Same Place, Same Time. C.J. Carmichael

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СКАЧАТЬ “Tomorrow you should have your secretary check more thoroughly to make sure nothing’s missing. And have the locks changed.”

      She nodded. They rode the elevator together, and paused at the outside door.

      “See you tomorrow then,” she said, waiting for him to walk away from her.

      But he didn’t budge from her side. “I’d like to drive you home.”

      “Really, Morgan. This is getting to be a little much. You know how safe the Toronto subway system is.”

      Stubbornly he stood beside her. “I’d feel better if I saw you safely to your door.”

      What about her? She definitely wouldn’t feel better with him beside her. “Do you really think it’s necessary to be so cautious?”

      He turned to face her, his eyes bleak. “When you’re dealing with a murderer, it never hurts to be cautious.”

      “THIS IS IT.” Trista pointed out a low-rise brick apartment building with bay windows and small, square balconies with white wooden railings. Across the street, the newly budding trees that bordered the northern boundary of High Park stretched long, twisting branches into the blue-black sky. The park, which covered several hundred acres, represented sanctuary to Trista. The man sitting beside her represented quite the opposite.

      “I know,” Morgan said as they pulled into a rare parking spot in front of the building.

      The moment he stopped, Trista had her hand on the door handle. Quickly she turned to say goodbye, only to be faced with the back of his leather jacket as he stepped out of the car.

      He was at her door and helping her out of the passenger seat before she was able to say, “I’m fine, really. There’s no need to fuss.”

      His hand on her arm was familiar, and oddly enticing. Trista’s reaction frightened her and she pulled away, earning a look of pure scorn. He made no attempt to touch her again, however, as she led the way up the sidewalk and unlocked the security door to her building. When he held the door open for her, she once again prepared to say goodbye, only to find him following behind her.

      “Really, Morgan. I should be just fine from here.”

      The ground beneath them trembled as a train passed through the underground subway that ran along Bloor Street. In the pale light of the apartment lobby, Trista could see Morgan’s mouth form a determined line.

      “I’m not doing this for the fun of it. You obviously prefer to risk facing a murderer in your apartment than five more minutes of my company. Or perhaps it hadn’t occurred to you that if someone was desperate enough to search your office, they might also be desperate enough to search your home? That they might actually be in there right now?”

      Trista drew a quick breath. He was just trying to frighten her. Wasn’t he? Still, she didn’t protest as he followed her up the stairs to her apartment. Nor did she question that he knew exactly which door was hers. She handed over her key to his waiting hand and watched as he first listened at the door, then turned the key in the lock.

      “Wait here for a minute while I look things over.”

      It was as dramatic as the movies, but she complied, staying in the hallway while he conducted a search of her apartment. It was a full five minutes before he reappeared at the door.

      “It looks okay.”

      She could hear the relief in his voice. “Of course it’s okay,” she said matter-of-factly, trying to keep her own fear out of her voice. They traded positions. Now he stood in the hall, and she in the apartment, her hand on the door, eager to close it and to wipe the image of him from both her eyes and her mind.

      “I’ll come by your office tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Around four.”

      She nodded. “Fine.” She tried to close the door, but his hand forestalled her.

      “What about the file?” he asked, his eyes on the briefcase in her hand.

      She didn’t understand what he was getting at. “It’s in here,” she said, lifting her black leather bag.

      Impatience creased his forehead. “I realize that. But do you have a safe?”

      “No, I don’t. But I really don’t think—”

      “Then let me take it. I do. If someone broke into your office today to get their hands on the file, then it’s much too important to leave lying around.”

      Trista shook her head in a slow, exaggerated motion. “Definitely not.”

      He leaned against the wooden door frame. “Why? Don’t you trust me? Afraid I’ll read the file when you’re not looking?”

      “I just don’t think a safe is necessary.”

      “Since when did you become the expert on crime?”

      Okay, he had a point. Trista opened her briefcase and took out everything but the Walker file. Closing the metal clasp, she spun the combination wheel, knowing the small lock would hardly keep Morgan out if he decided he wanted in. But he wouldn’t do that. At least, the man she remembered wouldn’t. She was beginning to realize there was a big difference between the two. The knowledge that part of that was her fault flooded her with guilt.

      “Take it,” she said, suddenly not caring if he did decide to break in. What were professional ethics compared to what she owed this man?

      He eased the handle out of her hands, gently. “I won’t open it, Trista.” His voice was suddenly, heartbreakingly, soft. “You can trust me.”

      Reaching her other hand to an itch on her cheek, Trista felt the dampness of a tear. Ashamed, embarrassed of her own weakness, she closed the door between them without another word. After turning the dead bolt firmly into place, she leaned against the cold steel of the door and listened to the sound of his footsteps fading as he walked down the hall. She could feel her throat tighten and she swallowed hard, willing the tears to stop before they had a chance to get out of control.

      She needed something to calm her down. She went to the kitchen and picked up the kettle. Hand shaking, she tried to hold it steady under the stream of water from the faucet. Water sprayed over the stainless-steel sides, spotting the sink and surrounding counter area. The cold metal hissed when she placed it on the burner.

      Why did this have to happen? Why? Why? The quiet refrain pounded in her head as she waited for the water to boil. Why would someone murder Jerry Walker? Could it have been the woman he was having an affair with? Had Nan known he was having an affair? She must have suspected, yet neither one of them had mentioned anything in their sessions. Was it possible Morgan was right and there was a connection between the murder and what had happened in her office tonight? If so, what was it?

      Trista frowned, thinking of the professional dilemma she was facing. As the Walkers’ counselor, she was bound to keep her clients’ information confidential. If there truly was information in her files that could help bring Walker’s murderer to justice, however, morally she would feel bound to reveal it.

      Trista thought back over the past sessions she’d held with the Walkers. She couldn’t think of a single fact that might help Morgan in his investigation. Of СКАЧАТЬ