Come Back to Me by Jody Hedlund
~ 2 ~
ATATOUCH against her arm, Marian startled upright and blinked awake.
“Marian, love. Go home and have a rest.” A gentle voice spoke beside her. “Take a hot shower and sleep in a bed.”
She shifted in the hospital chair to find Harrison Burlington in his motorized wheelchair. Through his glasses, he regarded her anxiously. He’d changed his attire—another crisp suit with a bow tie and matching vest reminiscent of the 1850s. He even wore a pocket watch with a fob dangling out and looped to one of his buttons.
His dark hair was neatly combed away from his forehead. The scent of sandalwood aftershave lingered in the air about him but still couldn’t overpower the ammonia and bleach that permeated the hospital room.
Her attention jumped to her dad, to his pale face, closed eyes, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest. His hand was still within hers where she’d placed it. She tightened her grip, but his remained loose and lifeless.
From what she could tell, he hadn’t moved a muscle while she’d dozed. His body was in the same position, his arms at his sides, his head and chin facing the ceiling. Not a strand of his scraggly gray hair had shifted. Even the bedside monitors registered a steady pulse and normal breathing rhythm, unchanged from every other time she’d looked.
The heavy curtains across the window didn’t let a sliver of light into the private room Harrison had arranged for her dad, and she had no idea whether it was the middle of the night or day.
“What time is it?” Her voice was raspy with sleep.
Harrison withdrew the elegant pocket watch and flipped open the lid. “Eleven o’clock in the morning.”
She’d been at the hospital for almost twenty-four hours straight. After coming directly from the airport, she’d spent the majority of yesterday grilling the specialists and persuading them to order further tests.
She was sure by now that every physician at Kent and Canterbury was as anxious to see her leave as Harrison was—although Harrison’s motives were out of kindness and not irritation.
She rubbed her eyes, the grittiness of her waterproof mascara assuring her that she was still wearing at least a little makeup. Even so, she guessed she looked a fright. Harrison was right. She needed a shower.
Harrison stuffed the watch back into his pocket. “Bojing is outside in the car park and will drive you to Chesterfield Park. I left instructions for the maids to make up a guest bed for you.”
“Thank you, Harrison. But I have a rental car. And I don’t want to impose on your home.”
“With twenty bedrooms, you’ll hardly impose.”
Harrison’s sprawling manor was located on the outskirts of Canterbury. Long ago, the estate had consisted of over a thousand acres of surrounding land. Although it wasn’t as vast anymore, the remaining formal gardens and deer park gave the place a private, country-like feel. Set against such a magnificent backdrop, the ancient mansion house was stunning, always featured in travel magazines.
“I’d love to stay at Chesterfield Park. But I keep extra clothes at Dad’s house. I’ll be fine there.”
“Right. But I don’t want you to be alone at a time like this.” He sounded like Jasper, fussing over her. In fact, Jasper had already called three times since her arrival.
“I’m a strong woman.” She’d said the same thing to Jasper each time.
The crease between Harrison’s eyes only deepened. He was a striking man, and she’d always wondered why he’d never married. Even though he’d lost the use of his legs as a result of a spinal cord injury during a car accident when he’d been a child, he was one of the most capable men she’d ever known. Surely, he could have his pick of women, especially with his prestige and wealth.
“Besides”—she fished for the car keys in her purse—“Dad’s house is closer to the hospital.”
Harrison opened his mouth as if he wanted to say more, but then he sat back in his wheelchair and pressed his lips closed.
She kissed her dad’s cheek then stood and stretched. “I won’t be gone long.”
“Take your time. I’ll stay with Arthur.” His eyes still radiated worry, although he was evidently trying to rein it in.
She leaned down and placed a kiss on Harrison’s forehead. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
As she made her way out of the hospital to the Lexus she’d rented, she listened to her voicemail, including a message from Ellen. She still hadn’t told her sister about Dad’s coma, and guilt nudged her. She couldn’t put it off forever. But the longer she could spare Ellen the stress, the better.
Minutes later, Marian pulled onto St. Peter’s Lane and parked in front of the tall terraced house her dad had purchased when he’d taken the position in Canterbury. As she exited her car, she released a breath containing the tension that had been building since Harrison called her with the news of the coma.
The street was always quiet even though it was situated within the original city walls and just a block away from shops, restaurants, and theaters.
She started up the steps to the front door, appreciating the Regency style of the house with its white brick exterior, multitude of large panes, and the half-moon window above the door. With four floors and seven bedrooms, the house certainly had space for two grown daughters who only came sporadically.
Even if the place was too big for Dad, Marian couldn’t begrudge his choice. In her opinion, it was one of the most stunning properties within the old city walls as well as one of the richest in terms of history. It had lovely fireplaces in many of the rooms, shutters, lofty ceilings with ornate cornices and ceiling roses, a spacious welcoming hall, a Georgian-era staircase, and much more.
The home had come furnished, but her dad had hired an interior decorator to add the finishing touches, making it a unique but lovely blend of modern and Victorian.
Marian lifted the key to the lock but froze as the door inched open. Not only was the dead bolt not secured, but the door hadn’t been closed tightly. Perhaps in the throes of distress and haste to reach the hospital, Dad had neglected to lock up.
A strange prickling formed at the back of her neck, an intuition that someone was watching her. She glanced both ways up and down the street, viewing more of the fashionable terraced homes and a few parked cars, but seeing nothing or no one out of the ordinary.
She shook off the unwelcome sensation and pushed the door fully open. The moment she stepped into the wide front hallway, she stopped abruptly at the destruction that met her. Upended tables, shattered glass, overthrown rugs. Every framed painting and porcelain plate that once so proudly graced the walls now littered the floor in broken pieces.
Marian pressed a hand to her mouth. What had happened? And was the intruder lurking in the shadows?
She held herself motionless for long seconds, listening, waiting. But only the eerie silence of a deserted home remained. Finally, she tiptoed through the debris into the front room, the lounge, only to find it had been ransacked like the hallway. The sectional couch cushions had been pulled out, the decorative pillows tossed aside, even the large Oriental rug at the center was tousled.
The adjoining dining room had suffered the same fate. Everything that could be emptied had been, every drawer in the mahogany sideboard and every chest. Antique coins, valuable knickknacks, and her mother’s sterling silver place settings were kicked helter-skelter across the floor.
Marian made her way through the house, up the steep stairway to the next floor, her dismay and anxiety multiplying exponentially with each step she took. As far as she could tell, the break-in hadn’t been done by thieves hoping to steal valuables. None of her father’s expensive electronic devices had been taken. And none of the items of historic value had been stolen either.
She swung open the door to her father’s study, her shoulders sinking at the disaster spreading out before her. Dad had never been tidy, but the room had been ripped apart from top to bottom until nothing remained in its original place—not a book, file, or spreadsheet. It was as if an F-5 tornado had been trapped in the room.
Had he been home when the intruder struck? Did that have something to do with his coma?
She shook her head. No, all the tests—the X-rays, MRIs, CTs, PET scans, and even a DXA—revealed no bodily trauma whatsoever.
If she had to guess, she’d say the break-in occurred after he’d gone to the hospital. Otherwise, he surely would have reported the vandalism.
What about the library? Her dad’s collection of books was his life. When he wasn’t working, he was reading. She backed out of the office and headed to the next room.
She flipped on the light switch to reveal the full destruction. The floor-to-ceiling shelves that covered three walls had been emptied of every single book, now strewn on the floor. All that remained on the glossy oak panels were dust bunnies.
Whoever had been there had left no nook or cranny unturned.
With trembling fingers, she reached for the closest hardback, which had fallen open to the first page. The Architectural History of Canterbury Cathedral by Robert Willis. She carefully smoothed the yellowed paper, noticing the tome had been written in 1845. Dad might be a scientist to the core of his being, but over the past ten years of living in Canterbury, he’d collected a sizeable number of history books as well.
She set the cathedral book upon the shelf, picked up several more, and then stopped herself. Before she moved anything or started cleaning up the place, she needed to alert the police. This was a crime scene, and if she had any hope of finding out what had happened and why, she needed help. She pulled out her phone and dialed the emergency number 999.
* * *
“The police constable claims the break-in was a random act of violence.” Marian set the container of tikka masala from Kashmir Tandoori on the hospital tray table next to Harrison. The spicy cayenne wafted around her, making her stomach growl, especially with the realization that she hadn’t eaten anything substantial since arriving in England.
After meeting with the police, she’d managed a quick shower and changed into one of her more casual outfits, a rose-colored blouse with gray twill trousers and a pair of ankle-strap heels. She’d pulled her hair up into a French twist and refreshed her makeup. Now she felt like a new person—even though she was still tired.
She retrieved two sets of plastic silverware from the takeout bag along with paper plates. “I told the police I want an investigator to come out to the house anyway.”
“I could phone them and add my insistence to the matter.”
“If they won’t assign an investigator to our case, I’ll hire a private detective.” Marian began to divide the Indian food between the two plates.
Harrison touched her hand, pressed a finger against his lips, and tilted his head toward the door. Gravity drenched every move he made.
Without a word, she crossed the room and closed the door. On the way back, she paused beside her dad, squeezed his hand, and waited a fraction, hoping he’d squeeze back. But his fingers were as clammy and still as the last time she’d held his hand only five minutes ago. With a sigh, she released him and adjusted his sheet.
His skin had always been pale like hers, probably from spending so much time indoors. Plump, but clean shaven, his face reflected his gentle spirit. The grooves next to his eyes had been the result of constant study and reading.
Wake up, Dad, she silently pleaded before bending and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Whatever trouble he was in, she wanted him to know she’d do anything to help him.
As she lowered herself into the chair beside the bed, she picked up her plate. “So what’s really going on, Harrison?”
“Your father’s office at the lab was torn apart too.” His tone was low and ominous.
Her blood turned cold. “It was? When?”
“I went over yesterday morning after I left here to let everyone know about Arthur, and I saw the upheaval then.”
“Why would anyone wreck Dad’s home and office? And who?”
“It has to be one of the other drug companies.” Harrison glanced at the door, his brow furrowing. “I had my suspicions about what happened at the office. But now that they’ve searched Arthur’s house too, it’s clear they’re cracking on until they get what they’re after.”
Her dad had already perfected the formulas of two different drugs for Mercer, FDA-approved medications that had brought the company worldwide fame and fortune. Of course, during their creation, other pharmaceutical companies had attempted to steal Dad’s research, and he’d faced ongoing threats. Had that happened again?
“So was Dad on the verge of developing another drug?”
Harrison leaned forward. “Not just any drug, Marian. The drug.”
“The cure for VHL?” She hadn’t known Dad was still working on it, had thought he’d given up when he passed along his research to her.
Harrison’s eyes gleamed strangely behind his spectacles. “The ultimate cure for anything.”
“Oh.” Deflated, Marian slumped against the sterile chair. She didn’t want to hear about her dad’s obsession. She’d listened to enough of his theories throughout the years and had stopped paying attention to his rambling long ago.
Maybe if he hadn’t spent so much time running down all those rabbit trails, he would have found the cure for VHL by now. Ellen would be safe. And Marian wouldn’t have to spend every second of her life trying to succeed where he’d failed. Maybe they would have been together again instead of continually drifting farther apart, living separate lives in three different countries.
Whatever the case, she didn’t want to talk about “the ultimate cure.” Even though Harrison had always been willing to listen to her dad go on about his research, he knew how she felt about it.
She took a bite of the spicy chicken, savoring the blend of cumin and coriander and tomato. “This is delicious. We need to eat before it gets cold.”
Harrison pushed his plate away, untouched. “None of the drug companies would stir up this kind of trouble for just any drug—they never have before. But they would do anything, no matter how vile, if they believed Arthur had completed his work on the ultimate cure.”
She wanted to sigh in exasperation, but she finished her bite and responded evenly. “You and I both know his research for the ultimate cure was based on myths and historical gibberish.”
“And you and I both know Arthur is a genius.” Harrison glanced at her dad, studying him while she inhaled more of her dinner. “To be fair, what if his Tree of Life theory is valid?”
Marian released a short, bitter laugh. “Come on, Harrison. We’re scientists, and we’re trained to use empirical evidence. To test. To retest. To base results on solid observations not speculation. And most certainly not on tall tales.”
“He was rather secretive of late. Maybe he finally discovered the location of the seeds from the Tree of Life.”
Seeds? Tree of Life? Marian shook her head, her frustration escalating.
“We obviously don’t know all the particulars.” His voice was barely audible. “But Lionel Inc. pesters him unceasingly. I’d hazard a guess they’re behind whatever happened to Arthur, especially if they fancy getting their hands on a discovery.”
Whatever happened to Arthur. . .
During her last call with Dad, he’d been distracted and cryptic. One of his final instructions pushed to the front of her mind: If anything happens to me, go to my safety deposit box at the bank, Marian. You’re intelligent, and you’ll figure out what to do next.
At the time, she’d believed he was alluding to end-of-life decisions. But what if he’d known someone meant to do him harm? Or had he known he’d fall into a coma? If so, how?
Hunger fading, Marian placed her soggy plate onto the table.
Whatever was in the safety deposit box was likely what the intruders had been looking for when they’d broken into her dad’s office and home. Perhaps it contained something important, something Dad hadn’t wanted anyone else to know about, except her.
Why?
How would Mercer competitors know her dad had landed upon another medicinal discovery unless they had inside connections, perhaps someone close to her dad that they were paying to report to them? Perhaps someone working for Lionel Inc.? They had a branch in Sandwich, only thirteen miles from Canterbury.
Although the police suspected the trespasser into her dad’s house had used an electronic lockpick or some other specialized tool that left no trace of tampering, what if the intruder was a trusted friend who already had a key to Dad’s house, as well as a key to his office?
A trusted friend . . . like Harrison Burlington.
No, not Harrison. Kind, giving, gentle Harrison would never willingly bring Arthur Creighton any harm.
Even so, for now, it was best not to say anything about the safety deposit box. She picked up her plate of takeout and started to eat again, trying to don an air of indifference. But all the while she nibbled, she considered what kind of excuse she could give Harrison before she left again.
The bank closed in two hours. She had to see what was in the safety deposit box today. She wouldn’t be able to rest until she did.