Killer Riff by Sheryl J. Anderson Read Free Book Online Page B

Olivia prompted as soon as the waiter withdrew.
    “There are actually a few other questions that should come first,” I said diplomatically. There was a pressing need to proceed with caution here: Not only did I want to keep this assignment from vaporizing and taking my new job with it, but Olivia was connected to Henry on a personal level, too, which meant the article going south could wreak havoc I hadn’t even considered.
    “Such as?”
    “What makes you think he was murdered, when there’s no supporting evidence?”
    That actually made her take a deep breath and slow down for a moment. “My father had some issues with prescription drugs back in the day, but he was long past that. Years past that.”
    Sympathy corkscrewed through my chest as I realized the fragile ground on which she stood. “Just because he hadn’t used in a long time …, “I began gently.
    “My father was clean,” she insisted, her jaw clenching.
    “Which is why the medical examiner ruled it an accident.”
    Her slender fist came down on the table hard enough to get us sidelong looks from the tables on either side of us. “You’re not listening to me. He didn’t have any pills in the apartment. How could he accidentally take something that wasn’t there to take?”
    Her anguish was understandable, but I needed to keep what facts I knew in full view. “You weren’t living with your father.”
    “No.”
    “So he could have had pills and you wouldn’t—might not have known.”
    “I turned the place upside down after he died,” she said fiercely, eyes sparkling with anger or tears, I couldn’t be sure which. “There was nothing. Nothing.”
    “Maybe he took it all, so there was nothing to find.”
    “Why are you so sure I’m wrong?”
    I hesitated, and she picked up on it immediately, her fingers picking in agitation at the pattern in the tablecloth. If she went Spellbound on me and started drawing ski tracks with her fork, I wasn’t sure what I’d do. But the fact that I was thinking about Gregory Peck instead of answering her question probably meant she had a point. Was I sure she was wrong? Was I hoping she was wrong? Did I want her to be wrong so my own life stayed less complicated? No. I wanted to get the story right, tell what happened and not what she hoped or wished or feared happened. “It’s not that I’m sure you’re wrong, I’m just not sure you’re right.”
    She’d teased a tiny thread out of the tablecloth and now rolled it between her fingertips. “Yet.”
    “Fair enough.”
    “Journalism is all about parsing out what people say and twisting it to suit the story you want to tell, isn’t it.”
    “As opposed to therapy, which is parsing out what people say and twisting it to suit the story you think they should be telling.”
    She sat back in her chair, looking me over analytically. “How long were you in therapy?”
    “What makes you think I was?”
    “You have a pretty strong opinion about it.”
    “Does that mean you were a journalist at some point?”
    She smiled sourly. “No, but I’ve been dealing with them most of my life and I know how they play.”
    “From what I’ve read, the press has dealt with your family’s immediate circle pretty nicely.”
    “They should’ve just left us the hell alone.”
    Tell that to your publicists, I thought, but then again, her father had handled everyone’s publicity. So I said, “They’ll swarm all over you if you start announcing your dad was murdered.”
    “It doesn’t matter now. Everything’s already ruined. I meant before, when there was still a chance for things to work out.”
    “For whom?”
    She took a long time to answer that one. “Any of us.”
    “And that chance is gone now?” I asked gently.
    “My dad’s gone,” she said with the raspy force of someone determined not to cry.
    “And you blame Claire Crowley.”
    She nodded quickly, eyes opening wider to contain the tears. “Now she’s in control.”
    “Of