Page 82 of The Wedding Party

I fold my arms in front of me and say what I’ve said at least three times to her and others. “I’ll never be okay again.”

“We’ll go,” my mother says. “We love you, honey.”

The nurse backs away and allows my mother to hug me. I hug her back. I do love my mother. I actually kind of cling to her. “You’ll be okay,” she promises. “We’ll get through this.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I whisper, and when she pulls away, I see my father has already left the room.

My mother hesitates, but she backs away and exits the room.

Nurse Naomi kneels in front of me. “What can I do?”

“Turn back time,” I whisper. “Give me a chance to save him.”

“How about we help you remember who did this? Then you can at least feel a sense of justice.”

Justice.

It’s a word that settles with solidified comfort in my belly.

Chapter Seventy-Two

ANDI

Aiden stayed the night, but it’s not what anyone would think.

My odd sense of a romantic, sexy evening is one of the many reasons I’m not good at relationships. I mean, I guess we do sleep together. Sort of.

I wake on the floor of my living room with my MacBook beside me, groaning with a crick in my neck. Aiden is sleeping on the floor by the couch, half sitting, half lying. This after an all-nighter reviewing the photos taken at the searches, as well as reviewing data on Brody, Josh, Natalie, and of course, Carrie.

Aiden must sense my alertness, groaning and straightening, cursing with the crunch of his body. I’m already thinking about all the data we’ve observed in the past hours.

“I keep going back to the death of her brother, Eric,” I say, and thanks to Hazel, I have the police reports. “A few witnesses did say it looked as if she pushed him.”

“And others said they were roughhousing and it was clearly kids being kids.” He gets to his feet. “I’m going to make coffee.”

An hour later, I’ve been caffeinated, eaten an omelet compliments of Chef Aiden, and I’m already at Carrie’s treatment center with that key in hand. My father has one of his men carrying a copy of it, trying to find the locker it belongs to, but that’s a long shot. My gut says this is important. I need to know what this key opens.

With early-season snow flurries in the air, I eagerly seek shelter inside the lobby of the treatment facility, making my way to the front desk. I flash my badge. “Agent Castle,” I announce. “I need to speak to Carrie Reynolds.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Reynolds has started her treatment plan. She won’t be available to visitors for seven full days.”

“This is a law enforcement matter.”

“I understand, but I have notes here that you agreed to respect her program. You’ll need a court order to see her sooner than medically allowed.”

I’d argue, but she’s right. I also expected this, but I had to try. I turn away from the counter and dial Josh. He answers on the first ring. “Agent Castle,” he greets me.

“How did you know it was me?”

“I put your number in my phone. You’re now on caller ID.”

“Something you need to tell me?”

“I wish there was something I could tell you that I haven’t.”

“Maybe there is. Oliver hid a key under his desk drawer. It looks like some sort of lockbox or locker key. Any idea where that might be?”

“He banked at North Central. Other than that, I haven’t a clue. And I can’t imagine he’d keep anything anywhere but the bank.”