Page 17 of Chosen Path
“No, of course not,” she said aloud. Her words echoed off the tiled bathroom walls and bounced back at her.
Bodhi might be very smart, brilliant even. But it was a mistake to bring him here. She’d get dressed, go downstairs, and apologize for having wasted his time. If she drained her savings account, she could probably cover the cost of changing his return ticket to Pittsburgh. After her last appointment, she’d drive him back to the airport and put this stupid idea behind her.
It was like Corrine had said, people died. It was the natural cycle. That’s all it was.
She wriggled into her robe and hurried back to her bedroom.
* * *
When Molly walked down the stairs, she stopped three steps from the bottom and rubbed her eyes, convinced she was seeing things. Renowned forensic pathology consultant Bodhi King was mopping her waiting room floor.
“Good morning,” he said with a warm smile.
“Um, hi. Good morning.”
“I made oatmeal. It’s on the stove.”
“Thanks. Listen, you don’t need to do that.” She gestured vaguely at the floor.
“I know. I wanted to.”
She frowned. “Okay, well, if you’re sure.”
“I am.”
“Do you want some coffee?”
“I had tea. Thanks, though.”
She skirted the wet floor and made her way to the kitchen. As she waited for the coffee to brew, she lifted the lid and peeked at the pot of oatmeal. A warm wave of ginger heat and cinnamon sweetness filled her nostrils. Apples dotted the oatmeal, their red skins bright against the creamy white oats. Her stomach rumbled in appreciation.
She usually skipped breakfast to catch up on patient notes before her first appointment then scarfed down an energy bar mid-morning. But the oatmeal looked and smelled too delicious to pass up. So she grabbed a bowl and spoon and dished herself up a hearty serving.
She had just settled in at the table with her breakfast and a hot mug of coffee when Bodhi came into the room. He crossed to the sink and washed his hands, then poured himself a glass of water and joined her at the table.
“How’d you sleep?” she asked, not sure quite how to broach the subject of sending him back to Pittsburgh.
“Pretty well, thanks. It looks like you may not have,” he observed mildly.
She blinked at his blunt assessment and smoothed a hand over the low bun at the nape of her neck to confirm that it was neat. “Really?”
“You look tired. You have dark circles under your eyes.”
“Oh.” She swallowed a spoonful of oatmeal. “Yeah, I had trouble sleeping.”
He studied her face for a moment before saying, “It’s because of what I said—about people who would kill to keep a secret.”
Well, yeah, it was. But years of social training demanded she deny that truth to smooth over any awkwardness and spare his feelings.
Before she could give voice to the lie, he continued. “I’m sorry I upset you. In my experience, there have been sinister forces at play every time I’ve run into a death cluster. That’s a fact. But I don’t know the people in this village, so I shouldn’t have prejudged the situation.”
Hearing him acknowledge that he’d jumped to a conclusion soothed her anxiety. She exhaled a long cleansing breath, and her nerves settled. “I’ll admit I’ve been unnerved by what you said. I can’t imagine anyone in Scandia Bluff being sinister.”
He was about to respond when the doorbell rang—an incessant, rapid-fire chiming, as if someone was stabbing a finger against the button nonstop.
She pushed back her chair. Before she was out of the kitchen, whoever was outside began hammering their fists against the door. She sensed Bodhi trailing her through the sitting room and living room/reception area. Her heart kept time with the pounding on the door, and she was grateful for Bodhi’s presence. Whatever she was about to open her door to, it was bad. She had no doubt.
“Careful. The floor’s still damp,” he warned.
