Same Place, Same Time. C.J. Carmichael

in an attempt to make peace with her past. He was angry and bitter, and worst of all, she couldn’t blame him, nor could she criticize him for not having moved on with his life. How could he, when she hadn’t either? Weak and foolish she might be, but she wasn’t about to add hypocritical to the list.

      How had he survived these past few years? Same as her, she suspected—by throwing himself into his work. At least now he would have Jerry Walker’s case to keep him busy. He wouldn’t be in her position, sitting in an empty room with nothing but her own thoughts to drive her crazy. His job demanded action. Gathering evidence, interviewing suspects—he wouldn’t have time to sit and stew.

      Trista separated her hands and tapped her long nails against the wooden surface of the desk. She still found it difficult to believe that Jerry had been murdered, although the basic facts had been confirmed in the morning paper.

      But why? And who could have done it? His wife, Nan? It seemed impossible for such a quiet, self-effacing woman. Did her mild exterior conceal the rage it would take to commit murder? Certainly there were negative feelings, repressed hostility. But murder?

      Once Nan was ruled out, though, who did that leave? The woman Jerry had been having an affair with? But why would she kill him? Because he wouldn’t leave his wife, perhaps? For some reason, that scenario didn’t sit right with Trista either. Who was this woman he had been seeing? Were there any clues in her session notes?

      Trista was relieved when a knock interrupted her fruitless speculations.

      “Yes?”

      The door opened and a large woman with jet-black hair and piercing dark eyes strode into Trista’s office.

      “Sylvia,” Trista said, surprised. Sylvia and her husband, Daniel Hawthorne, were former clients. They’d come to her after Sylvia had found out her husband was having an affair, and stayed in therapy for about two months. Trista had been sorry to see them quit the sessions. It was obvious there were still issues that needed to be resolved.

      “Sorry to barge in.” Sylvia spoke in her customary booming voice and didn’t sound sorry at all. “That secretary of yours wasn’t at her desk.”

      “Brenda’s on her lunch break.” Trista invited Sylvia to sit down. “Can I get you a coffee?”

      “I’m fine,” Sylvia said as she lowered herself into one of the wingback chairs.

      Inwardly Trista scrambled for the particulars of the Hawthornes’ situation, wishing Sylvia had given her notice so she could have reviewed her files. She remembered that Daniel had been a sweet, intelligent man. In their conversations, he’d often been dominated by his overpowering wife.

      “He’s at it again,” Sylvia said in quiet fury. “I asked him to take me out to lunch today—Wednesday is when he used to meet his girlfriend, remember?—and at the last minute, he canceled.”

      Trista assumed she was talking about her husband. “Did he say why?”

      Sylvia flounced her hair with one hand. “He said they were having a faculty meeting. So, of course, I phoned the university after he left to check—”

      Trista made mental note of that of course. Did Sylvia routinely check up on everything Daniel said?

      “—and they said there was no meeting and that Daniel had even canceled his afternoon class!”

      Trista remembered that Sylvia had a strong jealous streak, predating Daniel’s affair. Whether those feelings were justified in this case, Trista had no idea. “Before you jump to any conclusions, I think you should talk to Daniel. Perhaps the meeting was rescheduled. Perhaps he wasn’t feeling well. There could be many reasons why he had to cancel his class.”

      Sylvia shook her head. “No. If he wasn’t well, he’d have come home or at least phoned me.”

      “You won’t know for sure until you talk to him.”

      “But I don’t even know where he is! How can I talk to him?”

      “I guess you’ll have to wait until he gets home.”

      “But that could be hours!”

      “I’m sorry. Sometimes we have no choice but to wait. Once you’ve had a chance to discuss this with your husband, I’d be happy to talk to both of you, or you alone, if you’d prefer. Just phone Brenda and make an appointment.”

      They sat quietly for several moments before Sylvia finally gave a reluctant nod of agreement. Despite the woman’s abrasive nature, Trista felt sorry for her. Waiting was never easy, especially for a woman of Sylvia’s impatient nature. As Trista ushered the distraught woman out of her office, she saw that Brenda was back from lunch.

      “Could we talk a minute, Brenda?”

      “Sure.” Brenda waited until Sylvia had walked out the main doors before standing and smoothing the skirt of her navy suit. She was about the same age as Trista, 32, but appeared older, probably because of the premature gray streaks in her hair, and a naturally sallow complexion. Trista had often thought that some hair color and a little makeup would make a world of difference, but those sorts of personal indulgences simply were not Brenda’s style.

      Closing the door behind them, Trista got right down to business. “I meant to tell you this earlier, Brenda. I think someone broke into our office last night.”

      “What?” Brenda looked disbelieving. “How did they get in?”

      “With a key, apparently. The spare in your desk is missing. Wait—” She held out a hand to stop Brenda as she went to check. “I want you to be aware that a detective may be calling with some questions.” She looked out the window before continuing, “His name is Morgan Forester. I think he’ll probably want to know the last time you saw the key, and whether you remember anyone suspicious hanging around your desk, that sort of thing.”

      “The key was there Monday morning, when I needed money to buy cream,” Brenda said slowly. “What was stolen?”

      “Nothing that we know of, but maybe you could check the files to make sure. I’m going to call security and have the locks on our door changed.”

      Brenda went to leave, then paused at the door. “Work must be slow if they’re sending detectives to investigate office break-ins these days.”

      The remark caught Trista off guard. Brenda didn’t offer her own opinions very often. Obviously she was expecting more of an explanation. When Trista didn’t say anything, Brenda continued, “Does Detective Forester think our break-in had something to do with Jerry Walker’s murder?”

      Trista sighed. Jerry’s murder was something else she should have discussed with Brenda, and she felt like a coward for having avoided it. “I suppose you read about it in the papers?”

      Brenda nodded.

      “I’m sorry. I should have told you before my ten o’clock appointment.”

      “Is there a connection between the break-in and the murder?”

      That was the question, wasn’t it? Trista thought about the Walker file and Morgan’s expectations that she review it. The prospect both exhausted and frightened her. It was a big mistake for her and Morgan to spend time together. If only this could be one of those rare cases, the kind that got solved quickly and simply.

      Brenda was still waiting, her expression cool but expectant. Trista raised her hands helplessly. “I don’t know. It’s possible, I guess. But I sure hope not.”

      MORGAN WAS LATE for his appointment with Trista. As he rushed off the elevator and through the main door, he was disappointed to see the receptionist’s chair empty, her desk cleared of the day’s work. He’d asked Brenda a few questions over the phone about an hour ago, and had hoped to catch her before his meeting with Trista.

      Behind the reception area, Trista’s office door stood slightly ajar. Morgan walked up to the threshold, somehow reluctant to announce