The Girl Who Wouldn't Stay Dead

“Sure thing.” He grinned. “I can always find something to do in Denver.”

“Let’s get moving,” Wellborn said. “Connor, I want you to come with me when I talk to these people. You know them. You might notice something that doesn’t register with me.”

“I’d be delighted to do anything that might disturb the Riggs family.” He glanced back at Adam. “While I’m with Special Agent Wellborn, you need to keep everyone away from Emily.”

“You got it.”

“One more thing,” Connor said. “Patricia suggested that Emily wasn’t going to wake up. Is there something I haven’t been told?”

“I don’t know all the details,” Adam said, “but the screen on the EEG monitor shows normal brain activity for an induced coma. Seriously, dude, as long as we keep an eye on the monitors, she’ll be okay. She’s a fighter.”

Connor agreed, “She looks like a delicate flower, but she’s tough.”

It seemed impossible that someone would want to murder this gentle but courageous woman. Somehow, he had to keep that fact at the front of his mind. She was in danger. It was his job to keep her safe.

* * *

EMILY COULDN’T TELL where she was, but she sensed a change in surroundings. Through her eyelids, she was aware of the light fading and then becoming bright and fading again. The calliope music still played—boop-boop-beedle-deedle-doop-doop. But the tone was different. And she heard a man’s voice.

“She looks like a delicate flower,” he’d said.

It was Connor...or had she imagined the smooth baritone? She tried with all her might to listen harder and wished she had one of those old-fashioned ear trumpets with a bell shape at the end to vacuum up sound. Speak again, Connor. Say something else.

There was something important she needed to tell him. At the reading of the will, there were details she wanted Connor to know.

When she’d arrived at Patricia’s super-chic, nine-bedroom mountain chalet for the reading of the will, an avalanche of hostility roiled over her. Patricia hated her. Aunt Glenda had always looked down her nose at Emily. Phillip and his buddies, some of whom were good friends of Jamison, eyeballed her with varying degrees of suspicion and contempt. If Connor had been there, the atmosphere would have been different. He would have called them out and shamed them.

Though she was capable of standing up for herself, Emily didn’t really want to fight with these people. Seeking refuge, she’d locked herself into the bathroom—an opulent, marble-floored facility with three sinks, gold-tiled walls, a walk-in glass shower big enough for four adults, a toilet and a bidet. She’d actually considered spending the rest of the night in there.

Staring in the mirror, she’d given herself a pep talk. You have every right to be here. You were called to be here, for Pete’s sake. You can tell these people that they’re mean and interfering. After tonight, you never have to see them again. She’d lifted her chin, knowing that she looked strong and healthy. She’d been doing renovations at the gallery and was probably in the best physical condition of her life. During the past few months in Denver, her chin-length, dark blond hair had brightened. Natural highlights mingled with darker strands. There were women who paid a fortune for this look.

She’d applied coral lipstick and given herself a smile before she opened the bathroom door. Voices and laughter had echoed from the front foyer and bounced off the ornate crystal chandelier. The sound had been disproportionately loud. She’d recoiled and covered her ears. Not ready to rejoin the others, she’d slipped down the corridor to a library with a huge desk and floor-to-ceiling shelves of leather-bound books.

The cream-colored wall opposite the curtained windows had displayed framed photos of various shapes and sizes. Many were pictures of Patricia with celebrities or heads of state or family members. None had showed Patricia’s ex-husband, a man who she and Jamison had referred to as “dead to her.” Do I fall into that category? She’d searched the wall for a sign of her relationship with Patricia. There had been several photos of Jamison, but Emily saw none—not even a group photo—with her own smiling face. Patricia had erased her from the family. So typical!

The door had opened, and a woman had stepped into the library.

Embarrassed to be caught looking at photos, Emily had taken a step back. “Are they ready to start?” she’d asked.

“Not quite yet,” the woman had said. “I thought I saw you come in here. I wanted a chance to meet you before the reading.”

Emily’s gaze had focused on the Oriental carpet. She hadn’t been really interested in mingling or meeting people. With trepidation, she’d looked up. The woman’s legs were a mile long, and she was dressed in the height of Aspen chic. Her hair was long, straight and a deep auburn. Her face had had a hard expression that Emily would never forget.

“We’ve met,” Emily had said.

“I don’t think so.” Not even a hint of a smile. This woman had been as cold as a frozen rainbow trout.

The first time Emily had seen her, she’d been preoccupied—tangled in the sheets and having sex with Jamison. “You’re Kate Sylvester.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Emily hadn’t refused, even though she doubted she’d be much help. She hadn’t talked to Jamison in months, and she’d heard that Kate was living with him. Why had she wanted to ask so many weird questions about Jamison’s finances?

In her unconscious state, she heard the distant sound of alarm bells. At Patricia’s chalet, she’d been more preoccupied with keeping her equilibrium after the Riggs family’s open contempt had thrown her off her game. She hadn’t given Kate a second thought.

But now? After the attempt on her life?

Everything about the will reading took on a much darker tinge.

When she woke up, she had to remember to tell Connor about this connection that spanned the country from Aspen to Jamison’s New York investment firm.

Chapter Four (#ub13656c4-9eb2-5d9a-b62b-6bb99818610a)

In a vacant office near the emergency exit, SAC Wellborn assumed the position of authority behind the desk. Patricia and Aunt Glenda sat opposite him while Connor remained standing with his back against the closed door. The only thing keeping him awake was a fresh surge of adrenaline, and he thoroughly resented that the Riggs women held coffee mugs from the hospital cafeteria in their manicured hands.

He hadn’t seen Aunt Glenda in four or five years. She hadn’t aged, which was a testament to plastic surgery and stringent maintenance procedures. He knew for a fact that she was in her late seventies. Her straight hair—solid black without a trace of gray—was pulled up in a high ponytail, showing off her sharp features. Though the never-married matriarch of the Riggs family might be described as a handsome woman, Connor thought she looked like a crow with her black hair and beady eyes.

“Where’s Phillip?” he asked.

“Dealing with another matter,” Patricia said. Her upper lip curled in a sneer. She really didn’t like him.

The feeling was mutual. Connor couldn’t resist baiting her. “Your baby brother should be here. Whatever he’s doing can’t be more important than talking to the FBI.”

“Phillip is accompanying Dr. Thorson.” Her hostility flared. “Because of your absurd accusations, Eric is in trouble with the hospital administration. Phillip went with him, hoping to smooth the waters.”

Reading between the lines, Connor figured that Phillip would get Thorson off the hook with a big fat juicy donation to the hospital. Not only was the Riggs family wealthy, but they’d been in Aspen for a long time and wielded a lot of influence. Some of the cousins were on the city council, and Phillip had considered running for mayor. Their uncaring manipulation of power made Connor want revenge. Suing them wasn’t enough. He wanted blood.

Wellborn placed a small recording device on the desk. “I’ll be making a permanent record of this conversation.” He stated the date, the location and the people in the room.

Before he could proceed, Patricia rapped on the desktop. “Excuse me, should we have a lawyer present?”

“That will not be necessary,” Aunt Glenda pronounced. “We wish to do everything possible to be helpful. I feel partially responsible for Emily’s accident. When she left, I should have sent someone along with her or had her followed.”

“Why is that?” Wellborn asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? After hearing about her inheritance, she was so thrilled and excited that she couldn’t keep her little car on the road.” Glenda spoke with absolute confidence. “We’ll do whatever we can to take care of Emily. That includes opening my home to her and hiring a nurse to watch over her.”

Patricia backed up her aunt with a barrage of commentary, describing the facilities at Glenda’s sprawling cattle ranch, which included a barn, a bunkhouse and a hangar for a small single-engine airplane—none of which seemed pertinent to the care of a woman in an induced coma. But Patricia was on a roll, babbling about how much she liked Emily and how much they had in common and many, many, many other lies.

Wellborn interrupted, “Why didn’t you consult with Mr. Gallagher before moving the patient?”

Glenda held up a hand to silence her niece. “It simply never occurred to me. I don’t know what Connor has been telling you, but he has no relationship with Emily.”

Wellborn looked toward Connor. “I thought you were her fiancé.”

“No.”

Patricia took her shot. “You lied. So pathetic! You’ve always been insanely jealous of Jamison. You envied his success, his style and now his wife. What’s the matter, Connor? Can’t find a girlfriend of your own?”