Page 49 of Accidental Murder
Megan remembered reading about the incident, which included protest marches and skirmishes with law enforcement. “Why did Kayla service your wife’s computer?”
“Sara was disorganized when it came to electronics. She . . .” Simmons twisted his empty juice glass in a slow rotation.
“Sir?”
“I think Sara might have been having an affair.”
That was quite a leap. Megan studied the man. His eyes were placid. His shoulders were lax. “Why would you think that?” she asked.
“She spent a lot of time at the hospital where she maintained an office. She—” Simmons fanned the air. “Forget it. I’m wrong. She loved me with all her heart. It’s just that . . . ” He didn’t finish.
Megan latched onto a notion that hospitals, scientists, and archeologists merged into a promising connection. “Which hospital, sir?”
“Wilkerson.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
On the wayto Nolan Trask’s house, Kayla phoned Eve. Her message rolled into voicemail for the fifth time. Worry churned inside her. Why wasn’t her friend answering? After the missed messages with Sara, Kayla couldn’t help thinking something was wrong. “Eve, it’s me. Let’s touch base.” She ended the call and pulled into Nolan Trask’s driveway.
Approaching the front door, she steeled herself for confrontation. Was it instinct or stupidity compelling her to confront a man who was trained to kill? She possessed no weapons, no means of defense. On the other hand, if Trask was innocent, he might be able to profile her sister’s murderer.
When she pressed the doorbell, nothing sounded—noding-dong, nobuzz. She rapped on the door and listened for an indication he was home. The savory aroma of split pea soup emanated from somewhere inside the ranch-style house, making her mouth water. She’d shared an orange with Veronica, but, other than that, she couldn’t remember the last thing she’d eaten.
Come on, answer, she urged.
The sound of stealthy footsteps kicked her adrenaline into overdrive. She whipped off her winter scarf and clutched bothends. Granted, it was a meager weapon. She doubted she could strangle a soul, or even had the strength to do so, but it was something.
Trask opened the door, newspaper in hand, and gaped as if he was looking at a ghost.
“Sir, I’m Ashley Macintyre.” The lie came easier. “Kayla’s sister.”
“Yes, of course.” He nudged his black-rimmed glasses up his nose. “I saw you at the memorial. I didn’t offer my condolences. You were more than occupied. How can I help you?”
“May I speak to you?”
Trask ran fingers through his thinning hair. “I wasn’t expecting company, but sure.” He tucked the newspaper under his arm, shoved the tail of his shirt into his chinos, and pushed open the screen door. “Come in, please. Amazing, the similarity between you and your sister.”
Kayla assessed his hands—bony but strong. He could probably kill her with one undetectable press to the neck. If that were the case, why would he have beaten and strangled Ashley and trashed the office? Why make a mess?
“Are you coming in or are we talking on the stoop?” Trask held his hand out in a gesture of welcome.
Kayla loosened her grip on the scarf and stepped into the foyer. She paused as she caught sight of his numerous Asian relics. On previous occasions when she’d come to the house, she’d admired them. Seeing them now made her consider a chilling theory. Had he stolen them? Would he have killed to protect his prized collection?
“Care for dinner? It’s soup.” Trask closed the door.
When he secured the bolt, a fight-or-flight response kicked in. Kayla worked hard to overcome it, reminding herself that securing the bolt was normal. No one in the Bay Area left a door unlocked anymore.
“This way.” Trask traipsed through the living room across the gorgeous blue carpet interwoven with gold dragons. The kitchen was a tiny alcove. Basic items sat on the yellow tile counter: a microwave, a coffee pot, and a set of knives. He pulled out a chair from the café-style table and gestured to it. “Sit, please. A cup or bowl?”
Despite how hungry she was, Kayla didn’t intend to dine with him.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“No soup, thanks.”
“Suit yourself. Don’t mind if I eat?”
“No, sir. Please.”
