Ghost Times Two by Carolyn Hart Page A

her.
    I saw no way to speak to Megan, even in the softest whisper, and escape Burke’s notice.
    Officer Roberts stood a few feet away from the body, talking rapidly into her lapel mic. “One-eight-seven at 93 Tudor Lane. Need medical examiner. Forensic van.” As she listened, she looked atMegan. “We have one person on the scene . . . no weapon . . . right. Scene secure until ME arrives.” She clicked off the mic. She returned to look down at Megan, the officer’s pale brown eyes cool and suspicious. “Name again.” She pulled a small notebook and a pen from one pocket.
    â€œMegan Wynn.”
    â€œAddress.”
    â€œThree-eighteen Magnolia, apartment 6.”
    â€œCan you identify the deceased?”
    Megan said quietly, “Douglas Graham. A partner at Layton, Graham, Morse and Morse.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    Megan stiffened slightly. “What do you mean?”
    â€œHow was the victim killed?” Roberts’s gaze locked on Megan’s face.
    Megan frowned. “I don’t know. I came in from the terrace and I saw him. He was sitting in that chair.” One small hand waved toward the brown leather chair that faced the screen on the wall. “He was slumped to one side. I saw blood.”
    â€œHow’d he end up on the floor?” The tone was accusatory.
    Megan’s words came in uneven spurts. “I could tell he was horribly hurt.” Her eyes held horror. “I ran across the room. I had to try and help him. I picked up his arm to check for a pulse. I couldn’t find any. I let go of his wrist. Maybe I jerked him. I don’t know. His body started to slip sideways. I reached out and grabbed him, tried to keep him from falling, but I couldn’t hold on.” She glanced down at her shirt. “It was terrible. There was blood on my hands. I used newspapers to try and wipe it off.” A pause. “And a hand towel from the adjoining bathroom.”
    Roberts stared at her, then turned and once again surveyed the room from the doorway. “Crumpled newspapers?”
    â€œYes. Several sheets.”
    Roberts faced Megan. “Where’d you put the newspapers and hand towel?”
    Megan frowned. “I dropped everything on the floor near the sofa.”
    Roberts’s gaze was probing, skeptical. “Let me see if I have it right. You got here, walked in. You claim the victim was dead.”
    Megan’s face tightened. “He was dead when I came.” She enunciated each word with force.
    â€œRight. You claim he was sitting in the brown leather chair and you pulled him over to the floor and that’s how blood got on your clothes and hands.”
    â€œThat is what happened.”
    Roberts’s gaze was accusatory. “Why were you here?”
    â€œMr. Graham texted me a few minutes before nine—”
    Roberts held out her hand. “Let me see.”
    Megan considered the request. She was under no compulsion to turn over the phone. However, the text would be found—message sent—in his phone. She reached into her purse, pulled out the cell phone, handed it to the officer.
    Roberts clicked, glanced, read the text message.
    I hovered near her shoulder.
    Imperative you come to my house now re matter discussed this morning. Will otherwise pursue termination. Park in driveway. Enter at gate, cross terrace, come in back door to den.
    Roberts copied the text, handed back the cell. “Your termination?”
    Megan looked surprised. “My . . . No. It was another matter entirely.”
    â€œYou weren’t about to be fired?”
    Megan was firm, confident. “No.”
    â€œWhose termination did he want to talk about?”
    Megan was silent for a long moment, finally spoke slowly, “I decline to answer that question.” She wasn’t combative, but she was definite.
    Roberts spoke in a level, expressionless voice. “We’ll have quite a