Bones Don't Lie

Her bed was made. Two cats slept in the center of the comforter. The nightstand and dresser were tidy as always. No clutter in sight. It was as if having one item out of place would put her at risk for free-falling back into chaos.

Sharp wandered to the bathroom doorway. “There were two prescription bottles in the sink, both empty. The paramedics took them to the hospital with her.”

Why the sink?

Sharp pulled on a pair of gloves. With the edge of a finger, he opened the medicine cabinet. Personal products stood in neat rows. Brody walked up behind him.

“They’re in alphabetical order,” Brody said over Sharp’s shoulder.

“I told you she has OCD tendencies,” Sharp said. “Why would she drop her empty bottles in the sink? The trashcan is right there.” He pointed to the wastepaper basket tucked between the vanity and toilet. “And I don’t see a cup in here. If she took the pills in the bathroom, she would have needed water.”

“Maybe she took the glass to the kitchen,” Stella suggested.

“But we found her on the bathroom floor, and if she had time to go to the kitchen and back, why didn’t she throw away the pill bottles? For that matter, why didn’t she go lie down in bed?”

“She could have returned to the bathroom because she felt sick.” Stella opened the three vanity drawers and checked the cabinet under the sink. She crouched and looked through the trash in the can. Frowning, she straightened. “I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”

“Me either.” Sharp left the bathroom. “But every time I’ve seen Jenny lose it, she wasn’t cognizant enough to plan a suicide. She was incoherent, wild. Her eyes were dazed and glazed. Utterly terrified beyond comprehension. She’d literally crawl into her closet.”

“But you don’t know what she was like before she hid?” Stella asked. “Or how long the attack lasted before she took action? Or if this time was completely different.”

Good point.

“No,” he admitted. “But in the early days of her illness, there was a great deal of trial and error with medications. Lately, things have been better.”

“What were her triggers?” Brody opened the closet.

Jenny’s clothes were sorted by type and color. They hung in their usual, evenly spaced order. There was no sign that she’d moved anything aside to make a hiding place.

“Once it was the loss of electricity during a winter storm,” Sharp said. “The schools closed. Lance came home early and found her in the closet in an almost catatonic state. He was twelve.”

Lance had stayed with Sharp until Jenny got out of the hospital a week later. Then Sharp had installed a generator in their house so that would never happen again.

“About a year later, she had another episode when Lance was two hours late coming home from hockey practice. Another parent was giving him a ride. The car broke down, and they had to wait for a tow truck. Jenny had convinced herself that he was dead.” She’d called Sharp, and he’d found Lance and brought him home, but by then she’d been too far gone. “She hasn’t had an episode like that for a long time. The doctors said that fluctuating hormones had made her medications hard to balance. The last ten years she’s been more stable. Not normal, but stable.”

“But she was upset by the discovery of her husband’s car this week,” Brody said.

“Yes.” Sharp followed Stella and Brody into the kitchen. “But she was taking the news better than I had expected.”

Sharp scanned the kitchen. “That chair pulled away from the table is very unlike Jenny. She likes everything in its place.”

He went to the sink. Empty. Sharp opened the dishwasher, his focus zooming in on two dessert plates standing on the upper rack. “This is wrong.”

Stella came to stand next to him. “What?”

Sharp pointed. “Jenny would never put a dish on the top rack, only glasses and mugs.”

“Do you think someone else was here?” Brody asked.

“Yes,” Sharp said. “That’s exactly how it feels.”

There were too many little things out of place.

Excitement hummed through Sharp’s veins. No matter how upset Jenny was, she would never, ever change the way she loaded the dishwasher.

“Would Jenny let a stranger into her house?” Stella asked.

“I don’t think so,” Sharp said. “But I can’t be sure.”

“Does she run her dishwasher every day?” Stella asked.

“Yes,” Sharp said. “Without fail.”

Stella pointed to the interior. “I see two coffee cups on the top rack.”

She lifted a cup and turned it over. Dried coffee residue was stuck to the bottom of the cup.

Sharp peered over her shoulder. “Jenny thoroughly washes her dishes before they go into the machine. Someone else put those cups in here.”

“Let’s bag these cups as evidence,” Stella said.

“Since there are two dessert dishes here as well,” Sharp said, “it’s possible she had company.”

“We’ll take the plates as well,” Brody said from across the room.

Sharp went to the refrigerator and opened it. There was nothing unusual inside.

Brody went to the garbage can and stepped on the foot pedal. “There are pie scrapings in the trash. Looks like a whole slice.”

“Pie is Jenny’s favorite food. Why would she cut herself a slice and then throw it away?” Sharp asked. “And for that matter, where is the pie? I don’t remember if Lance brought her one this week, but if he did, the box should be on the counter or in the trash.”

“No box in the trash,” Brody said.

“I’ll go check the garbage can outside.” Stella took a small flashlight from her jacket pocket and walked out of the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later. “No pie box.”

“So where did it go?” Sharp asked.

Brody scanned the kitchen. “Maybe her guest brought it and took it away.”

“This whole thing just doesn’t feel right.” Sharp’s wound ached. He stuck his hand in his jacket pocket to give his arm a rest. “Jenny doesn’t get visitors.”

“Staging a suicide is very unlikely. But then, so is having two back-to-back suicides related to the same case.” Brody’s gaze roamed the room before returning to Sharp’s face. “But if you’re right . . .”

“Then she’s in danger,” Sharp finished. He knew he was right. He knew Jenny better than anyone else, maybe even better than Lance did. She clung to her routine like a rock climber dug in to handholds, as if letting go of any small part of her routine would send her plummeting into another downward spiral. The more anxious she was, the more she would insist on following her rituals.

“Let’s get a forensic team in here,” Brody said. “I want the house printed. We’ll get the cups, plates, and pie scrapings tested.”

“We should also get the doctors to run a full drug panel,” Stella said, “in case she was given something other than her own prescriptions.”

“I need to get someone into her room to protect her.” Sharp froze. “Can you spare an officer?”

Brody shook his head. “There’s no way the chief would approve putting a guard on Jenny. We don’t have any real evidence this was a crime, and the hospital will be watching her closely in the ICU.”