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“What’s her name?” When he didn’t immediately respond, I snapped my fingers in his face and repeated slowly, “Logan, what is her name?”
“Jennifer. Jennifer White.”
I tapped Jennifer lightly on the cheek. “Jennifer. Wake up. Time to wake up.”
The woman groaned, but didn’t open her eyes or move. I heard the dispatcher in the distance asking questions I couldn’t hear, so picked up the phone again. “Repeat, I didn’t catch that.”
The dispatcher asked, “Did they take drugs? If so, what kind? Any alcohol?”
I asked Logan, “Are you on any drugs?”
“That’s ridiculous. I don’t do drugs.”
“Drinking? Beer, wine, vodka?”
“Just water.”
He stared at Jennifer and frowned, confused. Then he looked at the laptop on the counter.
The dispatcher said, “The fire department and ambulance are at the location. Please let them inside.”
Outside, I heard the distinct whoosh of fire truck brakes.
“The door’s open,” I said.
Laptop, messenger bag. If they weren’t having an affair, what the heck were they doing?
Because I already had my cell phone in my hand, I used that instead of my Canon to take pictures of the counter and everything on it.
“What are you doing?” Logan asked.
“Evidence. You were poisoned.”
Evidence, I thought, to figure out what you’re up to.
“Poisoned?” Logan questioned.
I had some ideas, but none that fit perfectly. The gas had to act quickly, then disperse—or it was in the water, but what poison had no taste? Assholes roofied women with alcohol or soda to mask the taste of the drugs. My brother Nico, the forensic scientist, would probably know; I’d call him later. Forensics was far outside my wheelhouse.
I heard the clomp of soft-soled boots on the tile floor.
“Back here,” I called, “in the kitchen.”
Two paramedics came in with their gear. Jennifer finally began to stir, but didn’t open her eyes. Logan was fully alert; I avoided his suspicious gaze.
“What happened?” a paramedic asked, kneeling to check Jennifer’s vitals.
I gave the basics, leaving out that I had (technically) broken in. Before anyone could ask why I was there, I stepped into the backyard, hoping I could slip away before the police arrived. There would be a broader investigation, the gas company would be called, toxicology screens at the hospital, testing the water.
I had no reason to believe they’d been drugged on purpose, it could have been an accident, yet the whole situation felt like a setup. I glanced into the house, saw the paramedics were doing their job, and both Jennifer and Logan appeared to be okay. I turned away, stared at the pool, and thought about what might have happened.
Could Brittney Monroe have already known where her husband was meeting the woman? She would have access to the house, could have planted a poison or sabotaged the gas line and sent me here. Why? To save her husband?
My head hurt thinking about every wild theory, though I couldn’t stop working through the problem. Logan Monroe owned this house, but I’d been tracking him for ten days now and he hadn’t come here. The rentals were handled by a management company, but he’d have a key and would know when it was unoccupied, so he could easily use the place whenever it was free. Perfect love nest.
It didn’t feel like a love nest.
A flash above caught my attention—in the boulders, above the house. A reflection?
