Page 30 of The Wedding Party

“You never asked?”

“We barely saw her”—her tone lifts defensively—“and when we did, they were very good at talking about Oliver, not Carrie. And not from a lack of effort. Oliver always took over the conversation and changed the topic.”

“Why would he do that?” I ask.

“I have no idea,” she states. “That’s the point.”

“Did your parents expect him to marry for status?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Did your parents find his avoidance odd?”

“Absolutely, yes.”

“Did they, or you for that matter, have her investigated?”

“Of course not. We might be snobs, but we’re not heathens, Agent Castle.” Her mouth twists. “I’m not sure you can say the same of your family, now can you?”

This feels like her version of a bait and switch, but I have no interest in the switch. I’m not big on games. They require patience that I don’t possess. I blame my father, and his need for justice before the system has time to work, for that flaw in my character. Of course, he’d claim I blame him for everything. Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Whatever the case, Natalie baiting me reads like a desperate need to take attention off herself.

My question is why.

What is she afraid of?

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I don’t know what Natalie Phoenix expects from me at this point. I suspect anger or defensiveness. What she gets is a comparison to my father. “You’d like my father,” I declare. “You have a lot in common.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“He got fired for beating someone up,” I state. “I just watched you beat someone up.”

“She killed my brother.”

“The guy my father beat up raped a child. See the comparison? Justification equals, well, justification, right?” Her eyes brim with disapproval, but I continue to push. “Doesn’t it seem strange to you that a nurse, who is by definition a caregiver, would violently murder the man of her dreams?”

“There have been nurses who killed people. In fact, didn’t I read about a serial killer nurse? The Angel of Death, I think, they called her?”

She’s right, of course. Interesting topic for her to read about. “Him,” I amend on that particular case from the ’90s. “Orville Lynn Majors. He killed upwards of one hundred people. Are you telling me you suspect she was killing patients?”

“I have no idea,” she says, sounding exasperated, “but I think you should look into it. Carrie is clearly a killer. Who knows how many she might have hurt?”

Natalie’s wrong on at least one point. Nothing is clear to me at all right now. I’ve learned the hard way what looks obvious is often what someone wants me to see, not what I should see. I keep pressing forward. “What was Carrie’s personality like?” I ask.

“Quiet. Kind.”

“Kind?” I ask. “You just called her a killer and now you reference her as kind?”

“Too kind. Too quiet. I never trusted her. My brother is a wealthy man.”

“Yes. About that,” I say. “Who inherits on his death?”

She bristles, the tension locking up her shoulders again. “I have my own inheritance, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t need his. I assume she inherits Oliver’s.”

“Okay. But if she doesn’t, would it be you?”

“It would go back to my parents, and they’d decide.”