Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
“You stay there, nice and safe, enjoying the sunshine,” Laurel insisted. “I hope you and Monty have a wonderful rest of your vacation.”
“All right, hon. Thanks. We’re about to go do water aerobics. I’ll call you later.”
“Sounds good.” Laurel ended the call, her gaze lingering on the phone before settling on the notes strewn across the table. Her handwriting was sharp and precise with each line showing her mind’s relentless push for control and clarity.
Through the wide kitchen window, she could see Huck outside, tinkering with the grill while Aeneas trotted around him. She wished they could just relax and not worry about Rachel’s upcoming interview with Abigail.
But they’d have to watch.
The fire in the living room crackled merrily, filling the cabin with cozy warmth. It had a way of easing into her bones, making her believe that she could fit here. That she could belong.
She could see herself living here. The thought was as startling as it was comforting. But was it too soon? Probably. She’d never been proficient at pursuing relationships, her social skills stunted by the simple fact that she’d skipped most of childhood and all of her teenage years. College at eleven didn’t leave much room for sleepovers and first dates.
She glanced back at her notes. What she wanted from Huck . . . it was terrifying. But so was everything else in her life. And she’d survived plenty of that.
Interpersonal relationships were most certainly not her strong suit. Her phone buzzed again, the vibration sharp against the wood of the table. She snatched it up, pushing her hair behind one ear. “Agent Snow.”
“Hi, Agent. It’s Dr. Ortega.” His voice was rich and steady, like the hum of an old engine. “I was sure you were working on this fine Saturday, just like me.”
She settled more comfortably in the wooden chair. Huck needed new cushions. “Yes, but I’m doing so by a cozy fire.” She glanced toward the living room where the flames danced over split logs, their crackling song both soothing and distracting. “I take it you’re in the office?”
“I am.” Dr. Ortega sighed, the sound heavy and weary, like a man who hadn’t slept enough nights in a row. “Though I need to get going in a few minutes because my niece has a soccer game.”
“Wish her well,” Laurel said, though her mind was already clicking into business mode. “What have you found?”
The sound of paper shuffling came over the line, a rustling reminder of the mountain of files they were both buried under. “I received the toxicology screenings and histology results regarding both Dr. Liu and Tyler Griggs.”
“Excellent.” Laurel’s fingers drummed lightly on the table, matching the rhythm of her pulse. “Tell me about the toxicology.”
“It’s interesting,” Dr. Ortega said, his voice sharpening. “The lab detected alkaloids present in both the brain and blood tissue that don’t match any known synthetic drugs or standard poisons. So I’ve flagged them for further testing and a deeper analysis.”
Laurel’s eyes narrowed as she reached for her notebook, scribbling shorthand so fast the ink threatened to smear. She’d counted on Dr. Ortega sending the brain tissue for histology. “Please tell me about unidentified alkaloids.”
“They’re problematic because of their unknown chemical structures.” Papers rustled again, quicker this time. Did that show frustration? “I don’t know what we found, but I’m willing to bet it’s whatever caused the lesions in both brains.”
“Do you think it’s a toxin of some kind?” Laurel prompted.
“Most likely. The chemical compounds are far from anything we’ve cataloged before. I stayed up most of the night and finished the autopsy on Mark Bitterson.”
Laurel straightened, pen poised over the notebook. The driver of the black truck. “And?”
“It’s consistent with what we found in the others,” Dr. Ortega said grimly. “Same lesions, but the body buried by him was stabbed, no ID yet, and no lesions.”
Her fingers pressed harder into the pen. “What’s our next step?”
“More tests. I’ll be pushing the lab to fast-track the analysis, and I’ve put a rush on Bitterson’s toxicology and histology tests.”
Laurel tapped a finger against her lips, her eyes narrowing as her mind churned through possibilities. “This is a long shot,” she murmured. She quite enjoyed the vernacular. It felt like a puzzle piece fitting into place. “However, is there a way for you to test for the presence of derivatives from the yew tree?”
“The yew tree?” Dr. Ortega echoed. “May I ask why?”
“I’m trying to draw connections between situations.” Laurel pushed her hair back, her fingers lingering against her scalp as if the pressure might force the pieces together. “Bitterson was found in a stand of illegally harvested yew trees. I seem to recall something about the yew tree having a therapeutic use.”
A chair creaked across the phone line. “Sure, sure,” Dr. Ortega said, his voice sharpening as if he’d sat up straighter. “The yew tree is most famous for producing paclitaxel, which is a chemotherapy drug.”