Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 51995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
The next morning, he returned to Aurelian Hills Medical Clinic, determined to gain answers. “I’m here to see Emma Miller and Caroline Whittington,” he said. Patients in the lobby gaped at him as if he’d beamed down from a spaceship. Strangers stood out here, law enforcement more so.
The receptionist jumped to her feet and hurried to show him to an exam room.
“Someone will be with you soon,” she muttered, shutting the door.
The room didn’t appear different from any of the others he’d visited in the past. Same beige walls featuring framed licenses from the Georgia Composite Medical Board, a paper wrapper draped over the examination table, and some kind of water stain on a ceiling tile. Did this particular stain indicate money problems?
Caroline Whittington entered within minutes, her red hair scooped away from her face. Like before, she wore a pair of pale green scrubs. After washing her hands at a sink near the door, she approached him. “Emma has the day off,” she said, cool as could be. “How may I help you, Agent?”
He decided to start with a bang. “Did you sleep with Dr. Hotchkins?”
Appearing horrified, she jerked back. “Me? No! Of course not. He was a married man. And why would I gift you with his disgusting little black book if I was featured in it?”
Something he, too, had wondered. One answer struck him as possible: Someone desperate enough to add a host of other suspects, even at the expense of her secret. “Did you hunt gold with him?”
“Me?” she repeated, thumping her chest. “Do you know how much free time I don’t have, agent? Any free minutes I manage to steal, I use to research cures for cancer. I didn’t save my father, but I promise you I’ll not stop until I’m able to help another daughter on the verge of losing everything dear to her.”
A tragic tale he planned to verify, but the depth of grief in her eyes told him she’d spoken true. Still. He didn’t trust her. Or any of the others. “You were overheard whispering with Dr. Hotchkins at Summerhill Pediatric.” A misleading statement. Dr. Holmgren had heard the word muffin, something that had nothing or everything to do with the case. How would Whittington respond?
Her level of incredulity heightened. Mumbling under her breath, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “I remember the instance you’re referring to because it’s the only time we ever whispered together. We were discussing Abigail Waynes-Kirkland. Earlier that morning, I ran into her at The Grind. She kept asking me questions about Dr. Hotchkins and gold. Had he found some. Did he ever mention a map. I told him what she said, and he told me not to worry about it, that he was taking care of Ms. Muffins himself.”
Ms. Muffins. Not a plot to meet at a dog’s headstone, but confirmation of a nickname. No doubt they’d find it among the un-decoded names in the planner.
“I immediately chided him for using such an awful nickname, of course,” she continued with a huff. “Did the eavesdropper tell you that part?”
“She did not,” he replied, resisting the urge to sigh. If the PA was telling the truth, his theory had just crashed and burned.
A text came in, saving him from asking any other rash questions. He made a big show of pulling his phone from his pocket, all this is important GBH agent business. “Thank you for your time,” he told her, and aimed for the door. “I’ll be in touch.”
Once back in his car, he read the message.
Boss: Subpoena is in. I’m sending in a team.
Excellent. He could speak with Emma Miller and Dr. Garcia after techs combed their cellular devices. In the meantime, he could turn his attention to Abigail Waynes-Kirkland. The alleged Ms. Muffins.
CHAPTER TEN
Want to be irresistible? Look at her as if she’s the only snack in the world, and you’re starving.
–A Gravekeeper’s Guide to Dating
Conrad stepped into Gilt, the art gallery that employed Abigail Waynes-Kirkland. A bell jingled above the door, welcoming him into an open space. In a blink, he left the sizzling sunlight scented with car exhaust and entered frigid air conditioning coated with expensive perfume.
The old storefront had been transformed into a sterile showplace. A dull gray infected everything from the ceiling to the floor. Other than the artwork, the only bit of color came from black barreled track lighting. A grand total of zero customers walked about. He could understand why ‘closing soon’ signs filled the outer windows. Horrible paintings decorated the walls. The absolute worst. Over-the-top experimental statement pieces.
The clack of high heels sounded, heralding the arrival of a pretty brunette. She rounded a corner wearing a tight black dress, carrying herself as if she balanced a book on her head. Abigail Waynes-Kirkland. An older, more sophisticated version of her mugshot, taken at the age of eighteen, after she vandalized the shops located in this very building, owned by her mother.