Page 18 of Hidden Hero

While she was digging into her purse to find her wallet, she dropped her key chain to the floor. Jeremy bent to pick it up, then stared at the tag among her keys. A chuckle slipped out as he handed it back to her. She looked down and remembered what the tag said:I’m a coroner. If you’re breathing, I’m leaving.“Oh… um…” she muttered.

Jeremy was still laughing as he asked, “More mortuary humor, Dr. Wadsworth?”

She pressed her lips together while nodding. Before the moment could stretch further, Joseph returned, holding the carrier with a bright smile. “Are you ready to take these sweeties home?” he asked, breaking the charged intensity between her and Jeremy.

Cora’s gaze snapped to Joseph, grateful for the distraction. “Yes, thank you,” she said, stepping forward to follow him toward the lobby. As she walked away, she felt Jeremy’s gaze lingering on her. Just before reaching the lobby, she glanced over her shoulder, catching him watching her retreat. A flicker of something warm passed through her chest as she offered him a small smile. “Goodbye, Detective Pickett.”

“Good night, Cora,” he whispered.

The softly spoken words stopped her in her tracks, her breath catching. The unexpected familiarity in his tone sent a ripple of warmth through her. A faint smile played on her lips as she pushed through the shelter’s doors and stepped into the cool night air.

Driving home, Cora chatted softly with Max and Mia, her voice light and happy. “You’re going to love it at my house,” she said, glancing at the carrier on the passenger seat. “I promise you’ll be spoiled rotten.”

Once home, she placed the newly purchased litter box in the laundry room, filled it, and let the cats out nearby so they could immediately see where to go. Max sniffed the box with interest while Mia followed closely behind, her cautious nature evident.

Cora filled their water and food dishes, and within moments, both cats were purring as they munched away. Their contentment was contagious, and she felt a smile tug at her lips as she watched them settle into their new environment.

While she ate her own dinner, the cats wandered and explored the house, their curiosity leading them into every nook and cranny. They reappeared when she sat on the sofa as though checking in on her. Sliding to the floor, she tossed a catnip mouse across the room, laughing as Max pounced enthusiastically while Mia watched intently before joining the game.

When she was ready for bed, she wondered where they would choose to sleep. She didn’t have to wonder long. As soon as she slid under the covers, they climbed up the bedspread and onto the bed, curling up together at the foot.

Her gaze flicked between the book she was reading and the sleeping cats, their rhythmic purring filling the quiet room. Her heart felt fuller than it had in years, warmth spreading through her chest at the presence of her new companions.

But when she finally turned off the light and closed her eyes, it wasn’t Max or Mia that occupied her thoughts. Instead, it was the blue-eyed detective, his voice low and gentle as he’d whispered, “Good night, Cora.” The memory lingered as she drifted off, her lips curving into a soft smile.

8

Jeremy leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple as his eyes darted over the evidence board on the wall. Terry was nearby, his hip leaning against a desk. Four photographs stared back at him, each with a name neatly printed below.

Helen McCarthy. Age 72. Lived alone. Died at home. Found the next day by her neighbor. No foul play suspected. But when the police checked her house, they found her empty prescription bottles on the kitchen counter. There were no fingerprints on the bottles other than her own. No meds in her system at death.

Robert Stewart. Age 76. Lived alone, although his son and his family lived nearby on the shore. Died at home, found that evening by his son. No foul play suspected. But when the son and the police checked his medication, his prescription bottles were found empty in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. No fingerprints on the bottles other than his own. No meds in his system at death.

Henry Miller. Age 81. Lived alone, although his wife was down the road in the nursing home’s memory care wing. Died alone, found by the visiting home nurse the following morning. No foul play suspected. There were no prescription bottles in his home at all even though the doctor’s records indicated he was on five prescription medications. No meds in his system at death.

Fred Rudolph. Age 77. Lived alone. Died in a car crash. Suspicious death due to bag of prescription pills in the truck that included many more that were not his. No meds in his system at death.

The connections, or lack thereof, were maddening. Red and blue lines snaked across the board, tracing tenuous links between the individuals.

“Robert and Henry—American Legion members,” Jeremy muttered, tapping a marker against the board. “Helen and Fred—Praise House of God Church. Henry also has ties to Baytown Methodist Church. Robert... no church affiliation.”

Pete, seated beside him, scowled at his notepad, flipping through pages of chicken-scratch notes. “Don’t forget their prescriptions,” he said, adding another line to the web. “Fred and Henry use Stuart’s Pharmacy in Baytown. Robert’s on the Shop Mart list over in Acawmacke. And Helen’s were filled at Walters’ Pharmacy by the hospital.”

Terry looked at his watch and said, “I’ve got a meeting across the bay with the Chesapeake Area DTF. Keep working what you know, and I’ll ask my cohorts if they have any knowledge of something similar happening there. You can go over anything new you get when I return.”

Jeremy and Pete nodded, thanking him for his assistance which he waved away. “We always work best in teams,” Terry said. With a nod, he walked out, leaving the detectives to continue to stare at the board.

Jeremy grunted in frustration. “What about their backstories? Any common ground there?”

Pete listed them off without looking up. “Fred and Robert are lifelong Eastern Shore locals. Henry’s a transplant—moved here from North Carolina two decades ago. Helen retired from Arlington with her husband nine years back. He passed away five years ago, but she stayed in the dream home they’d built.”

The narrative swirled in Jeremy’s mind like puzzle pieces stubbornly refusing to fit. He reached for his coffee, the bitter dregs cold and uninviting. Leaning back further, he groaned. “This is getting us nowhere.”

Pete swiped a hand over his face and let out a long sigh. “I swear, my eyes are starting to cross from all this. These lines might as well be spaghetti.”

“Detective Pickett?”

Both men turned to see Cybil approaching, her notebook in hand. The young deputy was sharp, ambitious, and determined to earn her detective badge. Jeremy couldn’t help but appreciate her diligence. “What’ve you got for us, Cybil?” he asked.

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