Shadow Image by Martin J Smith Page A

Mackie ever made for her.”
    â€œI knew I liked her,” Brenna said. “So that I-gotta-be-me thing wasn’t all just charming political image-making?”
    â€œFloss?” He laughed out loud. “Is a tornado concerned about its image, Ms. Kennedy? No. It’s all about energy and unpredictability and free will.”
    â€œTornadoes are dangerous, though,” she said.
    â€œNot if you get out of their way, or know how to duck and cover at the right time,” he said with a wink. “I’ll say this: made for a damned interesting marriage.”
    The flames were too warm, so Brenna edged away from the fireplace toward one of the long windows. It overlooked the estate’s carport, where Alton Staggers was down on one knee in the rain beside her Legend, peering underneath as if he’d dropped something.
    â€œWould you like to sit down?” Underhill motioned her toward a massive wing chair.
    She shook her head. “No, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to hear your version of what happened yesterday. Would that be all right?”
    â€œFord didn’t tell you?”
    â€œHe did. I just had a couple questions.”
    Underhill sat down on a couch across from the wing chair. Brenna stayed standing.
    â€œWhat were you doing when you realized your wife had wandered away?”
    Underhill folded his hands, his index fingers forming a spire beneath his nose. “I’d told Selena—she’s our home nurse—to take a couple of hours off. She’d been watching Floss most of the day while I made some fundraising calls for Ford.” He closed his eyes. “At about three, Floss decided to paint. She has this paint set she’s always fooling around with. So I set it up for her in the study, and I sat down to read.”
    â€œSo you were both in the study? For how long?”
    â€œI don’t know. A while.”
    â€œThen at some, point she left?”
    He nodded. “At some point, yes. The paints were still there when I—”
    â€œWas it still light outside when she left?”
    â€œI don’t know. I’m sure it was.”
    â€œBecause Ford said she apparently was at the gazebo at about four.” Brenna leaned on the back of the wing chair.
    â€œI believe that’s correct.”
    â€œSo, sometime between three and four, she got up and left. Did she say where she was going?”
    â€œI don’t remember, Ms. Kennedy. You’re on our side, right?”
    Brenna wouldn’t, couldn’t back down. “The district attorney isn’t, and he’s going to want these same answers. Please bear with me. Did she seem upset, or distraught?”
    Underhill stood up suddenly. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”
    â€œBecause—”
    â€œMs. Kennedy,” he said, drawing a deep breath, “I fell asleep. On the couch, when I was supposed to be watching her. The next thing I know, there’s a goddamned medevac operation going on out by our gazebo. She got hurt on my watch. It’s my fault, and I’m trying to deal with that, and I trust you’ll never repeat this conversation to anyone outside this family. I think you know how a mistake like that would be twisted into a mortal sin by a man like Dagnolo. Does that clear everything up for you, Ms. Kennedy? Now do you understand?”
    Bewildered by the change in tone, her voice suddenly caught in her throat, Brenna nodded. “You can’t blame yourself.”
    â€œDo you understand?”
    She nodded again.
    â€œNo,” he said, still edgy. “No. That’s the thing. You
can’t know.”

Chapter 7
    Light poured into the dark bedroom as their bathroom door swung open. Brenna stood for a moment in its frame as she brushed her hair, a dancer’s silhouette in a thin T-shirt. It was nearly midnight before she got the toilet in the other bathroom reconnected, but she didn’t want to come to bed without a