The Silence That Speaks (Forensic Instincts 4)

She opened the door and automatically ran through the physical assessment she’d learned during her pickpocket days, when she’d sized up her potential marks.

Madeline Westfield was pretty in a haunting kind of way. Mid-thirties. Chestnut-brown hair, classily styled and just grazing her shoulders. Fair skin. Deep, dark eyes. Medium height. Cute figure. Casually but expensively dressed in a cashmere coat, from beneath which peeked a sweater and pants that screamed designer. A badly bruised forehead—from a bad bang, not physical abuse—and an anxious look in her eyes.

The ideal client—rich and needy.

“Good morning,” Emma said brightly, extending her hand. “You must be Ms. Westfield. I’m Emma Stirling. Welcome to Forensic Instincts.”

“Thank you.” Madeline clasped her hand briefly. Her palm was icy. She was peering around. She was nervous. Emma wondered what that was about—the upcoming meeting or whatever had brought her here.

“The team is waiting for you right in there.” Emma gestured at the cozy meeting room down the hall. “I’ll take your coat. Can I get you something—coffee, tea, water?”

“Coffee would be lovely, thank you,” Madeline said, shrugging out of her coat and handing it to Emma. “Just black.”

“No problem. I’ll show you in and then bring it to you.”

Emma led the way, escorting Madeline straight to the open door. With a brief knock, she glanced at the team. “Ms. Madeline Westfield is here for her appointment.” She noted the steaming pot of coffee on a trivet in the middle of the center table. “Should I pour?” she asked Casey.

“No, thank you, Emma. We’ve got it. Just shut the door on your way out.”

“Okay. Let me know if you need me.” Emma left the room, closing the door to give them their privacy and heading back to her desk—and to Yoda’s tutoring.

* * *

Madeline stood just inside the meeting room, tightly clutching her handbag. She looked stiff, as if she was in pain, and there was a bad bruise on her forehead.

Casey was about to open her mouth when she caught the odd, strained expression on Madeline’s face. She was staring at Marc. And Marc had a look on his face that Casey had never seen before—a look of stark, raw emotion.

“Maddy?” He rose slowly to his feet.

“Hello, Marc.” She attempted a smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It occurred to me that you might not realize I was the one who was coming here today.”

“No. I didn’t.” Marc’s emotions shut down and his usual unreadable expression snapped back into place. “The appointment didn’t list you as Madeline Stanton.”

“Westfield is my married name.”

“I see.”

The silence was so awkward that even Casey was hard-pressed to break it.

But break it she did.

Coming swiftly to her feet, she stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Casey Woods. I see that you and Marc already know each other, so I’ll introduce the rest of the team.”

No questions. No observations. No belaboring the all-too-blatant reality.

Madeline’s relief was visible. “I’m so happy to meet you,” she said, shaking Casey’s hand. Her gaze shifted to the area rug, where Hero was lying beside Casey’s chair. “What a beautiful bloodhound.”

“Hero is a human-scent evidence dog,” Casey explained. “He’s part of the Forensic Instincts team.”

“Then he must be remarkable. Your company’s reputation speaks for itself.”

“Well, let’s see what we can do for you.” Casey ran through the rest of the introductions, poured Madeline a cup of coffee and gestured for her to have a seat on one of the buttery-soft caramel leather tub chairs in the room.

There were three other identical tub chairs, casually situated around the two matching leather couches. Sure, the room also had some high-tech equipment, but it wasn’t center stage. There was no point in making the place look like an interrogation room. Living rooms were far more relaxing, and leant themselves to calmer clients who were open and honest about their reasons for being here.

Madeline politely accepted the cup of coffee and gingerly sat down. Casey noted that she swiveled her tub chair ever so slightly away from Marc and kept her gaze fixed on Casey.

Those weren’t acts of anger. They were unconscious acts of emotional protection.