Page 66 of Last Girl Standing

Quin added, “Stahd suggested maybe the wife did it. I get the feeling he’s never liked her much.”

Or maybe he liked her too much.

Delta had always had that appeal, something earthy and real beneath her beauty. It had tugged at McCrae last night when she’d been so distraught. He could imagine that same appeal working on Dr. Stahd Senior, whose young wife who’d left him was far closer to Delta’s age than his.

Quin added, “Channel Seven hasn’t reported the stabbing yet.”

“They will.” Ellie would be on it at some level. And as soon as she found out, she would make a beeline for the West Knoll PD.

Quin grunted in agreement.

The break-room television was pretty much always on, but it was surprisingly dark this morning. No one had seen fit to turn it on, apparently, so McCrae grabbed the remote and pointed it at the screen. It was already tuned to Channel Seven, and the station was airing some kind of cooking show competition on which two women were chopping fast and furiously, screeching about the passing time. Not interested, McCrae switched it off and headed back to his office, a cramped space just big enough for a desk and a chair. He opened his computer and cleaned up a few e-mails, his mind still on Delta. Her hands had been bloody. She’d picked up the knife. Said she’d fallen on it.

And she’d been wearing a light, lemony scent that smelled of summer.

“Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his head at himself.

He checked his desk-phone messages, and lo and behold, there was one from Ellie.

“McCrae,” her voice said in that intense way she had. “Tanner Stahd was stabbed last night?” she accused, as if it were somehow his fault that she’d apparently just heard. “I’ve checked at the hospital, and they gave me the runaround. Call me. Let me know what’s going on. I’m about to storm that place if they don’t let me see him.” She left her number.

McCrae ran a hand over his face. Channel Seven had always used Pauline Kirby as their reporter at large, but Ellie seemed to be trying to take over her job. Pauline was older, nosy, autocratic, and somewhat deceitful in her pursuit of a story, a real pain in the ass, but Ellie . . . he sensed she could be worse. If anyone could breach the hospital’s defenses, it was her.

Well, it was time to check on the patient himself. He needed to see what Tanner’s status was in person, and if Ellie would be allowed to see him. He listened to his other two messages. The first was from Corolla, who’d turned away Ellie O’Brien—a reporter, his voice warned—when she’d tried to see Tanner. Well, that answered that, at least so far. The second was from Dr. Lester Stahd, who wanted to make sure West Knoll’s finest weren’t allowing Delta Stahd anywhere near his son; if they did and Tanner took a turn for the worse, he would hold West Knoll PD and Christopher McCrae personally responsible.

McCrae snorted. People and families under crisis said a lot of things out of fear. He knew enough about Tanner’s father to think the man was a total prick, but he put that aside for the moment and gave him the benefit of the doubt. Glancing at the clock, he passed over his desk phone in favor of his cell as he phoned the number Delta had given him the night before. The call rang five times, then was sent to voice mail, where Delta’s voice said, “You’ve reached Delta Stahd. Leave a message.” At the beep, McCrae said, “Delta, it’s Chris McCrae. We’d like to get your statement about last night. Is it possible for you to come into the station today? I’ll be here late morning and all afternoon. This is my cell number . . .”

* * *

Delta stared at her ringing cell phone on her kitchen counter, not recognizing the number. She was paralyzed with fear. It wasn’t the hospital. That would show on the LCD screen. A reporter? A harasser? A supposed friend? The word was already out, and she had a number of e-mails or texts from the early risers, apparently, offering advice and good thoughts. “I’m so incredibly sorry, Delta. We’re all here for you. If you need anything, call,” from Miss Billings, signed Clarice, along with her number. “Tragedies are so difficult to comprehend. It takes time, but it gets better,” from Bailey’s mom and Principal Kiefer, husband and wife since Bailey’s death. She’d also heard, surprisingly, from Woody Deavers’s ex-wife, Crystal Gilles, who had her e-mail address from the reunion form Delta had filled out, apparently: “Don’t let the police bully you. They’re good at that” was her blunt advice. A number of do-gooders had also sent messages about God being on her side and “better days” coming.

Reluctantly, she pressed the PLAY button and listened to the message. McCrae’s voice. Come into the station . . . we’d like to get your statement . . .

Tears burned her eyes, and she dashed them away angrily. Last night she’d been in a state of shock. Today the weight on her chest felt like ten tons. Someone tried to kill Tanner! It was impossible. Impossible! But it had happened.

The memory of him lying on the floor, the blood seeping through his white shirt, made her whole body quiver. This morning, she’d stumbled into the shower on a still-tender ankle at the crack of dawn, before Owen was up, then had needed to lean against the wall to support herself. She was distracted by the scratch on her palm from the knife, almost forgetting to get Owen his breakfast. She gave up the idea of frying him an egg and let him eat cereal in front of the TV, something she was normally dead set against. But she was a wreck, barely hanging on. Owen had noticed something was wrong, so she’d told him she wasn’t feeling all that hot—which wasn’t a lie—and he’d accepted that and gone back to the cartoons. When he was finished with breakfast, she’d taken him to pre-K and had braced herself for the looks, stares, and maybe even some shunning from the staff, but they clearly hadn’t heard yet. Maybe they would understand that she had nothing to do with the attack on her husband? Or maybe they would think she was to blame? They knew some about the fact that she and Tanner hadn’t been getting along for quite a while. It was impossible to hide.

But all had gone normally at the school. On the drive over, Ow

en had asked where his father was, which had thrown Delta because Tanner was gone a lot, and usually Owen didn’t seem to notice.

“Where’s Daddy?” he’d popped out with.

Delta had looked at him in his car seat through the rearview mirror. His brown hair hadn’t been combed all that well and stuck up in places, and though she’d managed to get him into his jeans and his favorite T-shirt, the blue one with the shark on the pocket, there was something slapdash about his clothes as well. She was torn between telling him the basic truth, that Tanner was in the hospital after a terrible accident—she wasn’t about to say he’d been attacked—and covering up the whole thing until later this evening, when she could have him to herself for a few hours to spin some less-frightening tale. She chose the latter, telling Owen that her father was out of town for a while. If she told him his father was in the hospital, Owen wouldn’t stand for it. He would demand that she take him to see his father, and Delta couldn’t do that.

After dropping him at pre-K, she’d opted to drive to the hospital herself, only to be turned away by a policeman guarding the door. No visitors at this time, he’d said, eyeing her like he thought she might try to rush him. But he did inform her that Tanner was alive and being tended to. She’d tried to find a nurse to possibly glean more information, but apart from learning he was stable, she got the same runaround. She sensed no one wanted her near him, so she’d had to give up seeing him for the moment. Maybe she could call on McCrae later, see if he could help her get in, but for the moment it was a no go.

She’d just gotten home and was trying to think of anything she might want to eat, but everything she thought of seemed to make her stomach lurch. Then her phone started singing its default ringtone. Filled with dread, she checked the voice mail and learned it was McCrae . . . We’d like to get your statement . . .

“Oh, Lord.”

Why did you lie about the knife?

She hurried upstairs—at least the ankle was not as injured as she’d originally thought, as it only tweaked a little—and looked at herself in her bathroom mirror. She was washed out, and there were huge circles under her eyes. She’d worked to hide those circles this morning but had been only partially successful. She’d thrown on a pair of jeans and a white shirt that looked like it hadn’t even been ironed. Owen wasn’t the only one who’d been ragged this morning. Now she changed into a dark blue blouse and reworked her makeup, adding a little more blush than she normally needed. Combing her hair, she clipped it into a ponytail at her nape. Better, she thought critically. If she was going into the lion’s den, she needed to feel like she had some armor on.

The knife.

She should’ve just admitted it was from their set, that Tanner had taken it to work and there was nothing suspicious about it. Whoever had attacked Tanner wouldn’t have expected to see the knife. It was just handy. Didn’t that mean the crime was spur of the moment? No one would plan to viciously attack someone without a means to do it.

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