Same Place, Same Time. C.J. Carmichael

think someone may have broken into my suite, Joe. I just heard some strange noises in the file room, and Brenda went home hours ago.”

      “Don’t worry, Ms. Emerson. I’ll be right up to check it out. We had a squirrel in the offices above you last week. Could be the same rascal.”

      “I’m not sure, Joe. It sounded like footsteps to me.”

      “I’ll be right there. Are you in your office?”

      “Yes. And the door’s locked.” Trista set down the receiver, and waited. A few minutes later, the sound of voices in the hall made her adrenaline surge. Joe worked alone downstairs. Who could he be talking to?

      Unless it wasn’t Joe coming at all, but somebody else. The same somebody she’d heard earlier in the file room? She looked around her office for something, anything, that might serve as a weapon. A pair of scissors lay conveniently on the corner of her desk. She grabbed them, then hid behind a bookshelf on the wall next to the door.

      Trista grasped the scissors handle so that the metal dug into her skin. The voices drew nearer. She could tell that both were men. The one who was doing the most talking could have been Joe, but the other voice was deeper, and something about the cadence of the speech made her stomach clench into a hard knot. He spoke only a few words—she couldn’t make out—then the first man spoke again, and now they were close enough that she knew for sure it was Joe.

      With a relieved sigh, she let the scissors drop from her hand. Crossing the carpeted floor, she opened the door.

      “Joe! Thank goodness, it’s you. My imagination must be working overtime. I thought…” The words froze on her tongue when her gaze fell on Joe’s companion.

      The man’s eyes were the exact shade of dark blue-gray as the storm clouds that built over Lake Ontario during the hot, humid summers. And they were fixed on her with a ruthlessness that made her feel like an insect about to be squashed.

      Trista wanted to turn and run, but there was nowhere to go, and Joe would surely think she was crazy.

      “Here you are, Ms. Emerson.” Joe sounded cheerful. “Detective Forester walked in the front door just after I got your call, so he decided to come with me to check out those noises.”

      “How convenient.” She was amazed at how cool her voice sounded.

      “Pretty good timing all right. And they say you can never find a cop when you need one!” Joe chuckled, not noticing that the other two people in the room were definitely not amused.

      Although she’d been looking at Joe as they spoke, Trista felt her gaze being pulled back to the detective. Neither of them had acknowledged that they knew one another, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off her for a second. He was still watching her, his expression grim and unyielding.

      “Let’s check out that file room,” he said.

      The deep rasp of his voice shocked her. Only vaguely did it resemble the voice she remembered, in the way a young red wine compares to a rich port. Both from grapes, yet… “It’s out this way,” she said, striving for the same cool tone she’d used earlier. She walked around Joe and led them past reception.

      Trista paused in front of the door to the file room. “This door is ajar. Just before I called you, Joe, it was closed.”

      “Are you sure?” Joe asked.

      Was she? She thought so, but now she wondered if she’d merely assumed it was closed. Frowning, she led the way inside.

      Initially, all appeared as normal. The photocopier stood against the far wall. To its right were the file cabinets, the table with the coffee machine on it and a row of ceramic mugs. Then she noticed that one of the file drawers was partially open. That wasn’t like Brenda.

      “Looks okay,” Joe said cheerfully, walking into the room and examining the ventilation screens carefully. “I can’t see any signs of squirrels, though.”

      “I’m sorry, Joe. I really thought I heard something.”

      “No problem. Best to be safe about these things. Well, I’d better get back to my post. Coming, Detective?”

      “I was actually hoping to have a moment with, um, Ms. Emerson.”

      Trista’s heart sank. She should have known she wouldn’t get rid of him that easily.

      “Okay, then.” The sound of Joe’s whistling traveled down the hall, fading out once he’d closed the main door behind him.

      Trista stared at a picture on the wall, knowing full well that those stormy eyes were on her again, seeing far more than she wanted him to see. She’d thought of Morgan often over the years—more often than she wished—and always with the hope that he’d put the past behind him and gone on to live the full and happy life that he deserved.

      With the lines of anger and bitterness that outlined his mouth and creased his forehead, however, she could see that her wishes had been in vain. And now she couldn’t find the strength to face the bleakness that she saw staring out of his eyes. What had brought him here, tonight of all nights? What could he possibly have to talk to her about?

      “There was something about this room that bothered you when you first walked in, wasn’t there?” His voice, although quiet, reverberated through the space like ice cracking on a frozen pond.

      Trista frowned. She wasn’t surprised that he’d noticed. He’d always had a sixth sense about things like that. “Yes. It was that drawer.” She pointed at the open cabinet. “My secretary, Brenda, locks those every night. I’ve never seen her forget.”

      He walked across the room and stopped where she had pointed. “This one?”

      She nodded, then watched as he flipped through the files. It was a relief to have his attention elsewhere. Now she could examine him more closely. His hair was still dark, no signs of gray. And he still wore it so short you couldn’t tell it was naturally curly. He’d kept in shape, his body had the sinewy leanness that comes from a life of physical activity. As he bent over the drawer, the black leather of his jacket stretched tautly across his shoulders.

      “Are these your notes on client sessions?” he asked.

      “Yes, they are.”

      He looked at the label on the outside of the drawer. “I suppose this is where your file on the Walkers would be kept?”

      “Yes.” Trista caught her breath. “How did you know the Walkers—”

      “The file’s missing.”

      “I know the file’s missing. But you haven’t answered my question. How did you know the Walkers are my clients?”

      “What do you mean, you know the file’s missing?”

      They were speaking at cross-purposes, and Trista had to summon her patience to keep calm. “I’ll answer your question, Morgan, once you answer mine.” She bit her lip. It was the first time she’d said his name, and it was clear that he’d noticed.

      He stood tall and stared. They were several feet apart but she could read the condemnation in his eyes, and she had to look away. Several seconds passed before he spoke again.

      “I don’t want to shock you, but Jerry Walker is dead.”

      “Dead?” She felt behind her for the solid support of the wall.

      “Yes. He was murdered. In a motel room. Probably sometime yesterday afternoon.”

      Morgan seemed to get satisfaction from each one of the facts he hurled at her. Trista clutched at the door handle, trying to hide her sudden dizziness. Jerry Walker dead? Murdered? “Are you sure?”

      “Let me see. Bullet hole in chest. No pulse, no breathing, eyes staring forward, never blinking. Yeah, I think I can say that I’m sure.”

      Trista caught her breath at the beginning of a sob, knowing he’d meant to