The Killing Game(3)

“My pants,” she whispered, trying to grab them with her right hand.

“You don’t need them where you’re going.”

“What?”

“Birds need to fly.”

And then he picked her up with furious strength and tossed her over the rail. She was so stunned she didn’t cry out until the water closed over her head. She gulped in a deluge, flailing, dragged down by the jeans tangled around her ankles, unable to kick with any strength. By the time she could make a sound, the ferry had churned away into the blackness, and the wind shrieked louder than her voice. She screamed and screamed, but she was no match for the gales that tore across the surface of the water.

The last sight she had on this earth were the ferry lights, growing smaller and smaller, finally winking out.

Then she sank beneath the cold, black water one final time.





Chapter One



Andi gazed down at the toes of her black flats, her most comfortable work shoes. The right heel was scuffed from long hours resting on the carpet of her Hyundai Tucson as she’d pressed down on the accelerator. She supposed she really ought to put some polish on it. It wasn’t going to get better by itself.

She sat in a chair with polished oak arms and a blue cushion, her vision focused on the commercial gray carpet that ran the length of the reception area. Minutes elapsed, their passing accompanied by a flat hum in her ears. She’d been in this same suspended state for over three months, ever since Greg’s death. Friends and family had consoled her over losing her husband, murmuring words of encouragement and hope, and she’d tried to acknowledge their kindness.

But what if you don’t feel anything? What if your husband’s infidelity creates a different truth? What if your grief is from the shock of change and not the actual loss of your spouse?

The only person she’d told her true feelings to was Dr. Knapp, her therapist, the woman to whom Greg had steered her when she’d been so depressed, and that was before his death.

But you loved Greg once, didn’t you?

She reopened her eyes. After four years of marriage, three failed IVF procedures, one ugly affair—his, not hers—where Greg’s lover had turned up pregnant—oh, yes, that had happened—her love for him was a whole lot harder to remember.

She looked around the waiting room. A twentysomething woman with dark hair and the drawn, faraway look of the utterly hopeless sat across the room. Andi wondered if some terrible fate had befallen her. She suspected she’d had that same look on her face when she’d learned the last IVF implantation hadn’t taken. And she may have looked that way when she’d learned Greg’s Lexus had veered off the road that encircled Schultz Lake and plunged into the water. One moment she was lost in her failure to start a family, the next she was a widow.

Greg’s two siblings, Carter and Emma, were grieving and sympathetic to Andi’s loss until they learned she’d inherited 66 percent of Wren Development, the family business started by Douglas Wren, Carter and Emma’s grandfather, whereas they’d only gotten 17.5 percent apiece. Andi had become the major stockholder upon Greg’s death. Now they couldn’t stand dealing with her, especially since she’d become part of the company. Couldn’t stand that she was “in the way.” Her business degree didn’t matter. They just wanted her gone.

The inner door opened and a nurse in blue scrubs said, “Mrs. Wren? Dr. Ferante will see you now.”

Slinging the strap of her purse over her shoulder, Andi followed after her through the door she held open. They walked down polished floors that squeaked beneath the crepe soles of the nurse’s shoes. She hadn’t wanted to make this appointment, but the gray fog that wouldn’t lift from around her wasn’t normal. And the weight on her chest was killing her. Her therapist had prescribed pills for her, but they hadn’t seemed to help and she’d stopped taking them.

But she’d been so tired that she’d made an appointment and had blood work done. This was her follow-up.

Dr. Ferante was a middle-aged Hispanic woman with short, curly black hair, white teeth, and a brisk, friendly manner. Andi sat down on the crinkly paper on the end of the examining table and waited for some answers.

Now, she studied the woman who’d been Greg’s doctor first, after the family’s longtime physician had retired. Greg hadn’t known what to think of his first woman physician, but Andi had sensed Dr. Ferante was a straight shooter.

“So, am I going to be okay?” Andi asked, smiling faintly, though it was an effort.

When Dr. Ferante didn’t immediately answer, Andi’s heart clutched a bit. Oh, God. She hadn’t believed she was really sick.

“You’re pregnant.”

Andi’s mouth dropped open. “What! No. I’m not.”

“I ran the test three times.”

“I can’t be. I can’t be.”

“I assure you, you are. You’re a little over three months, best guess.”

Andi stared at her. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

“I even checked to make sure your results weren’t mixed up with someone else’s,” Dr. Ferante went on,” though it would be highly unlikely. The lab’s extremely careful and has a wonderful reput—”

“I don’t believe you!”