. “Where is she?”

  “I’m right here.” Madeline walked out, having heard Marc’s voice. “Thank you for coming.”

  Marc’s gut twisted. It wasn’t just seeing Maddy again. It was seeing her like this, still bruised, pale and thin and, despite the cashmere turtleneck she was wearing, shaking violently. He wanted to kill the perp himself.

  John had already put on his jacket. “I’ll join Patrick and get going on this.”

  The front door shut behind him.

  With obvious effort, Madeline met Marc’s gaze and forced herself to speak candidly. “Whether or not I’m overreacting, this whole nightmare has become too much. So I don’t want a stranger sitting with me while we find out if a killer is parked outside my door, ready to finish what he started. I want the man who led me to Forensic Instincts to begin with.” She paused, wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “As I said on the phone, I want you.”

  Marc’s jaw tightened. “This is a mistake. I heard your voice and I just reacted. Old habits die hard. I’ll leave when John gets back.”

  “No. You won’t. Nor do you want to.” Madeline didn’t back down. “You’re putting up that wall of yours again. Don’t. You’ve never been a coward. Don’t become one now.”

  “This isn’t about what I want. It’s about keeping you safe.”

  “It’s about both.” Madeline walked over until she was standing right in front of him. “It’s about wanting to keep me safe, and it’s about wanting me.” She flattened her palms on his chest, easing them slowly up and down over the wool of his sweater. “I want you, too,” she whispered.

  Marc made a strangled sound. He was fighting with all his emotional strength. But despite everything he was capable of, everything he’d been and done, he couldn’t fight these feelings. When Madeline tilted back her head and gazed up at him with those incredible eyes, he was lost.

  Slowly he raised his arms and threaded his fingers through her hair. “Maddy,” he murmured. “Dammit, Maddy.”

  He wasn’t sure who moved first. He only knew that Madeline was flush against his body, her arms wrapped around his neck, and that their mouths were fused, devouring each other’s. It was Maddy who backed them into her bedroom, Maddy who turned the lock. But it was Marc who pulled away long enough to strip her sweater over her head, unhook her bra and tug off the rest of her clothes.

  She was as breathtaking as ever.

  Madeline stood still for an instant and let Marc’s hungry gaze rake her. Then she walked over to the bed, slid between the sheets and reached out her hand. “Hurry.”

  That’s all Marc had to hear. He was naked in under a minute and in her bed in less than that.

  He groaned aloud at the feel of her body against his—it was like coming home and coming back to life all at once. He didn’t think, didn’t care, didn’t listen to the voice of reason in his head.

  He just made love to her, caressing her skin, inhaling her fragrance. He kissed the fading bruises on her face and the dark splotches of purple on her ribs.

  Madeline shivered with each touch, moaning aloud when they became more intimate. “I can’t wait,” she managed.

  “Neither can I.” Marc eased his body over hers, careful not to give her his full weight. “Tell me if I’m hurting you.”

  “The only way you could hurt me is by stopping. Don’t.”

  “I can’t,” he replied in a husky voice filled with desire. “It’s way too late for that.”

  There were no more words, just the sound of their rough breathing as Marc eased himself between her thighs. He shuddered as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

  “Okay?” he asked, needing to make sure she wasn’t in pain.

  “No, not okay,” Madeline answered breathlessly. “Not yet.” Lifting her hips, she urged him inside her.

  Marc lost it completely.

  Pushing all the way in, he braced himself on his elbows, holding himself that way until the muscles in his arms were bulging. He gritted his teeth, felt sweat dripping down his spine and fought for control.

  “No.” Madeline pulled at his biceps. “Let go. I want to feel all of you on me and in me.” Her arms and legs urged him down to her.

  When Maddy began to shift under him, begging him to give her everything, Marc gave it up. He lowered his body onto hers, pushing even farther inside her. He savored the feel of her and started to move, slowly at first, and then faster, more urgently. Maddy arched into each thrust, moaning aloud and drawing him deeper and deeper inside her.

  Time suspended as their bodies became one, moving in perfect unison.

  Then the world blew apart, all in one exquisite, poignant moment.

  Maddy came all around Marc, crying out his name and raking her fingernails down his back. He let out a guttural shout, grabbing hold of the headboard bars and pouring himself into her.

  Time passed.

  Then slowly,
gingerly, Marc released his death grip on the headboard and gave Maddy all his weight, pressing her into the mattress.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  Madeline began to laugh. “That’s what you said the first time. History repeats itself.”

  “In more ways than one.” Marc tried to move and failed. “I should get up. I’m probably hurting you.”

  “If you dare move an inch, I’ll hit you.”

  Marc chuckled. “You’ve become more volatile since the last time.”

  “The last time,” Madeline murmured. “That was a lifetime ago.” Her voice quavered. “Is this really happening?”

  “It already did. It still is.” Marc was done lying to himself and to her. There was no escaping the enormity of what was occurring, what had never stopped occurring. He didn’t even want to try.

  “I love you,” he said, his lips against her ear.

  At that, Madeline began to cry. “I love you, too,” she got out. “Then. Now. Always.”

  Marc rose up on his elbows again, staring directly into her eyes. “We have a lot to work out, a lot to talk about. But I’m not letting go of this—not like the last time.”

  “I wouldn’t let you.”

  They both heard the front door open, and Marc jumped up, simultaneously reaching for his clothes and offering Madeline a hand to hasten her out of bed.

  They dressed frantically, and Madeline ran a brush through her hair while Marc rearranged the bed, which was in shambles.

  Hearing John walk into the apartment right behind Patrick, Marc and Madeline looked at each other and began to laugh.

  “By the skin of our teeth,” Madeline said, smoothing Marc’s hair off his face.

  As if to support her statement, they heard Patrick call out, “Madeline? Marc?”

  “Coming.” Marc was already halfway to the door. He turned around to look at Madeline. “To be continued,” he said.

  “I’m counting on it.”

  Marc strode into the foyer. “What did you find?”

  “Nothing.” Patrick looked disgusted. “I drove all the way down East Eighty-Second, and John did the same on First Avenue. There wasn’t a suspicious car to be found.”