saw a young nurse standing in the doorway of the waiting area. Jonathan was on his feet in a heartbeat. “What? Do you have news?”
She nodded. “Dr. Howell asked me to tell you that the preliminary toxicology reports suggest that Ms. Morgan was poisoned. He wanted to let you and the detective know.”
The news shouldn’t have stunned Jonathan. After all he and Stryker had been talking about David being involved. But David couldn’t have known about Cynthia. “Poisoned?” he repeated blankly.
She nodded. “He said that it would be helpful if you could figure out how and then find the poison.” She gave him a quick, impersonal smile and turned to leave.
“Wait,” he called. “How is she?”
“I don’t know. The same, I think.” And then she was gone.
Jonathan sank back into his chair. He looked at Stryker. “Poison? Does that make sense to you?”
“Depends on how it was delivered. Did she eat anything at the party?”
“I don’t know,” Jonathan admitted. He frowned in concentration. “When I first met her she was carrying a glass of wine. White, I think. She spilled it, so I doubt she drank much. If she ate before or after I was with her, then I wouldn’t have seen what it was. While we were together, she didn’t eat or drink anything.”
Stryker tapped a pen on his notebook. His tweed jacket looked rumpled and blond stubble darkened his jawline. He rubbed his tired eyes. “We haven’t had any complaints about other people getting sick. So it probably wasn’t in the food. And if she ingested the poison before the party, we don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of figuring out what it was.”
Jonathan listened as the other man spoke, but a part of his brain focused on something else. A whisper of a memory that he couldn’t make focus. Something just out of reach that seemed important and yet—
“The coffee,” he announced, cutting Stryker off in midsentence. “She brought me coffee.”
“What?”
He turned toward the detective. “At the hotel. Remember? You went to check on something and she was waiting in the hall. She wanted to see how I was. She was holding a cup of coffee and told me that a waiter had brought it for me. But I hadn’t ordered any.” He frowned, trying to remember the exact sequence of how things had occurred. “I didn’t want any because I hadn’t ordered coffee. Then Cynthia ended up drinking it instead.”
Stryker was on his cell phone in an instant. He spoke to a police officer still at the scene.
“We’ll see if we can get hold of that cup,” he said when he was finished.
“Is that how David planned to kill me?” Jonathan asked. “Poison?”
Stryker shook his head. “Your brother wouldn’t have been that specific. I’m guessing the killer saw an opportunity and took it. We’ll interview the staff. Someone had to have seen a new guy working tonight. We’ll find him and get him to tell us what kind of poison he used.”
He sounded confident, but Jonathan wasn’t so sure. Besides, even if they found the killer, would it be in time to save Cynthia?
“I need to get back to the hotel,” Stryker said as he came to his feet. “You’ve got my number. Call me when you know more about Ms. Morgan’s condition.”
Jonathan hated the thought of being left behind. “There has to be something I can do to help.” He couldn’t just sit around and wait. He always acted in a crisis. It was one of his strong suits.
“We’ll handle it, Jonathan,” Stryker said. “I promise I’ll be in touch.”
And then he was gone, walking out of the waiting area and down the corridor. Jonathan watched him go. The tall man passed by a young mother with three children. The harried woman stopped at the nurses’ station across from the waiting area.
She was petite, maybe five-one or-two, with short blond hair. Something about her was vaguely familiar, yet Jonathan was sure he’d never met her before. He glanced briefly at the gangly preteen girl standing on one side of the woman, then at the twin boys clinging to her other arm. Then he shrugged and settled back in his seat. He didn’t like waiting around, but it looked like he didn’t have a choice.
“Mr. Steele?”
He looked up and saw the woman and her children had entered the waiting room. He rose to his feet, not sure how she knew him. “I’m Jonathan Steele.”
The woman trembled slightly. Tears filled her blue eyes and her face was pale. “I, ah, they said at the desk that you brought her in. Cynthia. That you were with her.” The woman paused and swallowed. Her visible effort to maintain control made him uncomfortable. “They didn’t tell me anything when they called. Just that she’d collapsed and was being brought here. They wanted to know about existing medical conditions, but I told them she’d always been fine. A healthy girl, and, oh Lord, I can’t lose her, too.”
“It’s okay, Momma,” the preteen girl said and wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist. “She’ll be fine. You’ll see.” But she was crying as she spoke and the two boys clung tighter as tears spilled down the woman’s face.
Jonathan resisted the need to bolt. He wasn’t comfortable in the face of this much emotion or suffering. “Look, maybe I should call a nurse or something,” he said awkwardly, already backing from the room.
The woman was shaking her head. “No, I’m fine.” She wiped her face with her free hand and offered him a poor imitation of a smile. More tears filled her eyes. “I’m sorry. I just can’t seem to find the strength to deal with this. I suppose it’s because I lost my husband three years ago and being in the hospital is bringing it all back.”
Jonathan stared at her. Cynthia had mentioned something about her stepfather dying three years ago. Which meant this woman was her mother. But Mrs. Morgan didn’t look much over thirty-five and Cynthia had to be in her mid-twenties.
“You’re her mother?” he asked.
The woman nodded. “I was still a teenager when I had her. These three are my children with Frank.”
A shudder rippled through her. Both the boys had tears on their faces and the preteen had given up pretending not to be crying. Jonathan felt as if he’d just boarded a leaking ship. In a matter of minutes they would all be going under.
“As someone must have told you, I’m Jonathan Steele,” he said, touching the woman’s arm and urging her and her children over to the plastic chairs.
“ You can call me Betsy,” she said, sinking onto the seat. “This is Jenny and the boys are Brad and Brett.”
Jonathan gave the kids a reassuring smile. He crouched down in front of the distraught family. “I’ve spoken with the doctor in charge. His name is Noah Howell and he’s about as good as they come. As of a few minutes ago, they know what’s wrong with Cynthia and they’re doing everything they can to make her better.”
Betsy stared at him. He saw now that her daughter had her mother’s mouth and her eyes were the same shape, if a different color. Cynthia topped Betsy by about five inches, but they
