The Sometime Sister Katherine Nichols (reading in the dark txt) 📖

the murder rate, and, according to their data, it’s working. They cleaned up local police departments—better training, more funding. The emphasis was on getting people to work with the authorities to prevent murders. That meant the pressure was on the cops to perform. One way to cut down on the killings is to under report them. Nobody’s been keeping track of accidental deaths.”

“Are you saying they ruled Stella’s death an accident?”

“That’s right, accidental drowning.”

“But I thought Mike said something about her body being…” I couldn’t put the description of a broken Stella into words.

Justin spoke. “They explained her condition as trauma from the wreckage of the boat. They aren’t planning to investigate.”

“We could find a doctor in the states and ask for a second opinion, right?” That Ben might get away with staging my sister’s death as an accident filled me with anger strong enough to pull me from despair.

“We’ll try, Grace,” Harry said. “But don’t get your hopes too high. The only one who can request anything regarding the case is Ben. I set up a meeting with a friend at the consulate’s office to see if he’ll help us.”

I stood, rushed toward the restroom, and made it just in time to throw up into a gold inlaid toilet. I sank to my knees for another round of vomiting followed by dry heaves that wracked through my body. When I emptied the contents of my stomach, I remembered I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch on the plane, at least eight hours ago. After what I hoped was my last bout of heaving, I realized someone was holding my hair back.

“All done?” Justin asked.

I struggled to my feet, avoiding eye contact with the man who had just seen me hugging a toilet. Sure, it was a sleek marble toilet, but it was still a toilet, and I’d been clinging to it with my head only inches from the water. He guided me to the seashell-shaped sink complete with elaborate gold-plated faucet. For an awful second, I feared I would throw up again, this time all over the sparkling fixtures, but the feeling passed. He handed me a wad of wet paper towels, and I held it against my throat.

Before I could thank him, the restroom door flew open and three giggling women burst in. They were dressed for clubbing—sheer peek-a-boo blouses, visible bras in shades of black and red, short tube skirts, and frighteningly high heels.

“Sorry, ladies.” Justin blushed and turned to me. “If you’re okay, I’ll wait for you outside.” He was out the door before I could reply.

The women assumed positions at the mirror, applying and adjusting make-up while I made sure my face and dress were clean before rejoining the men at our table.

“Are you all right, Grace?” Harry asked.

I was still shaky, but it was the genuine sincerity of his tone that almost brought me to tears. Dealing with people locked in grief is tricky. If you ignore the pain, it’s as if you don’t care. But if you acknowledge it, you risk unleashing the beast. I breathed in deeply, then said the worst had passed.

Justin suggested I needed to eat and rest. I questioned the wisdom of eating but agreed to order something later. He insisted on escorting me to my room before he and Harry went to dinner.

My stomach lurched with the sudden motion of the elevator, and I stumbled as dizziness overcame me. He wrapped his arm around my waist as we walked down the hallway. After prying the key from my shaking hands, he opened the door. Once inside, he led me to the bed and eased me onto the mound of pillows. While I tried to get the room to stop spinning, he brought a cool, wet cloth and put it on my forehead. Then he ordered toast and ginger ale.

The same happy bellboy who carried my bags delivered the food. I noticed what I took as a look of disappointment when Justin tipped him. Even in my sorry state, a twinge of triumph at striking a blow in defense of female tippers lightened my mood.

I assured him I felt better and promised to eat, but he sat on the end of the bed and refused to leave until I finished my toast. Then we made plans to meet downstairs for breakfast at eight when Harry would take us to talk with his friend.

“Remember, Grace,” he cautioned on his way out. “If Ben fights it, there may be nothing we can do.”

Chapter 15

When my alarm sounded, I had no idea where I was. Sunk deep into the thick bedding, a sudden attack of claustrophobia came over me. I threw off the comforter, gasping for air. Thanks to thick shades, the room was still dark. Lying there, I was momentarily disconnected from reality. I wanted to remain like that, unaware of where I was and why I was here. But my emptiness and sorrow returned along with the realization my sister was dead.

I dragged myself to the shower and stood under the spray, waiting for the cold water to turn warm. The exotic gel held no interest for me, and I skipped the luxury shampoo. I finger-combed my damp hair, applied a little make-up, and slipped on jeans, a short-sleeved pink sweater, and beige sneakers.

Even though I made it to the restaurant ten minutes before eight, both Harry and Justin were already seated at a table complete with a pitcher of pale rose-colored juice.

Harry wore what I would come to think of as his uniform: another bright, floral shirt with a clean pair of jean shorts. Justin was dressed in a light blue polo and khaki pants. They stood when I approached.

“You look like you had a good night’s rest.” Harry winked at me and turned to Justin. “Doesn’t she look great?”

“Yes, she does.” He smiled.

A vaguely familiar sensation of warmth started somewhere low in my stomach and traveled upward until I could feel the flush spread from my