Theodosia flew down the narrow hallway and rapped on the door of Dougan Granville’s suite. “Dougan, it’s time,” she called out. Theodosia knew he was a hard-driving attorney who was probably working right up until the last millisecond.

Nothing. No movement, no answer.

Theodosia leaned forward and put an ear to the door. Maybe he was . . . slightly indisposed? Could it be that he really was a nervous bridegroom?

“Dougan? Mr. Granville? It’s Theodosia. We’re all waiting for you.”

Still nothing.

Wondering what protocol she should observe for something like this, Theodosia hesitated for a few moments. Then decided it didn’t much matter. Guests were waiting, the bride was waiting, it was time to get moving. She gripped the doorknob and turned it, then pushed the door open a good six inches.

“Dougan,” Theodosia called again, trying to inject a little humor in her voice. “We have an impatient bride who’s waiting for her handsome groom.”

There was no sound, save the monotonous drumming of rain on the roof and the gurgling of water as it rushed through the downspouts.

Theodosia pushed the door all the way open and stepped across the threshold.

“Dougan?”

The room was completely dark and ominously quiet. Straight ahead, she could just make out a faint outline of heavy velvet draperies pulled across a bay window.

Did Granville fall asleep? He must have. Wow, this is one relaxed guy on his wedding day.

Shadows capered on the walls as she stepped past a looming wardrobe and pieces of furniture. The room had a strange electrical smell, as if an outside transformer had exploded. Theodosia tiptoed across the carpet, her silk mules whispering softly. When she reached the foot of the bed, she stared. A tiny bedside lamp shone a small circle of warmth on a battered bedside table, but there was no one lying on the bed. Nothing had creased the dusty pink coverlet.

What on earth?

Flustered, nervous now that they might have a runaway groom on their hands, Theodosia fumbled with the curtains and ripped them open. Lightning flashed outside, a sharp blade cutting through a wall of purple-black clouds. Still, this is better. A little more light.

Just as Theodosia turned, something caught her eye. A fleeting image that she couldn’t quite process but one that unnerved her anyway. She slowly retraced her footsteps. Back to the sitting room area that had been in total darkness, as thunder boomed like kettle drums in some unholy symphony.

That’s when she saw him.

Dougan Granville was sprawled on a brocade fainting couch. His eyes were squeezed shut, his head had fallen forward until his chin rested heavily on his chest. On the small glass table in front of him was an empty glassine envelope and a scatter of white powder.

Theodosia tiptoed closer, her heart hammering in her chest, her brain shouting screams of protest. An unwanted shot of adrenaline sparked by surprise and fear had sent her blood pressure zooming. Still, she was mesmerized, hypnotized, at what she was seeing.

Was Granville just stoned? Or . . . something worse? Theodosia moved closer and stretched out a tentative hand. The very tips of her fingers brushed the pulse point of his neck. Granville felt ice cold and lifeless. There was no pulse, no respiration.

Revulsion and fear rose up inside her like sulfurous magma from a roiling volcano. Theodosia understood, logically and viscerally, that Granville hadn’t just fainted on this fainting couch like genteel ladies of old.

This man was seriously, catastrophically, dead.