Page 105 of Skeletons in the Closet

We ate on our drive to the university. I searched and saved recent photos of Beth, Olivia, and Noah to my phone at Diem’s suggestion so I could ask Natalia if she’d seen them around campus or her house. I was confident in my ability to build a rapport with the professor’s wife and hoped she would openly share anything she might have learned during the investigation. She didn’t seem keen on her husband and his affairs, but I still planned to tread carefully.

York campus was quiet at that time of day, and Diem easily found parking near the creative arts building where Natalia Shore’s office was located. She taught art history, according to Diem’s research, and was one of only two professors in her department working that summer.

“I guess I’ll wait,” he grumbled after putting the Jeep in park.

“I doubt it’ll take long.”

He nodded, staring ahead at the front entrance. The early morning sun streamed through the window and highlighted the side of his face. His stormy gray eyes almost shone silver.

“Do you trust me to do this?”

“Yeah.”

I finished the last sip of my latte and left the cup in the holder. “Wish me luck.”

He didn’t, but that was Diem.

I found my way inside and wandered the halls until I located the administrative section and Natalia Shore’s office on the second floor. The building was desolate, and I didn’t encounter a single soul apart from a janitor on my journey.

The rooms I passed were dark inside. Vacant. A light shone from under the door of Natalia’s office. I rapped on the frosted windowpane and waited for her to invite me to enter. At first, no one responded.

I knocked again. Louder.

“Come in,” said a tired-sounding voice from beyond.

I let myself in, closing the door behind me, and found the beautiful, middle-aged woman seated behind her desk, face buried in her hands, blonde hair curtaining either side of her downcast head.

“Mrs. Shore?”

It took her a second, but she lifted her gaze and studied me. The lines on her face seemed deeper today, and her eyelids sat low over her blue eyes like she was struggling to stay awake. I had a hunch the poor woman wasn’t sleeping well.

“Krause, right?”

“No. I’m Tallus Domingo. Krause is my partner.” I imagined Diem cringing all the way in the parking lot.

She nodded half-heartedly and waved at a molded plastic chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Please. I’m fighting a killer headache, so you’ll excuse me if I’m a bit out of it.”

“I understand. I suffer from migraines.”

“I don’t. Usually. It came on all of a sudden. I think the stress is getting to me. I’m not sleeping, I’m barely eating, and I’m exhausted. I came in early to mark some papers and surprised the cleaning woman half to death.” Natalia chuckled. “And twenty minutes later, my head starts pounding, and all I want to do is curl up on the floor and nap.”

“I’m sorry you’re going through this. My presence probably isn’t helping matters.”

“You think my husband killed more people?” Her pained expression implored me to say no.

I pressed my lips together, trying to think of the best approach. I couldn’t lie. “It’s possible. We don’t have proof. We know he met with one of the women we were keeping tabs on last Friday, and several hours later, she was found dead in her home.”

Natalia studied my face, forehead creased. “Who is she?”

“Do you know the name Beth Rowell?”

When Natalia did nothing more than stare with confusion, I found the picture on my phone and showed her.

She fumbled the device when I passed it off, and it clattered to the desk before she picked it up again and glanced at the screen with a frown. She didn’t speak for a long time, and I couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

“Does she look familiar?”

“How did she die?”

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