Infected (4 page)

“I understand,” Tanner said, resting his chin gently on top of her head. “I’ll be there, though, if you need me. Sitting by the phone.”

Carina smiled against his smooth cotton shirt. “Yeah, I bet. I can just picture that.”

Tanner was hardly the type to sit still. He’d taken up track in middle school when a gym teacher noticed him lapping the other kids during a class run and suggested he give it a try, as opposed to Carina, whose mother had always enrolled her in every after-school program she could find as a way of keeping Carina busy until she got home from work. After a season of cross-country, Tanner had tried the field events and discovered a talent for throwing things—shot, discus, and javelin—and he’d made the state finals for the last two years. He had the muscular build that resulted from intense training, a fact that girls never failed to appreciate.

“Okay. Maybe not sitting, but—I’m there for you, Car, if you need me.”

That made Carina remember the letter. Now was the best opportunity she would have to read it with Tanner for company—and she definitely didn’t want to read it alone. She glanced over at Sheila, who was glaring impatiently in their direction. She knew they didn’t have much time.

“There is one thing,” she said hurriedly, taking the envelope from her purse. “I found it this morning, when we went by the house so I could pick up a few things.”

She’d wanted to get a handbag that matched the navy dress, and Sheila had waited in the car while she went inside. It had been so strange to be in the house she’d shared with Walter, for the first time in nearly a week. His presence still lingered, in the newspaper he’d left folded on the hall table, in the faint scent of the coffee he loved so much. Carina had hurried to get her things, overcome by all the memories. After grabbing her purse and a few changes of clothes, she noticed the recycling can in the hall and remembered that it was pickup day. She took the can so she could dump it in the bin and wheel the bin out to the curb on her way out.

A letter had been hidden under the can. The envelope bore her name in Uncle Walter’s handwriting, apparently left there before his trip to Texas, before the accident. Carina knew immediately that he’d wanted her to find it; he’d hidden it there knowing that she never forgot to take out the trash and recycling.

When Carina discovered the letter, a wave of grief passed through her that was so strong she felt like she was
going to break down on the spot. It was the last thing Uncle Walter gave to her, the last time he wrote her name, and suddenly all the feelings of love and loss that she’d been carefully suppressing for the last few days threatened to erupt. And that couldn’t happen. She had to go back outside and get in the car with Sheila and make conversation like nothing was wrong. The idea of confiding in Sheila was too uncomfortable to consider. Carina was grateful to have a place to stay, but the truth was that she and Sheila had been little more than friendly acquaintances until tragedy had forced them together.

So she’d stuffed the letter into her purse for later.

“He must not have meant for you to find it right away,” Tanner said. “Otherwise he would have left it out in the open.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“You want to open it now? I’d understand if you wanted to wait until you were in private.”

“This
is
private. As private as I need it to be, anyway.”

Carina opened the envelope with care and pulled out a single page, typed and signed in Uncle Walter’s careless, sloppy handwriting. A key fell out of the folded paper, a plain brass house key with no markings. Carina exchanged a look with Tanner, and they began to read.

The paper trembled in Carina’s hand, and she realized that she had stopped breathing somewhere after the first few sentences.

“Holy shit,” Tanner said.

“I don’t …”

Carina scanned the letter a second time, trying to comprehend Walter’s message. But when she got to the bottom she still didn’t understand. He was insistent that she stay away from Sheila Boylston—but why? Sheila and Walter had worked together for years, along with Madelyn. They’d written several papers together that had appeared in scientific journals, and submitted grant requests and research proposals. When Carina was younger she’d wondered if Sheila and Uncle Walter would get married someday, until she realized that each of them was essentially married to their job.

Sheila had been perfectly kind ever since they’d gotten the terrible news. Granted, she hadn’t offered much in the
way of comfort, at least not the hugging-and-hot-cocoa variety, but like Carina’s mother, Sheila had never been a warm, fuzzy person. She’d given Carina a room, food, bought her clothes, and even taken her to the spa. There really wasn’t much more she could have done, given that she was dealing with her own grief as well as planning the memorial and funeral.

Uncle Walter had to have been mistaken about whatever he’d been worried about. Maybe they’d had an argument, or a misunderstanding, or—or—

“That’s not like your uncle at all,” Tanner said uneasily. “He’s the most chill dad I know. I mean …” He looked embarrassed by his mistake.

“No, it’s okay,” Carina said, covering his hand with her own. “He
was
like my dad. I just wonder why he didn’t talk to me about this instead of leaving a note.”

“My guess is he was hoping he could wait to talk to you when he got back, and he didn’t want to scare you before he left. And also …” Tanner hesitated.

“What?”

“Well, it seems pretty paranoid, but I mean, if he was
really
worried, he might have been concerned that the house was bugged somehow. Listen, Carina …”

“Just say it,” she said, trying to ignore the dizzy rush of fear Tanner’s words were causing.

“Well, are you sure this is his signature? His handwriting?”

Carina examined the letter and envelope carefully. It certainly looked like Walter’s blocky handwriting, his unintelligible signature. “I mean, yeah, I’m almost positive.”

“So … that’s good.” But he looked doubtful.

“Tell me. Whatever you’re thinking, Tanner, tell me.”

“Just that it could be a fake. If someone had a copy of his writing, they could conceivably fool anyone who wasn’t an expert.”

“Why? Why would anyone go to that kind of trouble? I mean, seriously, Tanner, that would be—that would mean Uncle Walter had been killed on purpose,
and
someone didn’t want me to trust Sheila,
and
they broke into our house and knew what day the recycling gets picked up—and left me this
key
—”

“Yeah, I get it, it’s not very likely. But then again, neither is the idea that your uncle is tied up in some sort of … I don’t know, black-ops thing.”

“Black-ops?”

Tanner looked embarrassed. “Sorry, I don’t know what to call it. I don’t exactly have experience with this sort of thing. Listen—are you sure your uncle was working only on that nutrition project?”

“Well, yeah.” His team had been working on it for several years, refining various kinds of proteins, trying to optimize delivery and packaging for portability in various environments and conditions. Walter hadn’t talked about the project much, saying he knew how boring the topic was to most people.

Unless …

Unless he made the whole thing up. Because he was secretly working on something else
.

“Because,” Tanner said carefully, as if he knew what she
was thinking, “if he
was
working on something classified, and Sheila, I don’t know, wasn’t supposed to know—”

“But that doesn’t make any sense. They worked
together
. They always did. My mom too.”

Someone approached their bench, walking purposefully from the direction of the mourners, and Carina groaned. “Just what we need—Meacham.”

“Who?”

“One of the security guys who was sitting with me and Sheila? Baxter’s cool, but this guy—I don’t know, he’s got an overdeveloped sense of power or something. Listen—will you hang on to this? I’d just feel better about it in case he wants to go through my purse.” She pressed the folded letter and key into Tanner’s hand.

“Sure, only I’ve never really heard of anyone being searched at a memorial service,” Tanner said, slipping the envelope into his pocket, covering the motion by shifting toward her.

“I’m serious, Tanner, these guys have been all over me. Hi,” she added coldly as Meacham arrived in front of them.

“Miss Monroe, Ms. Boylston asked me to have you join her.” The man barely spared a glance at Tanner.

“Huh. Well, seeing as I’m in the middle of a conversation with my friend right now, that’s not really convenient.” Carina held Meacham’s gaze, even though a prickle of unease traveled down her spine. There … under his jacket. Shoulder holster, right? Which meant a gun. Which she’d always suspected, but now it seemed to imply that whatever he asked her to do was more than a friendly suggestion. Not
that he’d ever use it on her, she knew, but it was hard to imagine saying no to a guy who was armed.

“Perhaps you could talk to your friend another time.”

“Hey.” Tanner got up and stepped between Carina and Meacham. “Over here? Yeah.
Me
. I’m the one she’s having the conversation with, and if she says she isn’t finished, then I guess she isn’t finished.”

Meacham turned his head a fraction of an inch to stare—sunglasses and all—into Tanner’s eyes. They were about the same height, and the security guard matched Tanner’s solid build from the broad shoulders to the muscular neck, but he didn’t appear the least bit intimidated. “This really doesn’t concern you,” he muttered softly. “How about you go read a comic book or something.”

“Leave him alone,” Carina said, getting to her feet. She grabbed Meacham’s arm, intending only to draw his attention away from Tanner.

And a funny thing happened. Strange funny … and maybe a bit comical too, because somehow she pulled his arm a lot harder than she meant to, and he ended up tripping over his own feet. He stumbled as she leapt out of the way, and as he regained his footing his hand went to the inside of his jacket and suddenly he was crouched down in a shooter’s stance with a gun in his hand.

“Are you out of your mind?” Tanner snapped, pulling Carina backward against him.

“What are you doing?” she demanded as Meacham appeared to think twice and quickly, almost sheepishly, stowed his gun. Whatever she’d done, it had unsettled him—and
left her feeling plenty unsettled as well. The almost electric surge of energy that had accompanied her actions had not entirely subsided, and her nerves felt like vibrating guitar strings.

The feeling had to be caused by some sort of extreme adrenaline rush. She had eaten only a protein bar for breakfast, and it had been a very emotional morning; plus she’d been sitting still for too long. All of which should have made her
less
responsive, less alert, and certainly didn’t explain her move on Meacham. He was a trained professional. How she’d managed to outmaneuver him—without even trying—was a mystery.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?” Baxter was jogging over, his hand on his earpiece. Meacham scowled, dusting himself off.

“Nothing,” Carina said hastily, wondering if Baxter had seen the way she’d made his partner stumble. She gave him a smile that was meant to be reassuring. “A misunderstanding.”

Baxter’s expression softened. “Okay, Miss Monroe. Look, I know this is”—he cleared his throat before continuing, glaring at Meacham—“a hard day for you, and if there’s anything we can do to make it go easier—”

“Maybe you could just keep Meacham company for a few minutes,” she said, grabbing Tanner’s hand and dragging him away, around the stone bench to the path that led farther into the gardens. She doubted it would be that simple, but she had to try. “We’re going to go talk. Okay? I’ll come find Sheila when we’re done.”

“Well, what do you know,” said a familiar voice behind her. “I can save you the effort.”

Carina whirled around and found Sheila standing with her arms crossed a few steps down the cobblestone path. Her mouth was set in a grim line. Apparently she’d recovered from her grief and moved straight to fury.