When Shadows Fall Read Online Free PDF Page A

to causing alarm when he knocked on doors. He took one look at Xander and Thor, smiled and held out a white business card. “Rolph Benedict, with Benedict, Picker, Green and Thompson, out of Lynchburg. I represent the estate of Timothy Savage. Ah, you are familiar with his name, I see. Good. May I come in?”
    A lawyer.
    “It’s late, Mr. Benedict. You couldn’t have called ahead?”
    The little man shook his head. “I apologize, sir. My cell phone died on the drive up. I would have been here earlier, but I took a wrong turn, managed to hit 66 going out of town instead of into the city.”
    His tone didn’t sound very apologetic, but Sam shot a look at Xander, who sighed and made a show of putting the gun in the waistband of his jeans before he stepped away from the door. A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.
    “I suppose you better come in,” Sam said to Benedict. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Chapter
6
    SAM FIXED BENEDICT a cup of tea, served it to him at the dining room table. Allowing him to settle into one of the comfortable leather chairs in the living room felt too welcoming, too personal. This was a business call, and the lawyer didn’t seem to mind her treating it as such. The table was a round of thick glass surrounded by six Eames chairs in white ash. Beautiful, functional, comfortable enough.
    Once settled, Benedict set out a pad, a Montblanc fountain pen and a document backed by blue paper. He took a sip of his tea, gave Sam a nod of thanks. Understanding the challenges of Parkinson’s, she’d given him the mug with the biggest circumference and handle, and hadn’t filled it all the way. He managed well, though soon enough he’d have trouble. Without aggressive treatment, resting tremors didn’t improve, only steadily worsened, and it was probably too late for him already. His age, the advance of the disease: he didn’t have much time left.
    Xander was through with the niceties. “What’s this about, Mr. Benedict?”
    “I’m not sure we’ve met, Mr....” He trailed off expectantly.
    Xander cleared his throat. “Whitfield.”
    “Ah. Mr. Whitfield. Thank you. Now. Mr. Savage hired my firm last week to prepare a trust to handle his estate.” He turned to Sam, eyes shrewd and assessing. “He named you as executor, Dr. Owens, and left you a respectable amount of money.”
    “What? Me? Why? I don’t even know him.”
    “Be that as it may, he insisted. He said you’d understand why, when the time came. I must admit, the situation is curious, but understandable. Many people wish to clear up loose ends before they, well, leave this life on their own terms.”
    “Is that even legal, putting a stranger in charge of your estate?” Sam asked.
    “It certainly is. And better a named stranger than a faceless government drone whose only interest is taking as much as possible for Uncle Sammy.” His lips moved into an approximation of a grin.
    Sam felt a chill run down her spine. This dead stranger, this lawyer on the edge of the grave, this whole situation—it was too much. Xander picked up on her discomfort, reached a hand to her under the table. She squeezed it, then stood and murmured, “I’ll be right back. I need a sweater.”
    Sam picked up her favorite cashmere pashmina from the living room couch and wrapped it around her shoulders. Feeling much less exposed, she marched back into the dining room in time to hear Xander say, “I think you need to explain yourself, Mr. Benedict, and quickly. Who exactly is Timothy Savage?”
    Benedict ran a shaky finger along the rim of his mug. “You are aware, of course, of the circumstances surrounding Mr. Savage’s death?”
    “Enlighten us.”
    “Oh. You really don’t know.” Benedict’s voice took on a classic Southern ghoulishness, horror and delight coupled in a high-pitched whisper. He leaned forward as he said, “He killed himself. With a very nasty chemical agent he cooked up in his kitchen. Detergent suicide, is what