Dangerous Conditions. Jenna Kernan

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       Chapter Four

      Paige hurried up Main Street with her head down against the wind and her shoulders bent by the weight of her troubles. Someone stepped directly into her path, bringing her up short. She startled, glancing up. Instinctively, her hand went to her shoulder bag and the printed copy of the file she had found on Dr. Sullivan’s computer.

      Logan stood before her.

      For just a moment he looked as he always had, back when her family had been in trouble and he’d done the wrong thing for the right reason. One look into Logan’s sympathetic eyes and she fell to pieces.

      The years of his absence disappeared. Pain and fear lowered her resistance and she stepped into his arms, sobbing. He was just the right height to cradle her against his chest and rest his chin on the top of her head. His familiar scent comforted her as tears rolled down her cheeks like raindrops down a windowpane.

      “Why are you crying?” he said. “Is it Dr. Sullivan?”

      She couldn’t have answered if she had wanted to. And she couldn’t tell him what had happened. But she wasn’t sure who to tell about the text message or what she had found afterward. She wasn’t even sure what the document meant, just that it highlighted an inconsistency. Inconsistencies were the enemies of quality assurance.

      Dr. Sullivan had found something. She suspected he reported his concerns to the head of security or to his supervisor, Sinclair Park, or even the CFO, Veronica Vitale, and then he had died.

      A correlational relationship. Not necessarily causal. But she could not eliminate, out of hand, the possibility of causality.

      “Is this about Dr. Sullivan?” Logan asked again.

      Paige nodded, snuggling closer to the canvas jacket supplied to Logan by the village.

      Logan cradled her against him. “I’m sorry about Dr. Sullivan, Paige.”

      Nodding, she managed to rein in the sobs. Logan helped coach Ed’s son on basketball. He’d lost a friend, as well. Her coworker’s death would leave such a hole in the community. And his kids…his wife…

      Her ragged breath and a hum in the back of her throat was all the sound emerging from her.

      “He was a good man,” said Logan.

      “He was.”

      “They had the state police up there. County sheriff, too.”

      Since they were a village of only a little over four hundred residents, they could not afford a police force. But after Logan had come home, his brother, then newly appointed to the village council, raised concerns that traffic had increased with the arrival of the pharmaceutical company two years before, the company that Connor himself had helped advocate for. Rathburn-Bramley expected the village to manage the increased traffic flow and issues arising from the daily commute of the workforce of two hundred employees, nearly all of which lived outside their community. The taxes they paid more than covered the cost of the salary of the new village constable, the hiring of whom had caused debate in the village, narrowly winning out over the placement of a traffic light on Main. Rathburn-Bramley also covered the cost of a new hook-and-ladder fire truck, EMS vehicle and emergency equipment for the volunteer fire department, continuing to make yearly donations. The company seemed interested in a good public image, and they were willing to pay for it.

      Now the village had both a well-equipped volunteer fire department and a constable, who was fully trained according to New York State law. Finding a doctor to pass Logan on the medical exam had been a challenge, but Connor had managed that, too. His brother had wisely ridden the wave of pride generated by Logan’s heroism. As a Silver Star recipient, Lance Corporal Logan Lynch made his hometown proud. Because of his accident, no one expected him to do much but direct traffic every afternoon and march in the village parades.

      “They’ll find who did this,” said Logan.

      “I doubt it,” she whispered.

      “What?”

      “Nothing.”

      He drew back and dropped a kiss on her forehead, then drew back again, his face registering worry. Perhaps he thought he had overstepped.

      “I’m sorry,” he said.

      “Don’t be.” She’d enjoyed his tender touch, a reminder of his protective СКАЧАТЬ