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“Jack,” I cut in nervously, “what are you doing?”
“Ian Wharfman died from cardiac arrest,” he goes on, ignoring my protests. “So yeah—nobody here is a murderer.”
There go his hands again, back in his pockets. But this time I don’t even look at his thumbs because I’m too busy gasping for air as the shock of what he just said ricochets through me. My legs are weak and shaky from relief, but before I can collapse completely Jack is there, supporting me.
I lean into him, my face resting on his chest as some combination of laughter and tears pours out of me. I know I’m making a scene, but I don’t care.
I am not a murderer! The whole world is suddenly a brighter, better place. Although—
“Are you sure?” I tilt my head up to his, needing to hear it again. I mean, I saw the life leave Ian’s body—after I stabbed him.
“Coroner’s report confirmed it,” Anderson says from behind me. He goes on to explain how my knitting needle didn’t hit a coronary artery and how the information I’d given him just now about Minoxidil explains what led to his cardiac episode. My body is shaking from the relief coursing through me. A memory surfaces—the dull, blank look in Ian’s eyes right before I stabbed him. How his body had sort of jerked, then collapsed onto me. At the time I thought he’d collapsed from my knitting needle attack, but now–
Cardiac arrest. It makes sense.
I’m innocent.
Well, I still stabbed a man, but he was already dead, so way less of a big deal.
Jack’s arms give me a little squeeze and a new, unwelcome thought creeps its way into my mind. What does my innocence mean for me and Jack? What do I want it to mean for us?
What does he want it to mean for us?
“Of course we still have Cleo’s murder to solve,” Anderson points out. “But thankfully Jack isn’t under suspicion for that one.”
Right. Another element of the Jack conundrum. His friends seem to be operating under the assumption that he’s the one that stabbed Ian, and for some reason he’s going along with it. The only reason I can think of for this that makes even an iota of sense would be that he’s not sure this fully clears me of charges so he’s still trying to protect me. And if that’s the case, do we still need to stay married?
Because I don’t hate that idea…would maybe even prefer that we do.
And nobody is more surprised by that than me.
“Right,” Jack’s voice is all business now. “And I’m guessing that it has something to do with whatever drug scandal is going on at the company.”
Drug scandal. Forgot about that. Yikes. Another potential blemish on my criminal record. Thankfully I know I’m innocent of these charges.
“None of it makes sense,” Montgomery muses. “Why would someone risk going to jail to peddle such an innocuous drug? Even if Wharfman was too vain to go to a doctor to get a prescription, surely he wouldn’t have been willing to pay someone the amount of money that would make taking such a risk worthwhile just to protect that vanity. Especially since that person would then know he was using the drug anyway—and maintaining his privacy would have been the whole point of avoiding getting it from a doctor.”
“Unless he just took the samples himself,” Jack says. “It’s the most likely scenario. Why pay someone to give you something you can get yourself? Sure you risk them noticing the drugs are gone, but if he took from more than one rep’s supply and only took a little at a time it may go unnoticed.”
They all nod.
“But then who shot Cleo?” Stafford asks. “And why?”
All of us look over at Cleo’s body, now cordoned off by crime scene tape. The mood, already serious, takes an even more somber turn.
“I should mention,” Jack says carefully, “that although I didn’t see the shooter or get the license plate number, I did at least see the car as it drove off.” He meets my gaze. “It was a black SUV.”
Chapter 26
Jack
“SO ARE YOU going to tell me why you’re letting your friends think you’re the one that stabbed Ian?” Nora hisses at me when we’re all alone again; the others having gone to examine the body and talk with some of the people from the building about anything they might have seen.
Why? That’s a good question. One I’m not really interested in answering. The answer is too pathetic. Too selfish.
“Don’t you think we should be focusing on trying to figure out who killed Cleo?” I attempt to distract her.
“Don’t change the subject,” she cries, throwing up her hands. “One second I think I no longer have to worry about getting charged with murder but then the next I’m wondering if it’s not as simple as all that, if there’s still a possibility that I might be charged with Ian’s death. I mean, why else would you claim responsibility for stabbing him?” She breaks off at a hysterical whisper, and I have to force myself not to wrap her up in a hug. She’s got this all wrong.
