Almost Dead (Lizzy Gardner #5)(9)

The kid had a point, which was annoying as hell.

“Why don’t you just think about it? I’ll give you a key, and that way you’ll have a place to stay if you need it.” Kitally handed Lizzy a mug of coffee. “Hayley is in the office if you want to say hi. It’s down the main hall. Last room on the left.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that.” Lizzy found herself in a sewing room before she finally found the main hallway. Like every room in the place, the office was spacious. Hayley sat at a large mahogany desk in the center of the room. She was buried in papers, but she looked up and said, “Morning.”

Lizzy grunted. “What are you working on?”

“Just trying to catch up on all the paperwork. We’ve got a half-dozen workers’ comp claims that need serious attention. If you’re feeling up to it later, we also need to meet with a very persistent woman named Pam Middleton. She sounded panicky on the phone and said it was an emergency.”

Lizzy eased herself into a cushioned chair, propped her feet on the matching ottoman, and sipped her coffee. Was it possible for hair to hurt? Her hair hurt. “OK. So what does this Pam . . . whoever need?”

“She wants us to find the baby she gave up twenty-five years ago.”

“Do we know why?”

“She said it was a matter of life and death. And she wants you to be there.”

Lizzy sighed. “What time is it?”

“Ten fifteen.”

“How about noon today?”

“Sounds good,” Hayley said with a nod. “Did Kitally invite you to stay here at the house with us?”

“She did, but I’m not so sure it’s a good idea.”

“I disagree. You’ve been through some incredibly f*cked-up shit. All you have to do is look in the mirror to see that much. You shouldn’t be alone right now. Go ahead and drink yourself into oblivion, but do it here where we can watch out for you.”

Lizzy looked around. “It’s not a bad setup. I’ll give you that.”

“No rent, and breakfast is included. You can’t beat it.”

Lizzy took another swig of coffee. “I’ll think about it.”





CHAPTER 7

Jenny Pickett returned home from work, parked in the garage, and walked through the laundry room to her study. As a senior research chemist, she did consulting work for various health-care, pharmaceutical, and food manufacturers, helping both small and large companies with product development and testing. Depending on which company she was working for, five days a week, usually from eight to four, she could almost always be found in a lab, wearing goggles and a lab coat over her work clothes, which consisted of a skirt or slacks with matching jacket, unless the company had a low-key dress code. In that case, she might replace the jacket with a sweater.

She made her way down the hallway, straightening picture frames on the wall as she went. She liked order, structure, and symmetry. After setting the mail in a neat pile on the desk in front of her computer, she went to her bedroom and hung her purse on the wall hook. Robotically, she removed, examined, and then finally hung up her dark-blue jacket.

After that, she headed for the kitchen, where she washed her hands twice, making sure to get the areas between every finger before using a clean towel to thoroughly dry her hands. The last thing she did was pour herself a glass of cold water from the filtered pitcher in the refrigerator. As she held the glass to her lips, she spotted the knife block. Her right hand trembled slightly.

Back in her study, she sat at her desk. Usually the first thing she did each day was look through the mail, sorting bills from junk, but not today.

Ever since she’d killed Brandon, she’d been unable to concentrate. Her moment of empowerment had been short-lived.

She reached inside her purse, unzipped the side pouch, and pulled out a small plastic container. Inside was one capsule, the size of a pea, filled with concentrated potassium cyanide. The pill was not to be swallowed whole. She would need to crush it between her molars.

She wouldn’t suffer. There would be minimal pain, if any.

Coward. You shouldn’t be the one to die for what happened to Brandon.

Her eyes watered. Her entire life had been filled with so much anguish and torment. But after all this time, she’d killed a man. Why now?

Long overdue.

She shook her head.

It’s time to make a list, Jenny.

She stared at the pill within the container. The fast-acting poison would cause brain death within minutes. Her heart would stop soon after.

Put that away and make the list. Trust me. You’ll feel better if you just make the f*cking list!

OK! OK! She’d make the damn list. She put the pill to the side and set about finding a notebook and pen. She stared at the blank paper for a few minutes before finally reaching over and grabbing the article she’d been saving. She examined the picture of Terri Kramer, her supposed friend—the woman who had stolen her antiaging formula and made headline news.

On the first line of the notebook, she wrote Brandon Louis and then drew a line through his name. Next, she wrote Terri Kramer. Beneath Terri’s name, she wrote Stephen White.

The names came easily after that, one after another. With each came memories: insults, snickering, nasty words whispered in her ear. Every push and every shove came flooding back to her in vivid detail.