Chapter 1 #3
Wrapping my fingers around the edge of the door as I eased it open to keep from crashing it into the side of the truck, I wiggled my way out into the dark, closing the door behind me.
I squeezed my body down against the side of the truck and ducked around the front, crossing the street, jogging through the light mist toward the burger place I remembered from earlier in the day.
I ended up eating inside. I learned from experience that if I brought the burger and fries back to the van, I might have a comfortable dinner, but I’d be treated to the smell of french fries and burger grease for the next few days.
That was why, even though the van had a kitchen, I rarely cooked for myself unless I was in a campground and could do it outside.
I loved the smell of a burger and fries, but I didn’t want to smell it in my dreams.
I relaxed in the restaurant, watching people come and go: college students, people on the way home after working late.
The burger place was basic, but the food was delicious, and they attracted a varied crowd.
I inhaled my burger and took the lid off my shake, dipping fries in the frozen strawberry treat, savoring the salty and sweet indulgence as I let the details of the case shuffle in my brain.
Emily had come to Atlanta three days before she was murdered.
I thought she’d come to talk to someone at Sinclair Security.
A phone call told me that the receptionist at Sinclair was no dummy.
She’d neither confirmed nor denied that Emily Shaw had been there, stonewalling me completely.
My plan for tomorrow was to just show up, but it was a long shot, and I knew it.
I’d driven past their sleekly modern office building in Buckhead earlier in the day and doubted I’d get past the front door. I was going to try anyway.
My phone buzzed on the table. UNKNOWN. I wasn’t answering that. The last thing I needed on a dark, rainy night was to creep myself out by answering calls from UNKNOWN. I already knew what I’d hear on the other end. Nothing. What was the point of calling if they had nothing to say?
The rain was coming down even harder when I finally left the burger place, backpack a bulge under my raincoat, feet squelching in my wet sneakers as I wished I’d traded them for rain boots.
I came around the corner and caught sight of the black gleam of my Sprinter van a couple of hundred feet away, letting out a breath of relief when I didn’t see a ticket on the windshield.
It was late enough now that I might actually be good to stay in one place all night.
I stopped before the curb, ducking into a doorway with an overhang while I waited for the light to change so I could cross the street.
Cars passed through the intersection, clearing my way to cross as a shadow separated from the back of my van, melting out from beneath the rear bumper and rising to full height before taking off down the street at a rapid jog.
Someone had been under my van. Doing what, I had no idea. Planting a tracker, maybe? Chills erupted over my entire body.
“Hey,” I yelled, taking off after them, my eyes locked on their dark form as they turned a corner and disappeared, leaving both me and my van behind.
Not knowing exactly what my plan was, I picked up the pace, determined to catch up.
Just before I reached my van, a roar of heat and sound struck me, lifting me off my feet, throwing me back into the narrow alley opposite where my van had been.
In an instant, the van I’d built from bare metal into a home was gone. In its place was a fireball.
The heat licked at my skin, the air acrid with smoke. Thoughts skittered across my mind.
I should move.
The gas tank might still blow.
Who would want to blow me up?
I didn’t have any answers. The best I could do was a crab walk deeper into the alley, far enough that the heat from my burning van didn’t threaten to set me alight.
My face stung, the rain dripping down my skin, falling in pink drops onto my hands.
I was bleeding. I noted it absently, along with the cold wet of my jeans.
I didn’t know how long I sat there watching the shell of my home burn.
Everything I owned was in there. I had my backpack, like I always did, with my wallet, passport, and tablet.
I had my phone. That was it. Everything else was in the van.
My clothes. My computer and podcasting equipment.
The award I’d won for helping to solve Hillary Atkins’s murder.
The collar from my childhood dog, which I’d kept as a good luck charm.
All gone. I’d run every wire in that van, sanded each piece of wood for the paneled ceiling. It was insured, but…
My brain wouldn’t work. The light from my burning home flickered, illuminating the street and the opening of the alley.
Sirens wailed in the distance, and in a split second, the little I knew about my case flashed through my mind.
Emily Shaw. Car bomb. The phone calls. That itch between my shoulder blades. And now my home, blown up.
I had to make a choice. I could stay there, wait for the police and the fire department, like I was supposed to.
But I couldn’t forget Emily Shaw’s unsolved murder, closed so quickly.
The cold flutter in my gut started up again as the sirens drew closer.
I was alone. And right now, whoever blew up my van might think I was dead.
If I stayed and waited for the police, they’d know I wasn’t.
I could ask the police to protect me… As soon as the thought formed, I shoved it away. Too risky. I didn’t know who to trust. And sitting there, the rain dripping down my face, soaking into my clothes, the sirens wailing louder and louder, I knew there was only one place I could go.
I wobbled to my feet, slowly backing away from the mouth of the alley and the sight of my burning home.
I had to find a place to hole up for the night.
Somewhere I could go unnoticed. Stay off the radar.
Stay alive long enough to get to the only lead I had.
Because there was no fucking way I was walking away from Emily Shaw’s murder. Not now.
Not when I was pretty sure whoever had killed Emily had just tried to kill me, too.