What Lies Behind. J.T. Ellison

It was just the one time. I fell asleep, waiting for you to get back to me. What in the world happened last night?”

      “Stabbing. Probably domestic. One dead, one gravely injured. Couple of students found them. I’m waiting for a briefing on it in ten minutes. Want to meet me after for breakfast?”

      “Yeah, I can do that. I don’t have classes today.” But he’d know that. Fletcher always seemed to have radar for her schedule. “Besides, I’m banging my head against the wall on a case. I could use the fresh air, maybe a fresh perspective.”

      “Meet me at Le Pain, then, in thirty minutes.”

      * * *

      The short walk to Le Pain Quotidien was refreshing, just as she’d hoped. She was glad Fletcher had invited her to join him—with all the new work she was doing, the craziness of the past few months, she hadn’t made many friends in D.C. yet. It was nice to get asked out on a breakfast date.

      She got a table by the windows, and true to his word, twenty minutes later, Fletcher walked through the doors. Dressed in his usual gray suit and white shirt, unshaven and dark hair mussed, he looked more like he’d rolled out of bed instead of walking out of his office. He was frowning, scanning the restaurant in true cop form, before he joined her. She’d given him the chair that faced the door.

      He gave her a quick hug and sat down, signaling to the waiter for a cup of coffee.

      “To what do I owe the honor of your presence this morning?” she asked.

      “I have a meeting down the street at ten. I’m telling you, being the LT isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I spend more time in meetings than at crime scenes. It’s becoming oppressive.”

      “I know exactly what you mean. I’m amazed anything gets done in the world, considering how many meetings we have. I had a faculty meeting last week that’s sole purpose was to schedule another faculty meeting.”

      The waiter came, and they ordered—croissants for her, a ham and Gruyère tartine for him—and when he moved away, Fletcher leaned forward and spoke quietly. “You wanna go to a crime scene with me?”

      Sam had just picked up her coffee cup. It stopped midair. She clapped her right hand to her heart. “Oh, Fletcher. You say the sweetest things.”

      “Stow it, Owens. Is that a yes?”

      “Of course it is. Right now?”

      “We’ll eat first. Then we’ll go. Unless you’ve gotten squeamish in your old age and can’t handle a nasty scene on a full stomach.”

      She rolled her eyes. “I can handle anything.”

      “Good.”

      “Out of curiosity, what is it exactly you’d like me to see?”

      “All sorts of things. Tell me, have you ever heard of a kid at Georgetown Med named Thomas Cattafi?”

      “Is that who was attacked? No, I haven’t heard the name. He’s not in any of my classes.”

      “He’s a fourth year.”

      “That explains it.”

      “It’s his apartment where the attack took place. It’s probably in my head, but something about it all doesn’t feel right. I spoke at length to his ex-girlfriend in the wee hours of the morning, and again just a bit ago. She and her BFF got hammered and dropped by for a booty call—she still had a key. Walked in, saw blood everywhere, called 9-1-1. BFF confirms every inch of the story.”

      “You think she did it, and the BFF is lying to cover for her?”

      “I rousted the bartender at Mr. Smith’s. He corroborates their story. He’d been serving them since seven or so. The two were cut off around midnight, sent drunk as skunks out into the dark. They’re lucky they didn’t get hurt. No, I think she’s telling the truth. Though she was a pain in my ass last night.” He mimicked the girl’s high-pitched voice, and stamped his foot under the table. “‘Don’t you know who I am?’”

      “Who was she?”

      “Ah, hell, her dad’s some big-shot here in town. Works for the attorney general. He was mighty pissed when he heard his precious underage princess was not only caught drunk at her ex’s house but had just been let out of cuffs after mouthing off to me. Can you still ground a kid when they’re nineteen?”

      Sam laughed a bit. “Yeah, if they rely on your money to live.” She could just imagine it. Then, seeing Fletcher was still distracted, she asked, “So what’s not right about it? The crime scene, I mean, not the overindulged debutantes.”

      He fiddled with his coffee cup. “Weren’t you an overindulged debutante?”

      “And now you know why I recognized her for what she was.”

      They laughed, then he grew serious. “You ever get that sixth sense that what you’re seeing isn’t the real story?”

      “Sure. All the time. It’s part of what I do—did—trying to see past the obvious to find out the truth.”

      “So the ex—her name’s Emma, by the way—said Tommy was having some trouble at school. I asked her, was he overloaded, too much work, that kind of stuff? And she says no, it was something else. Something serious. He wouldn’t talk about it, broke up with her, pushed her out of his life.”

      “Sounds like a typical fourth year to me. Too much work, not enough time for actual living.”

      He shook his head briefly. “You’re probably right. But then he and his new lover end up with knife wounds. She’s dead, he still might die. There’s a case to be made for murder-suicide, but...it doesn’t feel as random as it might otherwise, I guess. Tell me, what do you know about curing cancer?”

Chapter 6

      McLean, Virginia

      ROBIN WAS STILL. She hadn’t moved since the wee hours, since the phone call and coffee and news and seething spiral of black oppressive knowledge had shut her down.

      Riley sat next to her, not touching, whistling something under his breath. Rachmaninoff, she thought, or wait, no, it was one of the songs from the movie soundtrack of Braveheart.

      Maybe she’d been asleep, drifted off, maybe she’d been sunk into meditation. She realized she was hearing him, the soft sibilance of his lips, so close, but never farther away, and shook herself slightly. The sun had come up. The sky to her west was hazy, the color of weak tea. The rustlings of the night creatures was long past. It would rain today.

      Real. It was real. Amanda was dead.

      A searing pain filled her chest. Red, she was red, everywhere. It rushed over her body, biting, stinging. She reached out to touch it, surprised when her finger touched skin, and the red absorbed into her, disappeared.

       Not now, Robbie. You can’t go down that hole again.

      Riley had told her everything when he arrived, about the boy who’d killed her sister, that she’d been taken to the D.C. morgue, that there would be an autopsy. That the boy who killed her had tried to kill himself, too, but was still alive.

      Her legs were asleep. She’d stacked them beneath her before she’d gone into her empty place, the place she went to cope with anything overwhelming or hurtful, or when the synesthesia got to be too much. The empty place had gotten her through Afghani jails and snakebites and gunshots and torture. Had gotten her through her father’s death. It was a wellspring of nothingness, a virtual blank spot in her psyche filled with nothing but soft, calming white noise. She entered it when the pain was too great, and emerged when her subconscious recognized she could deal with things again.

      It was a valuable tool. One she hadn’t thought she’d need ever again.

      Swallowing,