Bo got up, moving slowly, as if walking through water. As if he didn’t know where to go, who to talk to, what to do.
“You should probably notify your wife’s family,” Kent said.
Bo nodded. “Yeah, I will.” The man just stood there, staring into space.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I . . . just don’t have my car here, so . . .”
“I’ll get one of our men to take you back to your car at the store. You can’t go into the house yet, though. They’re still working the scene.”
He rubbed his face, his mouth trembling. “Can I see her?”
They hadn’t yet moved the body from where she’d been found. “No, not yet, but we’ll have someone call you as soon you can.”
Bo nodded, staring vacantly, as if searching his mind for a starting point to tackling this nightmare. Kent made arrangements to get him to wherever he wanted to go, then hurried out to his own car and headed for Barbara’s house.
Chapter 10
The test had been over for an hour by the time Emily got to school. She parked farther away than she was used to, since the parking lot filled up early, then tromped across campus to the administration building, where her history professor kept an office. He had a stern policy — no missed tests without a doctor’s excuse — but she clutched her police report in her hand, hoping he would make an exception just this once. Could he give as much weight to a murder attempt as he did to the flu?
She found Dr. Ingles in his office, his door open as he sat hunched over test papers. He was a large man with a bald head and hefty paunch, and he wore a perpetual scowl. She had never had a conversation with him outside of class, so her mouth went dry. She cleared her throat and knocked on the door’s casing.
He looked up at her, then leaned back hard. “Well, well, Miss Covington. Glad to see you finally made it to school today.”
She drew in a deep breath and reminded herself that Georgians liked to hear ma’am and sir. If she could just remember to say it. “Sir, may I talk to you?”
“You missed your test, Miss Covington. That’s unfortunate.”
She couldn’t tell him straight out that someone had tried to kill her. She didn’t want this igniting the gossip mill like wildfire. “I was leaving on time this morning, when my car caught fire. My brother waved me down and I got out before I was hurt, but I had to wait for the fire department and the police — ”
His bushy eyebrows shot up. “The police?”
“Yes . . . sir.” Why couldn’t she just say it naturally? But the awkward sir didn’t seem to bother him. He suddenly looked interested.
“They came with the fire department. I have the police report here. It’s not a doctor’s excuse, but it proves that it happened.”
He took the report, and she hoped he would just look at the date and time and not read the officer’s scribbled handwriting at the bottom. But that was exactly where his gaze swept. She held her breath as he picked up his glasses and shoved them on, frowning as he read.
“They were there forever,” she said in a soft voice, as if calming a rabid animal. “I told them I had a test, but I had to stay until they were finished, and then the car had to be towed and I had to work out another ride. I couldn’t drive it like that.”
He didn’t seem to be listening. “Wait a moment,” he said, looking up from the yellow copy of the report. “Sit down. Start over.”
At least he was going to hear her out. She went in and sat down, set her books on the seat next to her. His office wasn’t what she often saw in college professors’ offices. His was relatively neat, free of dust, and a shiny green plant of some kind sat under his window, cared for. He had a child’s pictures tacked on a bulletin board and taped to the back of his door. His grandchild’s drawings? He seemed too old to have small children of his own. Maybe he wasn’t as scary as he seemed.
“Sounds like you’ve had a hair-raising morning. Just take a breath and start over.”
Only then did she realize she was still shaking. “Dr. Ingles, I’ve really tried to do well in this class. I study and read everything we’re asked to read, and I like history. It’s interesting, like a novel. I was ready for this test. But I didn’t expect the fire — ”
“It sounds as if it was more than a fire. It says something about a bomb?”
She swallowed and looked down at her hands. “Okay, but I’d rather this didn’t get around. I have . . . a reputation already. But somebody taped a bomb to the bottom of my car, and when I started it, it caught fire.”
He asked her a few questions, and she answered them as briefly as she could. “But I hope you can see that this was out of my control. Will you please let me make up the test?”
He took off his glasses and handed the police report back to her. “Miss Covington . . .”
She wanted to tell him to call her Emily, but professors had a thing about using your last name. It made her uncomfortable, like he was talking to her mother instead of her.
“I know about your history. I followed the news stories when you were missing. I recognized you the first day you were in my class.”
She looked at her feet. “Great.”
He leaned forward and studied her until she met his eyes. “I’ve been inspired by your turnaround. You seem very diligent and focused now, and I find that refreshing. But this is disturbing.”
“Tell me about it,” she said. “My mom is all freaking out because she thinks if somebody’s trying to kill me I must have gone back to drugs. But I haven’t. I’m at this school every day, and I’m keeping a B average. Trust me — when I was using, I didn’t make As and Bs. I didn’t even show up for school. A lot of the time I didn’t even qualify for Fs. I’m working really hard to stay sober, and I don’t think about drugs all the time anymore. This isn’t my fault. But meanwhile, I’ve missed an important test. Please, will you let me take a make-up?”
“So you feel you were ready for it this morning?”
“Yes. Absolutely. I can take it right now.”
He stared at her, his gaze so piercing that she almost felt he could read her thoughts. “All right, Miss Covington. I have another class taking the test at noon in the same room. You can take it with them.”
She let out her breath. “Thank you so much.” She got her books, stood. “I really appreciate it.”
“Be careful.”
“I will,” she said. “I’ll see you at noon.”
She punched the air with a victorious fist as she left his office. Then she pulled out her phone and texted her mother. He’s letting me make up the test at noon!
Her second class today wasn’t until one, so she had time to go to the library and focus her thoughts. If she could quit thinking about the bomb, maybe she could even pass the test.
Chapter 11
Barbara had loaned her car to Emily, so Kent drove her to work. He wished he could calm her fears. She had missed an important pre-presentation meeting this morning, and that wouldn’t make her look good at work. And complicating her situation further, Kent had strongly suggested that each of them keep quiet about the bomb, explaining only on a need-to-know basis. Whoever had done this was clearly looking for some kind of power, and he probably wanted word to get around. Better to have as little press and word of mouth as possible.
Kent suspected that the bomber hadn’t really wanted to kill Emily. If he had, it would have been easy enough to do it. According to the CSI who’d worked the scene, the bomb must not have held much gasoline. If it had, the fuel tank would have gone up.
No, whoever did this had been trying to jerk her around.
“Are you gonna be okay?” he asked Barbara as they approached her office building.
“Yeah, I have to be. This is a huge presentation. I can’t drop the ball on it.”
“But you’re ready, right?”
“I think so. The presentation is at noon. The deacon leadership and church staff are coming to our offices for a catered lunch, and we’re presenti
ng it then.” She looked out the window, and he knew where her mind was going. “Kent, what if she’s using again? I really don’t think I can go through that again.”
“Emily looks fine. But I never saw her when she was high.”
“But this staying out until all hours . . . I haven’t wanted to give her a curfew because she’s twenty, and I know that if she were in the dorm, she’d stay out late anyway. I wanted her to stay home for just this reason. I want to make sure she’s solid enough in her sobriety before she lives away from home.”
“Other than the late hours, you’ve had no reason to suspect her. You check her when she comes in, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but . . . how do you tell the difference between sleepy and loaded?”
“You can tell, Barbara. You’ve told me yourself that when she was using, she didn’t bathe, didn’t change clothes, didn’t brush her teeth or her hair. She was a mess, didn’t go to school, didn’t come home. She’s not like that now.”
“No, she’s not.” She took his hand, stroked it with her thumb. “You’re helping. I appreciate your perspective.”
“Well, if you’re still suspicious, drug-test her tonight.”
She sighed. “I don’t know how she’d take that.”
“Her reaction will be telling. If she balks, then you’ll know she could be using. If she’s really sober, she’ll want to prove it. I can bring you a test kit tonight if you want.”
Barbara nodded. “I guess so.” She sighed. “I hope the insurance company will pay for a rental until we can get her car checked out. I don’t like having to depend on you.”
Kent smiled. “I like it when I can help.”
“But you were working a case, weren’t you?”
“Yeah. A woman found dead in her bed this morning. She had two little kids. I had to tell her husband.”
Barbara gaped at him. “Kent, I’m so sorry to pull you away from that.”
“No problem. I can get back to it now.”
“I’ll get Emily to pick me up this afternoon if we haven’t gotten a rental by then.”
He turned into the parking lot and drove her to the front door. “Call me if you can’t.”
“I’ll call a cab before I’ll take you away from hunting down a killer.”
“I can take a minute to pick you up, Barbara.”
She hesitated before getting out. “Do you think they got enough evidence to figure out who planted the bomb?”
“I hope so. I’ll stay on top of that too, babe. I’ll keep you informed. Let me know immediately if anything else happens.”
She kissed him lightly, and he watched her get out and waited until she was inside. Though he had been interrupted on his murder case, there was something he liked about being needed by a group of people he loved. They weren’t his family yet, but he felt like they were.
He shifted in his seat and slid his hand into his pocket, felt for the ring. It was still there. When should he ask her? The middle of a puzzling murder case wasn’t the right time. And the bomb added another element of distraction. No, he wanted to ask her in a way that was memorable, when there was nothing that would shipwreck her joy.
Driving back to the murder scene, he said a silent prayer that Emily’s circumstances this morning didn’t herald a relapse. If she had stumbled and was using again, the repercussions would be much further reaching than she knew.
Barbara didn’t deserve that. She’d already been through way more than any mother should endure.
Chapter 12
Lance hated going into history late, especially when it was full of football players who loved making him look stupid.
The door was closed, so he knocked, then stepped inside. Mr. Herman turned midsentence and held out his hand for Lance’s admittance slip. Lance gave it to him. “Sorry I’m late,” he muttered.
“Care to explain why you are?” Mr. Herman asked.
Lance wanted to say no, that he’d prefer not to talk in front of the whole stinking class, but that would only drag it out. He decided just to blurt it. “My sister’s car caught fire. Big family drama. Fire trucks and everything.”
There. It wasn’t the whole story, but enough to get him off the hook.
“That sounds like a valid excuse,” Herman said.
There was a snicker across the class. “Lance has lots of family drama,” Randall, the second-string quarterback, said. “He’s a big superhero, you know.”
Lance felt the heat in his cheeks as he dropped into his seat.
“Yeah, Mr. Herman, he’s a CIA agent and spends his spare time fighting crime and rescuing damsels in distress.”
The class laughed. Lance ground his molars but didn’t speak. April Pullen, his friend who sat behind him, patted his shoulder.
“He was shot in the heart just a few months ago,” the tight end said.
“With a silver bullet,” Randall spouted.
Lance had learned months ago not to respond when they started down this road. But April spoke up. “Not the heart, the lungs.”
“Oh, yeah,” the quarterback said. “The lungs. He was dead for four days, and then miraculously revived, so he could return to his life of saving the world from crime.”
“And then these Martians landed in his backyard and beamed him up.”
The class was enjoying this. Lance grinned, pretending he enjoyed it, too. “Randall knows ’cause he was beamed up with me. Too bad about those brain experiments they did on him.”
Now the class laughed with him.
“All right, that’s enough, guys,” Herman said. “Lance, we’re glad you made it. I was just telling the students that we’re fixing to have a little quiz tomorrow.”
Great. Lance got his book out of his backpack and opened it. He didn’t even know what chapter they were in. How would he ever pass a quiz?
After class, he took his time packing his binder and book back in his backpack, hoping his tormenters would clear out before he left the room.
“You okay?” April asked him.
Lance shrugged. “Sure. Just a bad morning.”
“Don’t let them get to you. They’re jerks.”
More than once, he’d thought of showing them the scar on his chest, or bringing in his medical records or the newspaper articles about his kidnapping and attempted murder. But it wasn’t worth it. They could see it if they read his Facebook page, but he hadn’t wanted to friend most of them. And few of them had tried. No one had cared enough to even do a Google search about him, which would have confirmed his story. But even if they learned it was true, they’d just find something else to ride him about.
He’d gotten off to a bad start when word got around that he was the infamous Emily Covington’s brother. Her reputation had a way of keeping the gossip mill churning.
When Lance mentioned to a teacher in front of a class that he’d been shot in the lung last fall, word spread like wildfire that he wove these outlandish tales because he was jealous of his sister’s notoriety. He’d become the class joke. Every effort he’d made to prove the truth only made him seem more delusional. Eventually he’d quit defending himself.
Only April, who marched to a different rhythm, had given him the time of day. But that wasn’t so bad, because April was a cute misfit. He stayed awake nights plotting how to cross the threshold from friendship to romance with her. If he could get up the nerve, he planned to ask her to homecoming.
“Come on, Mr. Spock,” she said, taking his hand and pulling him up. “Tell me about the fire.”
Feeling better, he got his backpack and followed her out.
Chapter 13
Emily found a quiet place at the library and pulled her laptop out to study. Before she loaded her notes, she signed onto Facebook. After what had happened to her today, she wanted to talk to her friends. Her page was private, and her friends were real people she knew — not the strangers who tried to friend her every day. Most of those who had access to her wall were recovering addicts themselves, some that she’
d made friends with in treatment, some through AA, and some were graduates of Haven House, the program she worked for. The bomb would freak them out, but they’d be able to relate to her mother’s paranoia about a relapse. The people in their lives watched them constantly and blamed them for every negative thing that happened.
She logged on to Facebook and saw that several of her friends were also online. She clicked on her friend Sara, whom she’d met at Haven House, and sent her an instant message.
You won’t believe what happened to me this morning.
Instead of taking the bait, Sara’s instant message came up. Did you hear about Bo’s wife?
Emily frowned. She only knew one Bo. He, too, had been a resident at Haven House while Sara was there, but they’d both been out of treatment for several months.
No, what about her?
Sara’s answer came back quickly. She was murdered in her bed this morning!
Emily sucked in a gasp and slid back from the computer, staring at the IM. Murdered? Bo’s wife was dead?
She thought of those two little kids that Devon had brought to Haven House to visit him on Saturdays. One was just a baby, the other a preschooler.
Check out this article, Sara said.
Emily clicked on the link, and it took her to the Atlanta Journal Constitution’s website. The article had been posted online only an hour ago — “Atlanta Woman Found Murdered.”
Devon Lawrence, 30, was found dead in her home this morning after an apparent break-in and robbery. Her four-year-old child discovered her body. Devon’s husband, William (Bo) Lawrence, 43, was notified at work at the JR’s 24/7 on Broad Street. “It looks like someone came in the side door to the carport,” he said. Several items were stolen from the home. Their 46-inch flat-panel TV was left untouched, however.
Emily brought her hand to her mouth, unable to breathe. Poor Bo. His wife murdered . . . her little girl discovering her . . .
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