Prescription For Love (Destiny's Child Book 1) Page 5

  “Nothing.” He muttered something else and turned to leave.

  Bitch, he’d probably said. Like all the others who had come before him.

  That he thought so didn’t horrify her. No one messed with a bitch, especially when she sat in a position of power.

  She had thus found herself able to run her cases without chief inspectors hounding her for results and reports. A couple of the intrepid old salts who knew her well, having worked with her for many years, pushed their luck, which she allowed because they’d earned the privilege by respecting her and her work.

  “Yo, Marco.”

  “Bugger off, Bryce,” she said without looking up.

  “Scored a good hit with this one. He called you, I quote, ‘a frigid, ice-cold bitch’.”

  “Hmm.”

  Where had she stashed the report old man Asher would be sure to bark about later?

  “Good job, Margie babe. He beat the last one. What had he uttered?”

  “‘Stuck up, snobbish cow’.”

  He bellowed with laughter. “That’s the one.”

  Not the worst she’d heard. One of the misogynists at the station had once called her the ‘c’ word, accompanied by a similarly unflattering expletive. The people of the lab had not let the man live it down—he always found his reports and requests at the back of every queue imaginable.

  A smile tugged at her lips. She liked being part of the lab’s team. There weren’t many women pathologists, so she’d swum in unchartered waters at first. The staff had made her welcome, even if she still kept up a façade—there existed a fine, cannot-return-if-crossed line between respect and disrespect in the workplace.

  She glanced up from her report. “I seem to recall giving you a few tasks earlier, Bryce. They done?”

  “Gah. Why do I keep thinking you’ll ever be any fun?”

  He scuttled off, and she plunged herself into drawing up her report. Her fingers flew over the keyboard as her mind drifted to the mental snapshot she kept of every crime scene.

  “Yo, Margo.”

  “What?”

  And was it be her imagination, or had he called her by her name?

  “Someone here to see you.”

  She was expecting no one, and a police officer would have wandered to her office. “Who is it?”

  Bryce shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  Trouble. Nothing made the too-sunny bloke uncomfortable.

  “Pretty young girl.” He hesitated. “Says she’s your daughter.”

  Emma? What was she doing here?

  Margo threw a look at her watch. Four o’clock. Emma should be at Mrs. May’s place.

  She pushed her chair back so swiftly, it toppled over. Not bothering with the crash in the office, she dashed out of the room and stalked to the visitors’ lobby.

  “So it’s true?” Bryce chased hot on her heels. “Since when do you have a child? Can’t believe you hid that from us.”

  Oh, get lost. “She’s alone?”

  “Well, yeah. You mean, you have more than one kid?”

  “Bryce.”

  “Wot?”

  “Shut up.”

  Emma had to be with her sitter. Damn it, she’d arranged for someone to watch over her so the girl wouldn’t be alone.

  She punched the code into the keypad to open the door of the glass partition separating the lab from the lobby. Once the panel slid wide, she stormed into the cavernous entrance hall.

  And there Emma stood, in her school uniform, the blazer askew on her slight shoulders, the knee-length socks, white that morning, dotted with dirt and mud. Her hair fell in wild curls down her back, and the smile on her face when she saw Margo could’ve convinced a saint to enter Hell of their own free will.

  Oh, no, that girl would not con her.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  Emma pouted. “I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

  “I am not,” she snapped, and ground her teeth to keep her anger from bubbling over. “How did you get here?”

  “Took the bus, and then walked.”

  For real? The urge to grab her shoulders and shake some sense into her burned its way through Margo. Didn’t Emma know how dangerous the streets could be for a young girl? But still, not the place for a lecture. Her hands clenched into fists, she mumbled some choice expletives under her breath.

  “We need to get you home. Immediately.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, ‘no’? You, young lady, were supposed to be at Mrs. May’s house.” She frowned. “Does Mrs. May even know where you are?”

  “She fell asleep, like always.”

  “What do you mean, ‘like always’?” Her voice had gone higher, echoing along the stone walls of the great lobby. “It isn’t the first time you’ve done a runaway act on her?”

  She didn’t care by now if anyone heard her. Who gave a damn, anyway? Emma put her life at risk every time she stepped out unaccompanied by a responsible adult. Sadistic murderers and other perverts preyed on such vulnerable children. Monsters, like the killer they chased right then.

  Another shrug from the brat, which incensed her even more.

  “Are you unconscious or what?” she shouted, all traces of restraint gone. A psychopath trolled out there, kidnapping, raping, and killing young girls. Emma would not join the statistics of ‘children at risk,’ not if Margo had any say in the matter.

  “Margo?” a soft male voice asked. “Is everything okay?”

  She whipped around to stare at her boss. No, not him. He’d set off for a homicide site earlier. She darted a glance at the grey, metal forensic kit in his hand. Just her luck—he’d finished, and had driven back to the lab to process his evidence.

  His usual, unnatural calm laced the questions. Nothing ruffled William Ford, and no one would be able to wager a guess as to what clicked inside his brain at any moment.

  Tamping her fury and distress into submission, she squared her shoulders and met his gaze head on. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Had she caught the hint of a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth? In all her years at the forensic centre, she had never seen the wizened, fifty-something William betray any emotion.

  He nodded at Emma. “And who would you be, young lady?”

  “I’m Dr. Nolan’s daughter.”

  Margo refused to wince. Keeping her stoic face in place, she berated her wayward daughter in her head. Why’d she have to go and open the can of worms?

  William indicated the offices with a thrust of his chin. “A word with you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure,” she gritted through clenched teeth, before she followed him. She grabbed Emma by the shoulders and hustled the girl into the warm and cosy sitting room where the pathologists met with victims’ families.

  “Stay here,” she hissed through still-ground teeth, after pushing the girl down onto a sofa.

  Once in the corridor, she turned to meet the horrific, tuneless music her boss was sure to deliver.

  He faced her with his arms crossed. “How old is she?”

  “Eleven.”

  “You’ve had a child for more than a decade and you never let up about the fact?”

  “It’s ... It’s not like that.” Damn, she was floundering.

  She never floundered.

  His raised eyebrows prompted further explanation.

  “I’ve had her for only a few weeks. She’s not my biological daughter, but my ward. Her mother died and named me her legal guardian.”

  “Yet, she considers herself your daughter.”

  “It’s ... complicated.”

  There. No escape possible any longer. Nobody had a family when working inside pathology labs, at least no pathologists had any, not that she knew of. William would think her unreliable from here on, because she had other duties that clashed with her professional priorities.

  “Margo, you’re a very good forensic pathologist. One of t
he best, even.”

  Her mouth went dry while her heart hammered in her chest.

  Here it comes—the big let-down.

  “Tell me one thing,” he said. “What is a tween doing all alone here in the middle of London?”

  God, no. He’d heard everything. “William, I’m sorry—”

  “Margo.”

  She tamped down the sigh threatening to burst from her. “She dodged her sitter’s surveillance. I had no idea she’d come here.”

  He frowned. “Are you up to date on your reports?”

  “As always.”

  What was he getting at?

  “Good. Because you’re taking her home, personally, right away.” He turned towards his office. “Do me a favour, too. Find her a better nanny. You can’t have her running all over the place by herself.”

  It’s not my fault, she wanted to throw out. You think I don’t care about her? That I didn’t bother to make sure someone looked after her?

  “William, I—” He was right. What could she be thinking? Brain over heart, always. “I will.”

  “Good.” He went into his office, then poked his head out again. “They’re not easy at that age, if that’s any consolation.”

  “Pardon me?” First Jamie, then William. Did all men turn into experts on young girls’ behaviours?

  “I have twin girls. We went through that stage.” He grimaced—or did he smile? “It gets better.”

  Her boss had two daughters. Who knew?

  Slow movement across the glass partition leading to the lab caught her attention. Bryce lingered near the photocopy machine, yet held no paper in his hand, and the blinking lights on the device didn’t flash.

  The git. He was eavesdropping.

  She had more urgent problems to deal with, though, and reluctantly, she turned to Emma, who sat like a cute little angel on the sofa. The girl needed only the glowing halo over her head.

  In her ‘brain over heart’ mantra, the brain part would have to short circuit. She didn’t want to be rational in her anger, with Emma so inconsiderate about her own safety.

  Pulling the door open, she stepped into the visitors’ room. “We’re going home.”

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone about me?”

  “Because it’s none of their business.” She grabbed the girl’s rucksack from the floor. “You stay right here while I get my things.”

  “I can’t believe you’re ashamed of me.”

  Margo stopped in her tracks. The sadness in that tone doused her fury; Emma sounded on the brink of crying. “Luv, I’m not ashamed of you.”

  “But you hid the truth.”

  “I didn’t.”

  But she had lied by omission.

  Only three and a half weeks so far, for God’s sake. How could she get everything sorted out in such a short time?

  “You don’t care about me! You never did. Or else you wouldn’t have left.”

  I didn’t leave! I never left you!

  “Sweetie, no. It’s not like that.” She reached out to touch the girl’s hair.

  Emma ducked away before she could make contact.

  “I wanna go home.”

  A sob lodged in her throat. “Emma, please.”

  “Now!”

  Margo closed her eyes. The last thing she wanted between her and Emma was another fight. How would she bring peace between them again? She also needed to punish Emma for her reckless behaviour.

  She sighed. Who’d said motherhood provided the fulfilment of all women?

  ***

  Jamie was lying on his bed in his room upstairs when a door slammed in the other half of the mansion. The back half, as his uncle used to call the place, since the meandering driveway ended at Gordon’s front porch and a sidewalk gave access to the rear half.

  The walls shook as the panel fell back into place. He sat up.

  Silence followed, before the crash of porcelain resounded. Once. Twice. Quiet again, and another door slammed, so close to the partition that divided the houses that the crystal tray on his bedside table trembled towards the edge. He caught it just before the heavy glass hit the parquet.

  What the heck was going on next door?

  He scooted off the bed and went to the doorstep, where he pushed his feet into his loafers. Then, he hurtled down the stairs and out of the house.

  Once onto the back porch, he knocked on the door.

  Margo opened up, and he frowned at the very different woman who greeted him. Her eyes looked red and swollen, her face blotchy and pale.

  She’d been crying.

  “Everything okay?”

  Dumbass question, mate. Of course things had to be dire, if icy Margo looked so affected.

  “Something happened to Emma?” Cocking his head to the side, he nodded at the entrance hall. “May I come in?”

  She moved aside so he could enter, and headed down the main corridor towards the kitchen. He followed, and in the doorway, he paused while she went to the table and grabbed something. If he wasn’t mistaken, she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

  What happened, Margo? He should leave her alone, though; give her the space she obviously craved. No one projected detachment as well as she did.

  But what if all that represented just a façade, a ploy to appear perfect? Margo didn’t strike him as one who bothered with saving face, yet, she seemed to have ideals and high standards in everything she undertook. Blimey, the woman had gone through at least fifteen years of medical studies to get where she stood today. Still, instinct told him the woman she presented to the public eye concealed the real her. He trusted his gut, the one that had made all his teachers say he had the ‘human touch’ to help people, to heal them.

  He glanced about the room. Broken porcelain littered the floor near the sink. Loud, brain-numbing music by One Direction blasted out from someplace upstairs—from Emma’s bedroom, most probably.

  So the doors slamming were probably Emma’s doing, while the shattered plates belonged to Margo.

  He wouldn’t have pegged her as having a volatile temper. What had pushed her over the edge?

  He took a deep breath and went to her. He could be wrong, yes—she might not want him interfering. Or, he could be right, and she needed someone.

  Why not him?

  Never mind that she was a lesbian. He had no plan to ‘change’ her, to make her straight. He wanted to offer his friendship and support; nothing else.

  And give in to his yearning for her in the process. He’d take what she gave, for the time he’d stay here in Surrey. Then, he’d move on, find someone else to love, a woman who would return his feelings.

  “Margo.” Her name came out of his lips on a breathless whisper. He reached out and let his hands land, with a feathery touch, on her shoulders. “Whatever is wrong?”

  To her credit, she didn’t sob or turn into a mushy, overwrought woman.

  He almost wished she had, so she’d seek comfort in his arms.

  Neither here nor now, old boy.

  “Just ...” She turned around.

  His fingertips slipped from her coat, and he made no move to touch her again. At least, she hadn’t put a few feet’s distance between them.

  “Are you going out again?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Then why not take off your coat?”

  When she failed to register his words, he peeled the heavy trench off her and placed it on the back of a nearby chair.

  She put up no resistance, and his warning levels went up.

  Margo was no limp puppet. What had happened today?

  She wouldn’t move. Rooted to her spot, she appeared stunned.

  He pulled out a chair and made her sit down, then sat beside her. “Okay, Margo. Tell me what the matter is.”

  She placed her hands on the table. No rings or bracelets. Just a slinky, functional, if not fashionable, watch on her left wrist.

  Precision and minimalism—these characteristics suited her.

  She threaded h
er fingers together. Good. She wouldn’t crumble further.

  “Emma came to my office today and ... I didn’t like it.”

  “She’s angry with you because of that?”

  She laughed, though the sound came out more like a snort. “If that were only the whole story. She was alone.”

  He frowned. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “After school ended, she hiked her way into London and came to the lab.”

  Blimey. “That’s not the whole story, right?”

  “No. She was supposed to be at Mrs. May’s place.”

  “I cannot believe Mrs. May would let Emma roam about all on her own.”

  “She wouldn’t, if she’d known.”

  She’d lost him there. “I beg your pardon?”

  Margo stood, the chair thrown back. It would’ve crashed to the stone-tiled floor if he hadn’t caught it.

  “She fell asleep! I trusted her with my daughter, and she fell asleep! She didn’t even know Emma had left, only found out when we knocked on her door a little while ago.”

  That’s bad. He ran a hand over his face and into his hair. Emma had played truant on her sitter. Who’d have believed it of her?

  But, come to think of it ...

  “What?” Margo asked.

  He thought of replying “nothing,” at first. In the end, he wouldn’t lie. Margo knew how to pick up body cues—after all, forensic pathologists worked hand in hand with the police and were trained to pick up body language, too.

  “Where were you Sunday afternoon?”

  “At work. Why?”

  Not good. “So I suppose Emma would’ve been at Mrs. May’s place.”

  “She wasn’t?”

  Careful, mate. “Not exactly. I saw her at the pub, with a bunch of friends.”

  Margo came to the table and pressed her palms on the back of a chair.

  “The pub? She—” Her voice faltered. “She wasn’t drinking, was she?”

  He stood and placed a hand on her arm. “No one is inconsiderate enough to give underage children drinks. Everyone looks after the kids around here. A few of the fathers had come down, too.”

  “Then what was she doing there?”

  “The football game. Liverpool versus Manchester United. Emma’s a Reds fan, isn’t she?”