Read Online All Shall Be Well by Deborah Crombie - Free Book Online Page B

you’re the only one who can help me.”
    The rocking slowed, then stopped. Margaret opened her eyes but stayed hunched over, arms crossed protectively over her stomach.
    “Tell me why Jasmine needed your help.”
    “She didn’t—” Margaret’s voice caught. She reached for the cold dregs of her tea and swallowed convulsively, then tried again. “She didn’t. Not really. I helped her figure the dosage—she was morphine dependent so we knew it would take a lot—but she could have done it herself. There was enough morphine, because she’d been maintaining the level she actually used while telling the nurse she needed her dosage increased. And the catheter would have held traces anyway.”
    “Then why?” Kincaid asked again, holding her gaze with his.
    “I don’t know. I suppose she just didn’t want to be alone at the last.”
    Had Jasmine given in to weakness by asking Margaret’s help, wondered Kincaid, and then found unexpected strength? He shook his head. It was possible, probable, logical, and yet he still couldn’t believe it.
    “What is it?” asked Margaret, sitting up a bit.
    “Did Jasmine have—” Kincaid stopped as the door opened soundlessly. A man stepped into the room, regarding Kincaid and Margaret with an expression of amused contempt. Margaret, sitting with her back to the door, frowned at Kincaid in bewilderment and said, “What’s the—”
    “Well.” The man spoke, the single syllable dripping with unsavory implications.
    Margaret jerked at the sound of his voice and leapt to her feet, her face flushing an unbecoming, splotchy scarlet. “Rog—”
    “Don’t get up, Meg. I didn’t expect you to be entertaining.”Apart from a brief glance in Margaret’s direction, all his attention was fixed on Kincaid.
    Returning the scrutiny with interest and an immediate dislike, Kincaid saw a slender man of middle height, in perhaps his late twenties, wearing designer jeans and an expensive white cotton shirt open part way down the chest, cuffs turned back. He wore his light red-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and his features were clearly cut. He was, Kincaid thought wryly, smashingly good-looking.
    Margaret stood rigidly, gripping the back of her chair, and when she spoke her voice was high and uncontrolled. “Roger, where have you been? I’ve been wait—”
    “Why the panic, Meg?” Roger didn’t move from his slouching stance in the middle of the room, and made no effort to touch or comfort Margaret. “Don’t you think introductions are in order?”
    Kincaid took the initiative before Margaret could blurt anything out. “My name’s Kincaid.” He stood and held his hand out to Roger, who shook it with no great enthusiasm. “I’m a neighbor of Margaret’s friend Jasmine Dent.”
    “Jasmine’s dead, Rog. She died on Thursday night. I couldn’t reach you anywhere.” Margaret trembled visibly.
    Roger’s eyebrows lifted. “Is that so? And you came to tell Margaret?”
    “I came to see how she was getting on,” Kincaid said mildly, leaning back against the edge of the table and folding his arms.
    “How kind of you.” Roger’s public-school accent expressed sarcasm well. “Poor Meg.” For the first time he took a step toward her, reaching out and pulling her stiff body to him in a brief embrace. He swiveled her around toward Kincaid again and rested a hand lightly on the back of her neck. “It must have been a shock, her going sooner than anyone expected.”
    “It wasn’t like that. Jasmine died from an overdose of morphine,” Margaret said, watching Kincaid’s face as she spoke, seeking support. Roger let her go abruptly and she moved away from him.
    “That’s too bad, Meg. I’m sorry she—”
    “Duncan knows about the suicide,” she jerked her head toward Kincaid, “so don’t bother to say you’re sorry, Rog. I know you’re not. No need for you to worry now.”
    “Worry? Don’t be absurd, Meg.”
    Roger’s voice was light, almost playful, but