An Unexamined Wife: The Charlotte Anthony Mysteries, #2

By Meg Wolfe

Is love worth killing for?

In the second book of the Charlotte Anthony series, plans for an idyllic holiday in Aspen are disrupted by the discovery of a dead professor in his lab full of suspicious-looking plants.

Once again, Charlotte joins forces with Detective Barnes to solve a murder that is anything but straightforward. Potential motives and suspects are many and the prof's complicated love life only adds to the confusion.

Her investigation reveals unexpected connections between husbands, wives, friends, and lovers, and between past and future events. But information can be deadly, and Charlotte's discoveries put both herself and her friends in great danger. 

As if all of this this wasn't enough, Charlotte is swept off her feet by the most unlikely of suitors.

381 Pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Meg Wolfe
• Release date: Dec 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781393995777

Meg Wolfe

Meg Wolfe is the author of the Charlotte Anthony Mysteries and other fiction and creative nonfiction, having finally settled down after a lifetime of varied and interesting careers in garden design, cooking, and art. She lives in Northwest Indiana with her husband, photographer and artist Steve Johnson. Email: [e-mail]

Book preview

One

Friday, December 20 th

Bags packed. Gifts wrapped. Flights confirmed. Charlotte Anthony took a deep breath, satisfied that all was in order for the trip to Aspen, and settled in comfortably at the coffee shop. The others had already arrived and the conversation was, as usual, all over the place and in full gear.

Their nook in the bow window looked like a snow globe, except the heavily falling snow was outside the glass. On the sidewalk, children were making the most of being on vacation, running and laughing, while the adults leaned forward to keep the snow off their phones as they texted and walked at the same time.

Inside, The Coffee Grove was decorated with countless tiny white lights and fragrant pine garlands around the windows. A giant wreath hung on the wall behind the counter, between the two chalkboard menus, one for drinks and one for food. Jimmy Frobisher, the shop’s owner, had pushed together three tables topped with red-shaded oil lamps, around which the seven friends huddled for one of their frequent meetings of minds. When Charlotte compared this moment with how things would have been if she was still living—alone—at Lake Parkerton, she felt unlimited gratitude for these people so central to her little world in Elm Grove.

Diane leaned toward her and spoke quietly. Any word on buyers for your house?

They both glanced at Lola McKennie, the real estate agent, who was talking to Helene and moving her hands as if describing large spaces, which occasionally rang the jingle bells on her green velvet choker. Charlotte shook her head. Nothing. Probably won’t be until spring, either. Now I’m spending money like water with this last-minute trip.

The men—Jimmy, Simon, and Donovan—who were currently talking about motorcycles, looked furtively at the deep V of Lola’s snug red sweater every time the bells rang. Pavlov would have been proud.

Diane Pellegato was Charlotte’s accountant as well as friend. Just be cautious, Charlotte. The money will get sorted out one day, but the only question is when.

I’m aware of it. But I don’t know what else to do under the circumstances. I haven’t seen my daughter since summer.

Charlotte was uneasy: her entire strategy for avoiding financial disaster depended on selling her house in upscale Lake Parkerton. If the house had sold in the fall, she could even have gone to Paris to see Ellis, who was studying piano at the Conservatoire. But it didn’t.

Diane patted her arm in reassurance. I can’t blame you a bit for wanting to see her, but why isn’t she coming home?

Ellis’ plane ticket was paid for by Jack’s parents, and now she’s expected to spend the holidays with them at their ski lodge. Charlotte picked at the cinnamon bun on her plate. Then Miranda—that’s Jack’s mother—called up to invite me ‘and a special friend,’ in that tone that people use when they think you can’t deliver.

Diane nodded her head in the direction of the men. Take Simon! Imagine showing up with a famous British photographer who’s probably hotter than any other guy there, that’d shut her up.

Oh, I asked him. Charlotte paused, and shook her head. He doesn’t have time. She admired him as he talked, the way his hand moved to emphasize his point, the way he held his coffee cup. His shaggy gray-streaked blond hair took on an aura against the bright light of the window, and she imagined Simon Norwich as her personal St. George against the Dragon Lady Miranda. They’d been dating for the past three months, mostly meals out and attending university events together, but much remained undeveloped because of his work commitments. Even their dinner out the night before was, while pleasant, a bit brief.

Oh c’mon, Norwich, said Donovan Targman to Simon, who was reading a message on his phone and looking like he was about to leave. We just got here. Simon had given Donovan a ride.

Helene Dalmier, the eldest and most elegant, looked concerned. Must you leave so soon, Simon?

I can give you a ride back, don’t worry, Charlotte spoke to Donovan over the others’ chatter.

Thanks, Charlotte. He thumbed at Simon, who was texting something. We can’t let the party pooper here spoil a good time.

Simon looked up then, grabbing his coat. I must run, work stuff, sorry to rush off. He kissed Charlotte’s forehead and gave her shoulder a squeeze on his way out the door. Have a good time, Charlotte, my best to Ellis. Happy Christmas, all. His happy still sounded like hoppy to her Midwestern ears.

And then he was gone. Charlotte was a bit nonplussed, and looked around at the others’ reactions.

Donovan rolled his eyes. For a guy who’s sorry to rush off, he was pretty enthusiastic.

Lola burst out laughing, and her jingle bells went off. You know, you’re right. Wonder what that was all about.

Jimmy just looked at Lola as if he thought she was full of it. "Something strange, no doubt."

Helene chose not to make an issue of Simon’s departure, but talked about how the snow was coming down heavier than expected, and she hoped that her nephew Donovan, who still needed a wheelchair or a walker, wouldn’t have too much difficulty getting up the steps to his house.

Nah, Donovan shook his head. Charlotte and I will figure it out, even if I have to scoot up every step on my bottom. Might even start a snowball fight, help her take out some of the aggression she’s probably feeling toward Simon right now.

Kelsey the barista brought over more coffee, garnering a grateful hug from Diane, and Jimmy went to the kitchen to check on things.

It’s okay, it’s okay, said Charlotte. He’s been swamped like this for the last two months.

You must be so happy about seeing Ellis tonight, said Helene, who had been Ellis’ piano teacher for many years. And Aspen is beautiful, of course.

The conversation turned to ski resorts, and from there to freak skiing accidents in the news.

Jimmy came back with another tray of cinnamon buns fresh from the oven, which he passed around.

Charlotte’s phone rang; she assumed it was Ellis again, but the display said Alexa Garibaldi.

Now there’s a blast from the past, she thought, debating whether to step away to take the call, or to let it go to voice mail and call back later. Curiosity won; except for occasional emails, she hadn’t talked to Alexa in three years.

Charlotte! I’m so glad to reach you. Alexa’s voice was somewhat tremulous, as if she was out of breath or ill.

They went through the usual exchange of initial greetings, and Alexa came to the reason for her call.

I’m on my way to Elm Grove, on the train, and I was wondering if you could give me a ride to my parents’ house?

When do you get in?

Um...in about an hour. The one o’clock.

Charlotte looked at her watch and did the mental calculations. An hour was more than enough time to give Donovan a hand getting back home, so that was okay. After? She decided that even if she took a couple of hours to meet and visit with Alexa, there was plenty of time before she had to catch the airport shuttle bus. Sure! No problem!

Thanks so much, Charlotte. Alexa’s relief was clear. You’re literally a life-saver. Tell you more when I get there.

Charlotte went back to the table, where everyone was looking up at her with curiosity. That was my friend Alexa Garibaldi, asking if I could pick her up from the train station in about an hour. Lola had moved into her seat to talk to Diane, so Charlotte took the empty one next to Donovan.

I remember Alexa, said Jimmy, with a fond smile. It’s been a long time since she’s been around. I remember seeing the two of you at the old shop, and sometimes she’d come in with little Ellis.

That would be Alonzo and Janice Garibaldi’s daughter, said Helene, with a neutral expression that Charlotte knew was holding back a lot more. They are unusual people.

I’m acquainted with Garibaldi, added Jimmy. Charismatic fellow. Brilliant, but a bit intense.

Helene agreed. "An excellent way of putting it."

I don’t know them well, said Charlotte. Alexa has always had a difficult relationship with them, especially with her father. She hasn’t been back home in a long time.

Years before, Alexa was Charlotte’s Freshman Composition student at Corton University. She was a little older than the other students, having spent a few years working and traveling, and over time she and Charlotte became friends. The daughter of Dr. Alonzo Garibaldi and his artist wife Janice, academics were nevertheless not her strong suit.

Alexa’s real gift was her sense of style, and she was always one of the best-dressed women on campus. After graduation, she became a buyer for an upmarket department store in Chicago, then in Dallas, and it wasn’t long before she moved up in position, working in major cities, and traveling a great deal. As is usually the case when people move on with their lives, Alexa came home less and less. The difficult relationship with her parents no doubt contributed, and Alexa’s success was not in a field that garnered any respect from either her father or mother.

The Garibaldis have that little farm on Progress between the tracks and the highway, right? asked Lola. Did you know that stone wall around the place goes back before the Civil War? The original house burned down, but the one that’s there is also really old. It was moved from another lot and set on a new foundation. I think the barn was built in the 1880’s or 90’s.

That the same street as the No Trace Bar? asked Donovan.

Jimmy nodded. Same one.

Dr. Garibaldi has a laboratory in the barn. Paul designed it, said Helene, referring to her late husband, the architect Paul Dalmier. It was one of his favorite projects—he kept the original appearance of the barn on the outside, but made it completely modern on the inside.

The general conversation moved on from there. The phone call, however, took Charlotte’s thoughts back to a difficult time in her life, when she, Alexa, and five-year-old Ellis had come home early after a day at the beach, and caught Jack in bed with one of his students. Alexa promptly distracted Ellis while Charlotte dealt with this last straw in her shaky marriage. In the months following, Alexa was a nanny to Ellis and a shoulder to cry on as Charlotte went through counseling, divorce, and relocating to Lake Parkerton. It had been a long time since she’d thought about those days, over ten years in the past.

Penny for ‘em? asked Donovan.

Oh, just recalling ancient history. You know how it is when somebody from half a lifetime ago suddenly calls or shows up, and you get a little confused between right now and back then?

Yeah, I do. Seems to happen more often the older I get. He looked wistful as he pushed up his black-framed glasses. Donovan was a striking-looking man with nearly hollow cheeks, graying temples, and a lively shock of dark auburn hair that flopped over to one side. Most of the time, though, the present is better than the past.

Couldn’t agree more. Those were not happy days back then. Today isn’t perfect, but it’s definitely better.

Donovan raised his coffee mug. My sentiments, Charlotte, to the letter.

She raised hers to his.

What are you two toasting over there? asked Helene.

Donovan spoke quickly. The passage of time, Aunt Helene. Happy Winter Solstice! Happy early New Year! The others joined in.

When it was time to leave, everyone wished Charlotte a good trip and a Merry Christmas, and looked forward to seeing her at Jimmy’s New Year’s Eve party.

She held open the coffee shop door as Donovan wheeled himself out. Although he was now strong enough to get around with a walker, the uncertain footing on the sidewalks made the wheelchair a safer alternative, even if someone had to push him. Charlotte did just that, but going as fast as she could over the bumps.

Whoa! cried Donovan, who knew darn well she was teasing him. You’re rattling my brains, woman!

She laughed, getting big snowflakes in her mouth. They’d become good friends in the two and a half months since his release from the hospital after treatment for the injuries he’d sustained from the thugs that killed his mother and another man. She, Simon, and Jimmy took turns bringing him meals or groceries or giving him rides during his convalescence.

When they got to where she parked her Jeep, he groaned. There was a fairly deep pile of snow between the sidewalk and the passenger door.

No problem, said Charlotte. She was wearing tall boots, and simply tromped down a skinny path for him. She unlocked and opened the Jeep’s door, then wheeled Donovan as close to it as she could get him. He pulled himself up and leaned on the door, getting ready to step up into the seat, when Charlotte, who was folding up the wheelchair, slipped and fell backwards onto the snowbank.

After the first second of surprise, she just burst out laughing at the same time as Donovan, who hung onto the Jeep’s door with one hand and stretched out his other hand to her.

Serves you right, you wicked girl, after torturing a poor cripple in a wheelchair!

She threw a handful of snow at him, but he laughed and helped her to her feet. C’mon, we still have to get me back in the house before you meet your friend’s train.

It wasn’t far to his house, and since Simon had shoveled and salted the walkway before they went to the coffee shop, Donovan was able to slowly walk all the way from the Jeep to the front door, with only a bit of leaning on Charlotte as he went up the steps to the porch.

I’m going to miss you, he said, as he unlocked the door.

They’d been meeting at least once weekly to talk about books (which inevitably digressed to life in general), and Charlotte encouraged his writing efforts. It’s only a week and a half. You won’t even know I’m gone.

He looked at her sadly. Yeah, I will. Then he brightened. But I’m glad you’ll get to see your daughter for Christmas, after all. Thanks for getting me back here, that was fun!

He opened his arms for a hug, and she did too. Merry, merry Christmas, Charlotte.

His gaze and smile made her feel warm and happy. Merry Christmas, Donovan.

He stood in his doorway, waving as he watched her drive off, and it occurred to her that she was going to miss him, too.

The lake effect snow had alternated between heavy and light for the past two days, and at the moment it favored light. Charlotte drove to the train station as quickly as conditions allowed, moving out of the way for the many snowplows that seemed to come out of nowhere in clouds of steam. She came to the street that led to the station at the same time that a white panel truck blew a stop sign, flying through the intersection as if she didn’t exist. She braked hard to avoid being broadsided, and the Jeep skidded sideways, stopped by a tall snowbank. Her heart was still pounding as she drove on and pulled into the station parking lot.

What is it with white panel trucks, the kind with no markings or signage? It seemed to Charlotte that the vehicle most often mentioned in news items about bombs, drugs, or kidnappings was a white panel truck. Now there was this one, which nearly took her out of commission for Aspen and the holidays, if not altogether. She hadn’t been able to see the driver, only a dark figure hunched over the steering wheel.

She took a corner table next to the drafty windows in Penn House, Elm Grove’s original train station/hotel. The barkeep brought her a hot chocolate with brandy, which she held close to her face. She could have chosen a warmer spot, but the distance from the grumpy men watching the television over the bar gave her space to collect herself and calm down. She was as nervous about seeing Alexa as she was about the near-accident with the white panel truck—why couldn’t the Garibaldis have picked up Alexa? They lived a scant half mile away, they weren’t that old—she was sure that Dr. Garibaldi was still teaching at Corton.

The door to the ticket office adjoining the tavern area opened with an icy draft, and several passengers came in with their luggage and shopping bags.

Charlotte!

A burgundy glove waved from the back of the group, and then Alexa Garibaldi came into view, wearing a two-tone gray wool stadium coat over sleek black leggings and tall boots. A hat that matched the coat framed her light olive face, deep dark eyes, and lips a paler shade of the gloves.

Alexa dropped her leather carryon bag. They hugged like old friends do, and Charlotte’s sweater soaked up cold wet melted snow from Alexa’s coat.

Ah! She stepped back and gasped.

Oh, Charlotte, sorry about that— Alexa was laughing.

Oh that’s okay, no worries, just caught me by surprise. You look great!

Alexa took off the coat and hung it on a nearby wall hook, one of many in the room. Her hat came next, and Charlotte noted that Alexa’s formerly long thick hair was now thinner and in a pixie cut, which brought out her dark brown eyes. She looked thinner, too, but still as fashionable as ever in a wine-colored cashmere sweater and scarf.

They settled at the table and the barkeep took their order for soup of the day, to which Alexa added a sandwich.

It was a perfect Christmas card scene, thought Charlotte, a light snow falling outside the Italianate windows topped with holiday garlands, a twelve-foot high Fraser fir lit to the nines in the opposite corner, and two old friends catching up over a late lunch.

Yet after nearly an hour of catching up, Charlotte felt the real issue hadn’t yet been touched. They had one of those friendships that always took up where it left off, whether it had been a month, or as the case this time, three years. She knew that Alexa had been diagnosed with lupus several years ago, and asked how things were on that front.

Alexa looked down, sighed, and dabbed her lips with the napkin before speaking. Charlotte noted that, typical of Alexa’s care, the lipstick didn’t come off on the napkin.

That’s why I’m here, actually. I’ve got stage four kidney failure.

Oh, Alexa, that’s awful! Charlotte grasped her friend’s hand and they held on tight. This was serious.

Yeah, it’s been miserable. But I’m considered a good candidate for a transplant, especially if I can get one from a relative.

So you’re here to ask your parents?

She nodded. They’re probably too old—donors are ideally under sixty—but maybe there are other relatives. If nothing else, Mom and Dad ought to know what’s going on, especially if things go wrong, and I could use some financial help.

"Is a transplant your only option?

It’s the best one, said Alexa. She took another sip of water. Right now my career is on hold, but if I can get a relative’s kidney, it can be scheduled around dialysis and would require fewer anti-rejection drugs. I stand a chance of getting my life back on track before I’m out of the industry for too long.

Charlotte’s heart went out to Alexa, knowing how important her career was to her. It must be nerve-wracking.

I think I’m more terrified of talking to my parents than I am about the transplant. How ridiculous is that? She turned to Charlotte, her eyes on the verge of tears. I’m so glad to see you again, Charlotte, it’s doing me a world of good just to talk to you. She hesitated a moment. This is a lot to ask, but do you think you could go with me? I could really use someone to keep me from freaking out around them.

Normally, Charlotte wouldn’t want to get involved in a family crisis, but this was a situation in which the presence of an outsider could possibly keep things from getting carried away. It was an opportunity to support an old friend toward whom she felt ever grateful, with only a bit of stepped-up activity before catching the airport shuttle—a chance to do something that might make all the difference in the world for the rest of Alexa’s life.

Yes. She had no qualms whatsoever. Absolutely.

Three hours later, when it was getting dark (it was, after all, the shortest day of the year), Charlotte was warming her hands on the dashboard vent of an aging police car.

Cops were all over the place, and more seemed to be coming in by the minute. From where she sat, Charlotte could see two of them questioning Alexa, who nodded yes and shook her head no. Toward her right, a paramedic was helping Janice Garibaldi walk to the ambulance. In the middle, an officer talking on a cell phone stood next to a stocky guy named Hewey Sawyer, whose face was red from the cold and his expression sorrowful as he watched Janice being helped into the ambulance.

The minutes ticked by on the dashboard clock, time without meaning, yet silently screaming at Charlotte until comprehension set in: the shuttle bus to O’Hare! You’re going to be late!

Oh dear god. No! No no no no no! She buried her head in her hands and felt the tears well up along with her blood pressure. On top of everything else, was she going to end up missing her flight to Aspen?

A meltdown started: panic at missing the bus, wondering if there was any way to convince the cops to let her go, hating herself for thinking of the ruined holiday with Ellis when Alexa was facing utter disaster, fear that she wouldn’t be able to get another flight, panic because she could barely afford this flight, let alone pay for another at short notice, then shame all over again for even thinking of bailing on Alexa if she could—on Alexa, who had given so much of her time and support ten years ago, and made so many things possible. Alexa needed her now. Ellis would understand, wouldn’t she?

She zoned out to the white noise of the heater, trying not to think about Dr. Garibaldi lying on the floor of his laboratory, a bloody red badge over the heart of his white lab coat, his fierce charismatic eyes no longer seeing a thing.

Two

Also Friday, December 20 th

A soft rapping on the window startled her, and she turned, almost afraid to look, but the dark hulking parka turned out to be Detective Gordon Barnes. She was so relieved she almost smiled.

Boy, am I glad to see you, she said, leaning on the car door as she got out. Her boots crunched on the snow and her breath came out in steam. Could I go? I had a—

He cut her off with a small shake of his head. Charlotte felt herself deflate as she realized she was embarrassing herself. Of course she couldn’t go just yet. A man was shot dead. This was going to take as long as it took.

Barnes gestured over his shoulder toward the lab. What do you know about this?

The detective’s slight emphasis on you was warranted, given that a mere three months earlier she had discovered the nearly-dead body of her elderly employer the first day on the job. Barnes, a detective with the Indiana State Police, seemed to find her observations useful as she moved from suspect to potential victim. Eventually, he intervened to save her life.

Charlotte explained her relationship to Alexa, and the reason for being there.

He nodded, and seemed to think about it until they heard raised voices and turned to observe Hewey Sawyer breaking away from the interviewing officers and rushing to Janice Garibaldi’s side. He appeared to be asking the paramedics if he could ride with her, but the cops held him back.

An investigator called out to Barnes; he excused himself to Charlotte. Give me a few minutes, will you? Then I’d like to hear everything that happened today, everything you’ve seen, in detail. He turned and opened the passenger door of his own unmarked black sedan, gesturing for her to get in. My car is warmer.

His car was considerably warmer, and cleaner. She had a better view of the ambulance, where Alexa had now joined her mother. Charlotte was glad for her, as the ambulance looked warm, and the paramedics were taking her friend’s blood pressure and giving her something to drink. She thought over the events of the day, particularly from when she and Alexa first arrived at the Garibaldi homestead. Barnes would want as clearly sequenced an account as she could possibly give.

After her lunch with Alexa, she had driven carefully from Penn House through the rattier sections of town to Progress Street, where two different train lines crossed, passing long-abandoned small factories with dark-paned windows and crumbling brick walls, a couple of pocket cornfields, and several small woods.

Is this the right way? I can’t remember, she asked.

Alexa pointed toward the bottom of a hill as they descended. The driveway is right by that mailbox.

Charlotte managed to turn between the substantial stone gateposts of the driveway, which wasn’t plowed so much as plowed through from quite a few tire tracks. The stately house was right up ahead, as well as some outbuildings and the barn, which Helene had said was Dr. Garibaldi’s laboratory.

There was only one vehicle in the yard, a dark green SUV that had several inches of snow on it. The snow had stopped, and all was utterly quiet, with not even the distant sound of cars going by on the highway that Charlotte knew was not far away. She turned to Alexa, who looked pale and, unsurprisingly, nervous.

Ready? she asked.

Alexa nodded and grabbed Charlotte’s hand. Thank you for this, thank you so much, Charlotte.

Charlotte squeezed her hand back. I’ll be right behind you.

They made their way through the uneven mounds of snow in the driveway to the main walkway between the house and the barn, which had been properly shoveled earlier in the day, but had since been covered with another four inches of snow. They went up the steps of the wide covered porch and Alexa lightly rapped on the front door. Charlotte recalled the porch filled with Adirondack and wicker furniture in the summer, but now it looked simply large and forlorn with nothing but snow.

There was no answer. Alexa peered through the clearer places in the etched glass of the door’s window and sidelights. She rapped harder, and rang the doorbell, but there was still no answer.

She looked confused, even a bit angry. Could they have stood me up, turned this into some kind of game?

Charlotte didn’t know the Garibaldis well enough to guess, and just shrugged. Maybe they’re in the lab? she asked, noting that Alexa did not seem comfortable enough to go into her parents’ house without being invited.

Mom probably wouldn’t be, but we might as well check it out. Alexa led the way down the path, hugging her arms to herself as if she wasn’t wearing a warm coat.

It was a cold walk in the sharp wind, made colder by the early gloom and purple clouds. The gray barn loomed over the back half of the property, and most of the light seemed to come from the snow itself. A crow called from the trees, but there was no answering cry.

Alexa pushed open a heavy double door at the side of the barn, the kind with hydraulic closers that one finds in schools and public buildings. Charlotte followed her into a plain foyer with pegs on the wall; a hooded parka hung from one of them, accompanied by a pair of boots on the floor beneath it. Someone was likely here, then. They turned left to walk down a hall that ran almost the length of the barn, stopping at a bank of observation windows in the middle.

Through the windows they saw a greenhouse, of sorts, the ceiling covered with drip irrigation tubes and full-spectrum lights illuminating groups of plants in raised beds. Except half of this greenhouse was in shambles, dirt and leaves scattered everywhere. It was in complete contrast to the other half at the opposite end of the room, pristine as a laboratory ought to be.

They hurried down the hall to the laboratory antechamber, and saw the door to the greenhouse standing open.

This door is supposed to be closed all the time, said Alexa, who pushed it shut, then turned to look at the mess. Looks like there’s been a raid or something.

Charlotte nudged a plant with the toe of her boot and thought it looked an awful lot like cannabis, although her knowledge of the plant itself was limited to pictures and the stuff inside of a joint. Is that what I think it is?

Alexa looked at it and shrugged. She nodded toward the intact part of the room, where a different kind of plant seemed to flourish. Those aren’t. I wouldn’t put it past my father, though.

They continued around the edge of the room to another wall with a bank of windows and a door that said Office. The windows were dark, save for the glow from several computer monitors. Alexa opened the door, turned on the lights, and gasped when she saw her father’s body. They stood there in shock for several silent seconds, then Alexa suddenly turned and ran back outside.

Charlotte called 911 and checked for a pulse, but there was none. He was gone. She went back outside herself, and was surprised to hear sirens so soon; shock could very well have altered her sense of time passing. Alexa was nowhere to be seen, but from the extra footprints in the snow Charlotte guessed that she probably ran to the house. A police cruiser, lights flashing, barreled up the drive and barely stopped before two officers jumped out. Charlotte knew enough to stay still and keep her hands visible, reassuring the officers that she was the one who called. One of them went into the lab, and the