Cold Ridge. Carla Neggers

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      Turner stepped out onto the stoop with her. “You’ve experienced a trauma. Finding Louis yesterday was a physical and mental shock, a blow on multiple levels to your well-being. Perhaps you’d like for me to arrange for you to talk to someone?”

      She shook her head politely. “There’s no need to go to any trouble. I can always ask my sister for a recommendation, if it comes to it.”

      “Give yourself some time. It’ll be hard for a while, but if after a few weeks you experience flashbacks, nightmares, sleeplessness, feelings of panic or emotional numbness—then don’t wait, okay? Go see someone.”

      “I will. Manny Carrera—I’m worried about him—”

      “That’s understandable,” Turner said mildly, then glanced back at Rancourt, who seemed paralyzed in the doorway. “I’ll walk with Carine a minute.”

      “Of course. I’ll see you back here later.” Rancourt rallied, taking a breath. “Carine? If there’s anything Jodie and I can do, please don’t hesitate to let us know. I mean that. I’m so very sorry it had to be you yesterday.”

      “Thanks,” she said. “I’m just sorry about Louis.”

      “The media—” Sterling paused and leaned forward to glance down the street, as if he expected someone to pop up out of nowhere. “I’d like you not to speak to any reporters. It’s quiet at the moment, but they’ll be back. Be polite, but be firm.”

      “Not a problem. The last thing I want to do is talk to a reporter.”

      He withdrew without further comment, the heavy door shutting with a loud thud behind him.

      Gary Turner walked down to the sidewalk without a word, and Carine followed him, her knees steadier, her stomach still rebelling. “I shouldn’t have come,” she blurted. “I have no business being here. There’s nothing for me to do, and you and the Rancourts must have your plates full.”

      “You thought it would help you to revisit the scene,” Turner said.

      “I suppose I did.” They crossed Commonwealth to the mall, where a half-dozen pigeons had gathered on dried, fallen leaves. There was no toddler today. Carine felt none of yesterday’s sense of peace with her life in Boston. “I’m not sure I really know what I was thinking.”

      “You’re fighting for some sense of normalcy.” Turner spoke with assurance, as if he knew, then fastened his colorless eyes on her. “Did you drive?”

      “I took the T to Charles Street and walked.”

      “Walking’s good. Keep it up. And eat right. Don’t overdo anything. It’s good to try to follow your normal routines as much as possible, even if you’re not working.” He smiled at her, seeming to want to help her relax. “Fortunately, your work lends itself to an erratic schedule—you’re used to switching from one job to another. It’s not like you’ve been getting up every day for the seven-to-three shift at the factory and suddenly there’s no factory.”

      “That’s true. I appreciate the advice, but please don’t worry about me.”

      He paused, folding his hands behind his back as he walked smoothly, steadily. “But people do worry about you, Carine,” he said finally. “I expect they can’t help it, and you might benefit from their attention. Don’t try to control what other people are feeling. Right now, just focus on what you need. The rest of us will manage.”

      “Mr. Turner—”

      “Gary.” He laughed, shaking his head. “You call Sterling Rancourt by his first name, but me—”

      She tried to return his laugh. “I think it’s because you carry a gun.”

      “Ah. Well, for you, Carine, I’d take it off, if it would make you feel more at ease.”

      “That’s not necessary.” She picked up her pace, feeling a fresh surge of awkwardness. She never knew what to say to him. She changed the subject. “I’ve known Manny Carrera for a long time. Do the police suspect him of being involved in Louis’s death? Because it’s not possible—”

      “The police don’t tell me what they think. One step at a time, Carine. Keep your focus on the here and now. Don’t think back, don’t think ahead. It’s the best advice I can give you. Mr. Carrera is perfectly capable of taking care of himself.” Turner stood back a moment, then frowned at her in a way she found faintly patronizing. “You aren’t thinking of playing amateur detective, are you?”

      “No! It’s just that Manny’s a friend. Do you know where he’s staying?”

      “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” There was no hint of condemnation in Turner’s tone. “Take yourself out to lunch, Carine. Treat yourself to dessert. Browse the galleries on Newbury Street. Do you have a friend who can join you?”

      “Most of my friends are working, but—”

      “Your sister?”

      “She’s in Washington. She’d come if I called her.”

      He looked at her. “But you won’t. You’re a strong woman, Carine. Stronger, I think, than people often realize at first.”

      Hey, Ms. Photographer.

      Poor Louis. Dead. She still could see the blood on his fingers.

      Louis Sanborn was not a nice man.

      Manny, clear-eyed and uncompromising. What did he know about Louis?

      Carine swallowed hard, pushing back the memories of yesterday. Turner was right—she needed to stay focused on the present. “To be honest, I don’t worry about whether or not people think I’m strong. Louis stopped me on my way back from lunch and asked if I wanted a ride. If—”

      “Don’t. No ifs. They’ll drive you crazy.” Turner squeezed her upper arm. “Take it easy on yourself, okay? Go take some pretty pictures. You didn’t do anything wrong yesterday. Remember that.”

      She blinked back sudden tears, feeling light-headed, her stomach not so much nauseated as hurting. “Thanks.” Her voice faltered, and she cleared her throat, annoyed with herself. “I just need some time, I guess.”

      “Newbury Street. Art galleries.” He started across Commonwealth, pausing halfway into the lane of oncoming traffic and shaking his head at her. “You might want to hold off on the dessert. You’re looking a little green.”

      She managed a smile. “It wouldn’t be a good idea to get sick on Newbury Street, would it?”

      He chuckled. “You’d be banned for life.”

      

      Sterling Rancourt stared into the library, its wood floor still marred by crime-scene chalk and dried blood. The police forensics team had done its work, and a cleaning crew that specialized in ridding all trace of this sort of mess was due in that afternoon. Gary Turner had arranged for it. He’d been incredibly helpful—steady, СКАЧАТЬ