He studied me. “I’m not entirely sure. Something’s off. With the scene in the kitchen, with him receiving psychological treatment . . . and then the other stuff.”
I frowned. “What other stuff?”
He shrugged, and it was his turn to skirt the question. “I’ve got one last question, at least for now.”
Here it was. The moment it would all fall apart. The beginning of the end. I forced myself not to stiffen or flinch.
“Last time I was here, I asked if I should look at this as anything other than a suicide.” He glanced at me. “And you said, and I quote, ‘Not that I’m aware of.’”
I nodded. “Right.”
“You’d still stand by that statement?”
“Of course.” Was he still hung up on this? Questioning John Abbott’s death and ignoring Brooke’s supposed heart attack?
“Let me change the question a bit. If I told you that John Abbott was found dead of a knife wound, would you have suspected a suicide?”
Well, that was an interesting question. I smiled at him, enjoying the mental game. “His wife was dead beside him, right?”
“Ignoring that.”
I scoffed. “You can’t exactly ignore that.”
“Most husbands, when their wife dies of a heart attack, don’t kill themselves.”
Excellent point. “To clarify,” I countered, “most emotionally stable husbands don’t kill themselves when their wife dies.” Unless he was the one who killed her. “But John Abbott wasn’t emotionally stable. I’m not saying he was a sexual predator,” I hastened to clarify, “but he wasn’t emotionally . . .” I paused. “Maybe stable isn’t the right word. Let me return to your question. If you told me that John Abbott was found dead of a knife wound, my first inclination would be what anyone’s would be—that someone stabbed him.” I leaned forward. “But if you told me that Brooke Abbott died first, I would immediately suspect suicide. One hundred percent, without hesitation.”
I leaned forward and put my forearms on my desk, appreciating the hypothetical exercise. “For one, because what scenario could exist? Brooke died and then a random person showed up and murdered John?” I made a skeptical face. “Not likely. But also, and what you should really care about”—I chose my next words carefully—“is that John had an unhealthy emotional connection with Brooke. Her death would affect him differently than a normal husband. I agree, the standard response for a husband wouldn’t be to kill himself. But with John?” I sat back in the chair. “Absolutely likely.”
“Huh.”
All that brilliant insight, that complex chess game of words and delivery, and he responded with a word that was one step above a grunt. Not that I expected a standing ovation and a round of cheers, but come on.
“Let me toss something crazy in your lap.” He set down the coffee cup.
I waited, my pulse spiking.
“Brooke kills John, then has a heart attack.”
I let out an awkward laugh. “No.”
“No?” He raised one dark brow.
“No.” I shook my head, then paused, making sure that the knee-jerk reaction was valid. Was it possible that John told her about his dark fantasies, or he tried to kill her and she fought back and killed him in self-defense?
It was a mild possibility, but faint in the face of the much more certain truth—John had poisoned her and then killed himself. And there was no way I would allow them to drag a dead Brooke Abbott’s name through the mud. I’d break John’s confidence and risk my own reputation if need be. I shook my head. “Absolutely not.”
“Okay.” He rose. “Like I said, it was just a crazy theory. Thanks. I’ll be back in touch if I have any more questions.”
I plucked up my business card, still in the plastic baggie, and held it out to him. “Here.”
He took it, then extended his hand. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Moore.”
“Anytime.”
I watched him exit and silently begged him not to come back.
CHAPTER 18
“Something’s different about you.” Meredith studied me over the Thai-restaurant menu.
“I cut my hair.” I flipped the giant laminated board over. “I don’t even know what half of this stuff is.”
“Just get the shrimp fried rice.” She sat back as a bowl of steamed pork dumplings was delivered, then rattled off her order to the waitress.
I followed suit, then watched as the waitress retreated. “I wanted to get bangs but chickened out and did something different with the layers.”
“It’s not your hair that’s different. It’s your aura.”
I swallowed the urge to tell her what I thought of her New Age bullshit. That might work on Calabasas housewives, but if I told any of my clients to rub a positivity rock, I’d get laughed out of practice in a week.
“I’m serious. What’s wrong?”
“I’m a little stressed,” I managed.
“Over your dead wife killer?” She tapped a trio of faux sweetener packets against her palm.
I glanced around the outdoor courtyard, making sure no one was in earshot. “Easy, Meredith.”
“No one’s listening.” She waved off my concern. “Talk to me. Are you still feeling guilt over the suicide?”
“Yes, but that’s not the main source of it.” I watched a couple rise from their seats. “I’m doing a psych profile for a new client.”
She plucked up a dumpling and dipped it into the sauce. “Prosecution or defense?”
“Defense.” I walked her through Robert’s initial request of my services, leaving out our drunken night of passion.
Meredith’s eyes widened as I moved through the story. “Hold up.” She quickly swallowed the full mouthful before speaking. “He hires you, gives you the file, and you haven’t talked to him since?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I left a message for him at his office, but he hasn’t called me back.”
“I saw a news story on this guy . . . ,” she said slowly. “His son was one of the BH Killer’s victims, right? Like, number five?”
“Six,” I confirmed.
Her eyes widened as she connected the pieces. “And he’s hot, right?”
“He is very good-looking,” I allowed.
“NO,” she argued. “He’s smoking hot. You need to push aside the doom and gloom and saddle him up like a prize stallion.”
I struggled to maintain a casual air. “Anyway, I’m—”
“Oh, this just gets better and better.” She pushed the dumplings away and hunched forward, her green eyes glowing with interest. “You already did, didn’t you?”
“I did not saddle him up and ride him like a prize stallion,” I said wryly. “It was more like an arthritic grandma on the Tilt-A-Whirl.”
She crowed with laughter and clapped her hands together. “Oh my word, you dirty slut.”
I blushed despite myself. This had been, after all, my crowning sexual achievement of the decade. I couldn’t believe I’d kept it to myself this long. Meredith normally sniffed out an indiscretion the minute someone’s panties hit the ground.