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.