My breath catches.
Tobacco leather shoe. Gold buckle. Pinstriped cuff. I know that suit.
“Matthew?”
Kneeling beside him, I touch his cheek. It’s clammy, chilled. “Matthew!”
I lift a hand. Heavy. I drop it and sit back, taking in the scene.
He’s unconscious.
I run my finger beneath his nose—but he’s not breathing.
“Help!” I scream. “Someone call 911!”
I recall the CPR training I received years ago—something Richard insisted on for Stella’s safety—and pinch his nose and breathe into his mouth. I push down on his chest. It’s harder than I expected—resistant beneath my palms.
I’m not doing this right. I know I’m not doing this right. One. Two. Three. I’ve lost count. Breathe into his mouth. His lips are cold. Push again. Nothing.
I run to the closed door and fling it open, yelling down the hall. “Help! A man’s down. We need an ambulance!”
Chapter
Six
Noah
“Any press outside Morgan’s?”
I step out for a clearer view. No vans. No lenses. Just typical traffic along the street.
“None that I can find. You think she’s going to attract media attention from this?”
“I’m skeptical. Our client is concerned.” He means Dorian Moore, the founder’s husband and Alicia’s friend. Moore’s lived under a spotlight before; paranoia’s a reflex.
“The heart attack victim should be the story—not the woman who found him.”
“Lab confirmed toxic digoxin levels an hour ago—well above any therapeutic dose. It’s officially a homicide.” Hudson lets that sit for a beat.
My gut tightens. “He was murdered. Any evidence that indicates Alicia was the target?”
“Data doesn’t point that way,” Hudson says. “Yet. We may need to increase coverage.”
“Or move her to a temporary location. I told you, this house is…” I checked the listing on Zillow and the estimated value is a cool five mill, but the corner location gives new meaning to the word exposed.
“Right. Moore said the same.”
An older woman walking two small dogs smiles as she passes, and I back up from the curb and venture down the side street. Further down, I spot a sedan, a blue four-door Mazda, parked with a driver sitting behind the wheel.
“How’s she doing?” Hudson asks.
“Haven’t seen her. Martin messaged that she’s on the way home. But given she went into the office this afternoon and held client meetings, I’d say she’s holding it together.” I know firsthand that you can be emotionally shaken and still hold it together, but if anyone won’t unravel, from what I’ve seen, it’s Alicia Morgan.
Cars rumble past at a leisurely pace, but I keep an eye on the Mazda. “Did Quinn learn anything about the vic? Any connection to Magpie?”
“Nothing so far beyond what’s public. Used to own a public relations firm and now he’s a lobbyist. Quinn’s doing a deep dive on his clients.”
“Bet the cops are too.” That’s where I’d start. “I know it’s risky to buy into coincidences, but the extortionists we’re worried about—the Magpie network, the blackmail syndicate that’s been trading secrets from Washington’s elite—murder isn’t their calling card. They’re in the business of threats.”