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“What? No!” She was shaking her head, as if Tanisha could see her. “But that’s impossible.”
“I’m telling you, it’s true. I double-checked.”
“Oh, dear God,” she whispered, her knees threatening to buckle. “But he’s . . . he’s in prison.” Leaning against the counter for support, she gathered her wits. “Wait a second. He can’t be dead. He’s in his thirties and healthy. I just saw him. There has to be some mistake.” But she was already forcing her legs to move and crossing into the living room, where she’d left her laptop.
“Hey, I’m just letting you know.”
“But how? Why?”
“Don’t know. I don’t think the details are out yet. At least not that I’ve seen online. Just that he was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.”
“It’s just so hard to believe.”
“I know.”
She nearly fell onto the couch and fired up her laptop. Her fingers quivered over the keyboard as denial slithered through her brain. This couldn’t be. There had to be a mistake. Just speculation. A hoax. Donovan Caldwell, the loner cousin she’d barely known, couldn’t be dead.
“I don’t know any details,” Tanisha said again. “I thought you might.”
“No.” Trembling inside, Bria
Why the hell was it taking so long for the computer to engage?
Finally, the screen lit and she was able to type in Donovan Caldwell’s name.
Her heart nearly stopped when she saw his picture along with several news feeds, two of which had the story. As Tanisha had indicated, the news of his death was just going viral. Bria
Not just you, Bria
Tears streaked down her face. “They’re not saying how he died?” she said, sca
“Not that I saw. But you can’t fit much on Twitter.”
“I still can’t believe it.”
“I know. Look, I gotta run. Still on the clock. I’ll call you later.”
“Do . . . and thanks,” Bria
But Jase possessed the resources to find out more.
She would go to him first. Then she would try the police, though she figured she would hit a brick wall there. Jase was her best bet.
So why the hell hadn’t he called with the news about Donovan Caldwell? Why Tanisha?
Granted, Tanisha Lefevre worked at a job where she was continuously on the Internet, but still, shouldn’t crime reporter Jason Bridges have access to even more information, just as quickly? Probably even faster?
“I guess you’re going to find out,” she said, dashing her tears away and packing up her laptop, iPad, and the notes she’d printed out. Though it was earlier than the agreed-upon time to meet, she decided to head to his apartment. If he wasn’t there, she would wait.
Rand Cooligan’s acid reflux was acting up again. Big-time.
Driving toward New Orleans, he kept one hand on the steering wheel of his pickup and searched the console with his free hand. He was pretty damned sure he’d left a bottle of Tums in the truck, but so far no luck. He rummaged around the rat’s nest of lipsticks, receipts, gum, sunglasses, and whatever else Barb decided to leave in his truck, his truck, and didn’t find one stinkin’ antacid. For the love of St. Mike, couldn’t she keep her crap in her own car? Wasn’t that why they’d bought the damned Ford Explorer from her cousin? So she could have her own vehicle?
“Damn it all to hell,” he growled, the radio playing some country song he didn’t recognize, the interior of the cab cooled by the cross breeze as he drove this stretch of country road. Thinking the bottle could have rolled into the backseat of his king cab, he glanced over his shoulder but saw nothing other than his son’s baseball bag and Barb’s jacket. No bottle of Tums. No little, half-used roll of any kind of antacid.
Damn, his gut ached. Burned. He’d probably have to pull over at the next convenience store or gas station and—
Son of a bitch!
He stood on the brakes.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” The truck shimmied and fishtailed, sliding and spraying gravel as the tires hit the shoulder. Staring through the bug-spattered windshield, he saw her standing butt-ass naked in the middle of the road and waving frantically. A naked girl! No, a woman! She looked like she’d been through hell. Her skin was burned and grimy, her hair matted against her head and so dirty he couldn’t really tell the color. Blood was visible on her neck, and her face was twisted in sheer, full-blown, nutso panic.
“What the fucking hell?” he said under his breath, his heart thudding wildly. For the love of Christ, he could have hit her. Killed her. And killed himself. Let alone what would have happened to the vehicle.
She was hobbling toward him. Still waving, propped up on some kind of tree branch that she used as a crutch. What the hell was this? A shakedown? He looked around, saw no one else, then let the truck idle as he climbed from the cab and stepped onto the sunbaked asphalt.
In obvious pain, her ankle swollen to the size of a small melon, she hurried awkwardly toward him.
“Please, please help me,” she said, her voice a crackling whisper. “Please, before he comes.” She was scared spitless.
“Who?” He looked around. “Before who comes?” Again, there was no one, just a hound dog baying and bounding through the field nearby.
“Him!” Hobbling on her crooked tree limb, she hitched her way past him more quickly than he’d expected and made her way to the passenger side of his truck. “The freak. He’s coming!” she added hoarsely. “Please. Just take me away from here. Now!” She wasn’t waiting for an invitation.
“Hey, slow down. You’re okay,” he said, though she was definitely not. Not by a long shot. Whack job. Probably high on something. And scared out of her mind. Hallucinating maybe. Could be dangerous. And where the hell were her clothes? “Wait, you can’t just—”
She’d reached the cab and was opening the door.
“Whoa! Hey, look!” He rounded to the passenger side. “What’s going on here?”
“You’re helping me, that’s what.” Those frightened eyes stared straight at him, her terrified gaze boring into his soul. “And you’re saving my life, and maybe getting a damned medal of honor or bravery or whatever it is they hand out to citizens doing a good deed. But we have to leave now! He’s . . . he’s after me. And he’s got Chloe! I mean, I think so. Oh, Jesus, we have to go! Now!”
“Who’s Chloe?”
“My sister! Where have you been? Under a rock?” Without any assistance she grabbed hold of the interior handle and, with a squeal of pain, hauled herself onto the passenger seat. Automatically, from years of being warned about the evils of peering up a girl’s skirt, he turned his head so that he wouldn’t see her privates as she hoisted herself up.