The Bone Chamber - By Robin Burcell Page 0,1

said, “What happened to that workaholic I used to know?”

“Hit with reality on my last case. One that made me take a hard look at priorities,” she said, not willing to go into details with her friend. It was one of the reasons she’d ended up back at Quantico. In the past, she would have taken this job in an instant, knowing her family would be there when she finished, no matter how long it took. Back then, she believed in what she was doing, believed that she had something to offer, to help. But she’d lost her edge on that last case and she needed to regroup, and flying home to be with her family for the two weeks preceding Thanksgiving was part of that effort. The sad reality was that the dead would be there for her when she got back. What she’d learned on her last case was that her family might not be. Deciding that she should offer her friend some sort of explanation, she added, “These days, family comes first.”

“Don’t blame you. Hold on a sec.” More silence, then, “Sorry. My secretary’s breathing down my neck. Listen, I was thinking that since you sent this forensic job my way, I could buy you dinner. Haven’t seen you since—hell, what’s it been? Six, seven months since you left here?”

“About that long. But let’s catch up when I get back from vacation. Scotty’s already asked me to dinner. He’s helping me look for an apartment tomorrow and wanted to go over a few he found on the Internet. I was hoping to find one before I left.”

“You are not going blow me off for an ex-boyfriend. I just got back from a dig and I so need to see a friendly face. Girls’ night out for old times’ sake.”

“I really wish I could.”

“You know we’ll have fun, and Scotty will understand. Eventually. Ristorante Primavera at seven. I won’t take no for an answer.”

Tasha hung up before Sydney could object. And she wasn’t even sure she wanted to. Scotty was undoubtedly using the apartment search to go out with her, and she didn’t need to spend Friday night with him just to look at computer printouts of places they were going to see in person on Saturday. The question was whether to hit him with the truth, or come up with a reasonable lie as to why she was canceling dinner. She punched in his number, deciding that when it came to her ex, a lie was the much better option.

Zachary Griffin hefted the large box to one side as he opened the office door of the Anthropological Division of the National Forensic Institute. The day had started off bad, and now the forensic artist wasn’t available because she was taking vacation in the middle of a month he’d just as soon eliminate from the calendar. As a result he was forced to come up with an alternate solution—something he hadn’t anticipated—and that was a mistake he shouldn’t have made.

He refused to acknowledge that he’d had his mind on other things—this being November—and even if he did admit to that reason, it was not an acceptable excuse. There were no excuses, he thought, as he walked into the office. He nodded at the secretary, a round-faced, middle-aged woman with short blond curly hair, who was busy sorting through a box of papers. She smiled at him, then picked up the phone and called her boss’s extension, saying, “Zachary Griffin’s here…Very good. I’ll send him in.”

The secretary disconnected, whispered, “FYI. She’s a bit frazzled from her trip. Something about a curse on the tomb.” She angled her head toward the office door. Zach, figuring she was joking about the curse, crossed the reception area as she got back to her filing.

He stepped into the large office, one wall of shelves filled with reference books, the other filled with rows of labeled boxes—each containing bones, each waiting for IDs. Much like the box he now carried. “Your plan backfired, Tasha,” he said. She seemed not to hear, intent on whatever it was she was reading on her computer screen, and he crossed the room, then stopped in surprise at her appearance. He hadn’t seen her since her return from Egypt, only talked to her on the phone. The secretary’s assessment was an understatement. Frazzled was not the word he’d use to describe her, he thought, noting the dark circles beneath her bloodshot blue eyes as she worked at her computer.