Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(78)

In her office, she plunked her purse down on the blotter and sank into her chair. Out of habit, and because she needed to do something, Louisa booted up her computer. The monitor was off angle. Bumped by the cleaners while dusting her desk? She adjusted the tilt. When the screen came to life, an annoying window announced her operating system had crashed.

Louisa reached for her phone, stopping with her hand halfway across the desk. She was going to call Zoe—her go-to computer geek when she didn’t want to wait for a visit from the museum computer tech—but Zoe was gone. Louisa pressed a fist to her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. It took several minutes to regain control. With no energy to deal with the computer, she simply turned it off. She’d put in a request to tech support later.

April came in, closing the door behind her. “Did you hear about Isa?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t believe it.” April dropped into the guest chair facing the desk. Her eyes were glazed, her usually chipper attitude deflated with shock. Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on the desk and tipped her forehead into her hands. “Riki, Zoe, Isa . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Louisa reached across the desk and grasped April’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

“I can’t believe Zoe is dead.” A small sob squeaked from April’s chest.

Louisa squeezed her fingers and released them. “They haven’t confirmed that.”

“But it was on the news that the investigators believe the body they found could be Zoe.”

“Believing isn’t the same as knowing.” Hope was crucial. Hope kept people going. When hope died, all that was left was despair. It was coming. Louisa could feel the truth shaking her control, the tiny quakes of sadness that would fracture her denial and leave her shattered.

April’s head bobbed in a tight-lipped nod. “But Isa was taken from the library, right?”

Louisa choked on the sudden grip of grief around her throat. Even April believed Zoe was dead. She was just humoring Louisa. But what if the police were wrong? What if Zoe was out there, hurt, waiting to be rescued? Tears pressured Louisa’s eyes. She blinked them back. “Yes. The police came to my apartment this morning to . . . tell me.”

“Those poor girls.” A tear slid down April’s cheek.

Watching her gutsy assistant cry broke Louisa wide open. Tears poured down her cheeks as sorrow rattled her bones. She felt a strong arm around her shoulders. Sobbing, April stroked the back of her head. “Let it out. You’ll feel better.”

No, she wouldn’t. She couldn’t deny the fact any longer. Zoe was dead. She’d been abducted, tortured, and murdered. How could accepting that make her feel better?

Louisa straightened, sniffing hard. April brushed a hair from her cheek, a motherly gesture that almost made Louisa break down again. She yanked a tissue free and wiped her eyes and nose. She took three long, slow breaths and gathered her control around her like a shield. “I’m sorry.”

“No reason to be.”

“I hate being weak,” Louisa admitted, realizing too late that the admittance was in itself weakness.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” April blew her nose. “I know you’re tough. You’ve been through some rough patches, but nothing like this. You’re not a robot. Our friend was horribly murdered. Anyone who doesn’t react to that is lacking a heart. You’re not weak; you’re human.”

Louisa looked up. She wasn’t the tough one in the room. April took that credit. Living with sorrow was much harder than holding on to denial.

April pressed her fingers under her eyes. Anger glittered. “It has to be someone with the museum or university.”

“Maybe.”

“I guess there isn’t anything we can do besides spread the word for the students to stay in groups and be extra careful.” April sniffed.

“No.” Louisa had never felt so helpless. Or useless. Or disorganized. “I haven’t checked my calendar. What’s going on here today?”

“Not much. Director Cusack scheduled a staff meeting this morning before we open. Attendance is mandatory.” April’s lips flattened. “God forbid anything interferes with the museum’s schedule.”

Louisa sighed. Her sinuses throbbed. She opened her desk drawer and searched for her small bottle of ibuprofen. “Have you seen my Advil?”

“No.” April snatched a tissue from the box on Louisa’s desk and wiped her wet cheeks. “I have some in my desk.”

“Thanks.”

April plucked a few more tissues from the box and stuffed them in her pocket. “We need to get to the staff meeting anyway.”

Fifteen minutes later, two dozen employees packed the conference room, some sitting at the long table, the rest crowding behind chairs. Standing in the corner, leaning on a credenza, Louisa sipped coffee in a desperate bid to clear the sad ache behind her eyes, which three ibuprofen hadn’t alleviated. Next to her, April dabbed puffy red eyes with a folded tissue. Most of the staff wore similar tear-streaked expressions of disbelief and sorrow.

Dr. Cusack cleared his throat. Hands laced behind his back, he paced the front of the room. “I’m sure you’ve all heard about Zoe and Isa.”

A small sob punctuated his opening statement.

Cusack’s frown deepened. “I’ve decided to move the opening of the Celtic Warrior exhibit back to December.” His eyes sought Louisa’s. “I’m sorry, Dr. Hancock, it can’t be helped. Considering recent developments, hosting a big party would make the museum look callous, as if we didn’t care.”