The Third Grave (Savannah #4) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,31

started the truck and backed up. He threw the pickup into gear. Tires chirped as he tore out of the lot, barely slowing to wheel onto the quiet street.

Reed wanted to disbelieve Yelkis.

But he knew it was the truth.

He wanted to rail at the heavens but didn’t figure God was listening.

And he wanted to throttle his wayward, bullheaded wife. Instead he climbed behind the wheel of his Jeep and stared at the hospital through the bug-spattered windshield. Four stories of windows— patches glowing dimly in the night. Wide glass doors beneath a portico where a glowing red sign read: EMERGENCY ENTRANCE. Sprawled before it all, a wide, nearly empty parking lot illuminated by lampposts and the blue of moonlight.

His cell phone buzzed and he saw it was Delacroix. The word, it seemed, was out. He hesitated, then answered.

“You heard?” she asked. “About Detective Morrisette?”

“Yeah.” A knot swelled in his throat.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” he forced out. “Me too.” Tears stung at the back of his eyes. Hot, unwanted drops of anger, frustration and grief.

“You okay?”

No! I’m not okay. I don’t even know what “okay” is right now! “Yeah,” he lied. “Fine.”

“You sure?”

Shit no. I’m not sure about any damned thing right now.

“Reed?” she asked.

“I said I’m fine,” he said sharply. His chin wobbled, and tears began to drizzle down his face. But he kept his voice steady. Somehow. “I’m good. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He swiped the hot tears away.

“Okay. Hang in there.”

He clicked off and slid a glance at the passenger seat, where Morrisette had spent so many hours navigating, swearing, checking her phone, confiding in him and just bullshitting about the world. He could almost see her spiked platinum hair, the eyebrow stud she once wore and the ever-present snakeskin boots.

Shit. He pounded a fist into the dash.

Shit, shit, shit!

She was gone.

The idea was nearly inconceivable that someone so vibrant, so passionate, so full of life could be dead.

Pull yourself together. You see life and death all the time. In your job, it’s what you deal with. Everyone dies. You can deal with this. You’ve got a wife and a kid on the way. And a damned case to solve. Get on with it, Reed.

He started the engine, dropped the Jeep into gear, then stopped. Even though he knew the truth, believed what he’d heard from Yelkis and had the information confirmed by Delacroix, he had to hear it for himself. He shoved the Jeep into park, cut the engine and got out of the Jeep. Pocketing his keys, he half jogged to the wide glass doors of the ER.

Maybe, just maybe this was all a mistake.

Or a bad dream.

He had to hear it for himself.

But even as he showed his badge to bully his way to see the doctor who had been tending to his partner, he knew deep in his gut it was an exercise in futility.

Detective Sylvie Morrisette, four times married, four times divorced, mother of two, with her west Texas drawl and caustic sense of humor was dead.

All because his damned wife didn’t know when to back the hell off.

CHAPTER 8

“Dead?” Nikki whispered, staring up at her husband from the bed. He’d walked into their bedroom and snapped on the bedside lamp to wake her and tell her the horrifying news. “Oh, God. Morrisette . . . she . . . died?” Suddenly numb inside, Nikki took a minute to process what he was saying, but she still couldn’t believe it. No . . . not sharp-tongued, balls-to-the-wall, take-no-prisoners Sylvie Morrisette. That was impossible. It had to be.

But Reed’s face said it all.

His tortured expression convinced her.

“Oh, dear God.” Her insides turned to lead. She scooted up against the pillows at the head of the bed and ignored the jab of pain in her shoulder and patted the edge of the mattress. “What happened?”

“Neurosurgeon couldn’t save her.” He closed his eyes, sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sagging, then let his head fall into his hands.

“But . . . I mean . . .” She had no words, was cold to her core.

“They did their best, but she died while she was still in surgery. Blood pressure went down, heart failed, oh, hell, I don’t know exactly what the hell happened.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat, trying to grab on to the rags of his composure. “I’m not sure anyone knows yet. The thing is: She’s gone, Nikki. It’s over.”

Nikki’s heart broke. Not just for her grieving husband, but