The Third Grave (Savannah #4) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,76

her she didn’t have to wear it twenty-four /seven, but not to overdo it and start by easing out of it a couple of hours a day.

She had. It was now on the passenger seat next to her.

She rotated her shoulder as she drove through the city. It felt fine. A little tight maybe, but no real pain. Nothing serious.

She guided her Honda into the thin stream of traffic heading across the Talmadge Memorial Bridge to the island.

Her second doctor’s appointment, with her OB/GYN, had been good news as well. Dr. Kasey had informed her that physically she was fine, that everything checked out normally after an exam.

“I know it’s hard and there is bound to be a lingering sadness and sense of loss. You’ve been down this road before and there are support groups you can join,” she advised.

“I have.” The truth was she was still part of an online group of families who had survived miscarriage and early child loss and she would reach out to them again. She’d even made a couple of friends through the connection, but Reed hadn’t. Wouldn’t. Preferred to bury his loss deep in his soul and not discuss it.

“Good, so when you and your husband are ready, there’s no physical reason you can’t try again,” the doctor had said once Nikki had dressed and was seated across the cluttered desk in the small office tucked inside the clinic. “It’s the emotional and mental part that concerns me.”

“I’ll be okay,” Nikki had said, meeting her doctor’s gaze. “Been here before.”

Her doctor’s eyes had been kind and understanding and she’d offered Nikki a small smile. “Good. But it doesn’t hurt to talk to someone if you need to. A counselor. Someone who deals in loss and grief.”

“Got it.” She nodded. “If I do, I will.” And she meant it.

“Okay, then. If you decide to go for it and do get pregnant again, we’ll monitor you very closely.”

She hadn’t said “again,” but it was there.

“You’re in the high-risk category because of the multiple miscarriages, but that doesn’t mean there’s any reason you can’t have a healthy baby.”

As always, Dr. Kasey had been encouraging and comforting, though Nikki had heard the words before.

Now, as Nikki drove onto the wider part of Tybee, she decided she was ready. She wanted a baby. Reed wanted a baby. They could afford a child and though she’d considered the idea of going throughout life without becoming a parent, it wasn’t for her. She had friends who had happily made that decision and were very happy, but Nikki couldn’t see herself without a growing family. So, she saw no need to wait, and her biological clock was already ticking loudly in her ears.

But Reed? He might need some convincing.

She didn’t know if he was ready to jump back on the pregnancy train so soon. The losses just tore him up inside.

She turned her thoughts to the interview ahead.

Ashley Jefferson hadn’t returned any of her calls and probably wouldn’t be thrilled to see Nikki on her doorstep. Well, too damned bad. The woman was Owen Duval’s alibi, so Nikki needed to talk to her.

Tybee Island had been in the hurricane’s path and was still recovering, utilities still iffy in some places, the road clean but buckled in spots where trees had been uprooted. She caught glimpses of the Atlantic, peaceful now, the tide lapping at the wide, sandy beaches, the rage of the hurricane now a memory.

Traffic clogged near the center of the island, where a construction crew was still working. She inched her Honda around a series of orange cones only to be stopped by a huge white truck parked near an open manhole cover with two workers peering into the depths. She checked her rearview, making certain the white Cadillac that had been on her bumper stopped. It did. Inches from her own bumper, a small, elderly woman peering over the steering wheel. Behind the Caddy a gray pickup with darkened windows idled and behind the truck, a motorcycle revved, its rider obviously impatient.

The driver of the Caddy honked.

Nikki threw up a hand. “Nothing I can do,” she said into the mirror, as if the drivers behind her could hear.

Finally, a flagger waved her through, the small caravan following. A few blocks later she found the address listed for Ryan and Ashley Jefferson. Their house wasn’t in a “gated community,” as Brit Sully had told her, but had its own set of private wrought iron gates and a tall stucco