Free The Square Root of Murder (Professor Sophie Knowles) by Ada Madison

possessed the gene, and could smell cyanide even when there was none within miles.
    I woke up with the same headache, but the aroma filling the room had changed to that of dark French roast. I sniffed again. Ah, cinnamon buns, too. The pleasant odors and the rattling sounds in my kitchen told me that Bruce had arrived. Or that Keith’s killer had come to do me in, too, after serving me my favorite breakfast in bed. I turned over and put my pillow over my head. I was so beat I didn’t care who was in my house.
    Sniff. The aroma of coffee wouldn’t quit. I lifted myself from my cocoon and shambled into the kitchen.
    Bruce was ready with a steaming mug of coffee. “Here’s a little something to get you started,” he said, kissing my cheek. “It must have been a tough night for you.”
    “You could say that.”
    “Breakfast awaits in the main dining area.” He took a little bow, waiter-like.
    Maybe life was worth living after all. I accepted the mug, making a huge effort to smile in gratitude. In a couple of hours I wouldn’t want to get near anything that sent a hot vapor bath to my face, but as a wake-up beverage, I’d take rich, hot coffee in any season.
    I squinted. Why did Bruce look so much better than I did, even after he’d pulled his fifth all-nighter in a row? But then, I was a pushover for stubble. I ran my finger along his cheek and gave him a weak smile.
    Bruce was a marvel, the way he got off a twelve-hour shift at nine in the morning, chipper and ready to start the day. He’d finally crash around two or three in the afternoon and be all set to leave for work again by eight in the evening. Then, during his seven days off, he’d snap back to a normal sleeping pattern. Granted he was often able to nap during the night on the cot in his MAstar trailer bedroom but there was that phone—the crew called it the Bat Phone—on the wall that could go off at any moment, a klaxon sound summoning them to an emergency. Flight nurse Gil Bartholomew, Hal’s wife, compared the sound to that of a tack hammer working directly on her skull.
    “I was hoping the smell would wake you up,” Bruce said. “I hate to eat alone, especially in your kitchen.” He took a step back and scrutinized my face. “Did you get any sleep at all, Soph?”
    “Probably as much as you did.”
    He made a gesture meant to mimic a maitre d’ toward the patio doors, next to which my old white farm table was set for two. More coffee, lightly scrambled eggs, juice, and cinnamon buns from a nearby bakery. My headache faded at the sight.
    I’d met Bruce in Boston five years ago at the wedding of his cousin, who married a college friend of mine. We still didn’t know for sure if Sean and Karina had put us at the same table on purpose, but it hardly mattered anymore. We’d moved from two hours of talk at the big round favorladen table to two more hours at a late-night coffee shop.
    I loved hearing about the odd jobs Bruce had worked—like flying helicopter tours over the Grand Canyon and transporting CEOs through the air to golf matches. He’d let me go on and on about how mathematics was a subject of study in its own right, and not simply a tool for science, as some of our upper floor Franklin Hall faculty thought.
    Over the years I’d gotten to like Bruce’s frequent movie references and he tolerated my birthday theories. At the time it was important to me that he didn’t laugh when I told him he was destined to be a pilot since his birthday, June 4, was the anniversary of the demonstration of the first hot air balloon.
    We were very well suited to each other and by now I’d forgotten life before Bruce.
    This morning I was the one with the trauma story. Bruce had had a quiet, fogged-in night at MAstar. No patients needing transportation from one facility to another, and no accidents.
    “None that we could get to, anyway,” Bruce told me.
    “I thought you had some new guidance system that let you fly lower than before.”
    “You do