he
unloaded the boxes. The Bluff Park Diner was our local meat-and-three, just
minutes down the road from Dad’s house. He’d brought me the meatloaf, which I
loved. It was thickly sliced, heavy on the garlic and onions, and covered with
ketchup. Dad had the vegetable plate. Once we’d tucked in, he asked, “How’re
you holding up?”
“Okay I guess,” I answered, talking
around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. I swallowed. I told him about my tires.
“Who do you think did it?”
“It wasn’t random. Whoever did it left
me a message about it at work. I think it was someone involved with this case,
probably Mom’s ex-boyfriend.”
“You be careful.”
“I will. I haven’t heard anything from
him lately. I think he’s the type who’ll blow off steam and let it go. All
mouth, no muscle. Oh, and Michael’s mother pled guilty and got one to five
years.”
“Yeah, I saw that on the news.”
“Was it bad?”
“They didn’t mention you or DHS. Just
that she’d been sentenced.”
“Michael’s memorial is Tuesday. That’s
going to be tough.” I stabbed a few bacon-laced green beans with my fork. “It
still doesn’t make any sense.”
“Why?”
“First, Ashley’s not the GHB type.
Second, if she was using again and partying the night before, she would have
known the juice had drugs in it. She wouldn’t have given it to Michael. Third,
if she didn’t do it, why take the fall?”
“Was she partying the night before?”
“She says not. She says she was
working.”
“Did they do a drug screen when she went
to jail? That would give you some idea if she was lying.”
I made a mental note to call Brighton on
Tuesday. “I’ll check on that. Although I don’t know if it would show GHB. That
stuff gets out of your system pretty quickly.”
I wondered for the hundredth time who
had sold Ashley the drugs, if they were hers. Flash? More and more questions
about his role in Michael’s death were nagging me. Was he the man in the green
car? Did he slash my tires? Why would he blame me for Ashley’s arrest? And was
he hanging out with Ashley again? Maybe it was time to find out what he knew. I
might be teasing a tiger, but I decided to track him down.
Dad reached over and sliced off a hunk
of my meatloaf.
“I thought you were a vegetarian,” I
said.
“This doesn’t count.”
I wasn’t about to argue with that.
Chapter Ten
Dad stayed to watch a documentary on PBS
with me. He left around eleven, and before dragging myself off to bed I hunted
down the software discs that the guy at the computer store needed. After retrieving
them from some storage boxes in the office closet, I slept a heavy sleep,
thanks to the wine.
By Saturday morning the air had cooled
to a more comfortable eighty-something degrees and the day promised to be
beautiful. I scurried down the driveway in my bathrobe to get the paper, the
plastic bag warm from the sun. I unrolled it like a bomb technician handling
explosives: very carefully and with a serious feeling of dread.
First I checked the obituaries.
Michael’s was there, short and sweet:
HENNESSY,
MICHAEL ALEXANDER . Beloved son, aged two, passed away Tuesday, June
28. Services to be held Tuesday, July 5, at Harris and Sons on University
Boulevard at eleven a.m. In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations to
St. Monica’s Home for Recovery.
St. Monica’s address was listed, but no
mention of surviving family. I skimmed the front page. The main stories were
about the heavy rain yesterday, which had caused some flooding, and the
governor’s trip to Washington D.C. Nothing about the case. I turned to the
local section. There was a short piece by Kirk, just a couple of paragraphs
about the sentencing and Ashley’s reaction. A small picture of her leaving the
courthouse, handcuffed. Nothing else. Then I flipped to the letters to the
editor. Nothing about DHS. Hopefully the public had vented all they were going
to. It appeared the media storm was
unloaded the boxes. The Bluff Park Diner was our local meat-and-three, just
minutes down the road from Dad’s house. He’d brought me the meatloaf, which I
loved. It was thickly sliced, heavy on the garlic and onions, and covered with
ketchup. Dad had the vegetable plate. Once we’d tucked in, he asked, “How’re
you holding up?”
“Okay I guess,” I answered, talking
around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. I swallowed. I told him about my tires.
“Who do you think did it?”
“It wasn’t random. Whoever did it left
me a message about it at work. I think it was someone involved with this case,
probably Mom’s ex-boyfriend.”
“You be careful.”
“I will. I haven’t heard anything from
him lately. I think he’s the type who’ll blow off steam and let it go. All
mouth, no muscle. Oh, and Michael’s mother pled guilty and got one to five
years.”
“Yeah, I saw that on the news.”
“Was it bad?”
“They didn’t mention you or DHS. Just
that she’d been sentenced.”
“Michael’s memorial is Tuesday. That’s
going to be tough.” I stabbed a few bacon-laced green beans with my fork. “It
still doesn’t make any sense.”
“Why?”
“First, Ashley’s not the GHB type.
Second, if she was using again and partying the night before, she would have
known the juice had drugs in it. She wouldn’t have given it to Michael. Third,
if she didn’t do it, why take the fall?”
“Was she partying the night before?”
“She says not. She says she was
working.”
“Did they do a drug screen when she went
to jail? That would give you some idea if she was lying.”
I made a mental note to call Brighton on
Tuesday. “I’ll check on that. Although I don’t know if it would show GHB. That
stuff gets out of your system pretty quickly.”
I wondered for the hundredth time who
had sold Ashley the drugs, if they were hers. Flash? More and more questions
about his role in Michael’s death were nagging me. Was he the man in the green
car? Did he slash my tires? Why would he blame me for Ashley’s arrest? And was
he hanging out with Ashley again? Maybe it was time to find out what he knew. I
might be teasing a tiger, but I decided to track him down.
Dad reached over and sliced off a hunk
of my meatloaf.
“I thought you were a vegetarian,” I
said.
“This doesn’t count.”
I wasn’t about to argue with that.
Chapter Ten
Dad stayed to watch a documentary on PBS
with me. He left around eleven, and before dragging myself off to bed I hunted
down the software discs that the guy at the computer store needed. After retrieving
them from some storage boxes in the office closet, I slept a heavy sleep,
thanks to the wine.
By Saturday morning the air had cooled
to a more comfortable eighty-something degrees and the day promised to be
beautiful. I scurried down the driveway in my bathrobe to get the paper, the
plastic bag warm from the sun. I unrolled it like a bomb technician handling
explosives: very carefully and with a serious feeling of dread.
First I checked the obituaries.
Michael’s was there, short and sweet:
HENNESSY,
MICHAEL ALEXANDER . Beloved son, aged two, passed away Tuesday, June
28. Services to be held Tuesday, July 5, at Harris and Sons on University
Boulevard at eleven a.m. In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations to
St. Monica’s Home for Recovery.
St. Monica’s address was listed, but no
mention of surviving family. I skimmed the front page. The main stories were
about the heavy rain yesterday, which had caused some flooding, and the
governor’s trip to Washington D.C. Nothing about the case. I turned to the
local section. There was a short piece by Kirk, just a couple of paragraphs
about the sentencing and Ashley’s reaction. A small picture of her leaving the
courthouse, handcuffed. Nothing else. Then I flipped to the letters to the
editor. Nothing about DHS. Hopefully the public had vented all they were going
to. It appeared the media storm was
Similar Books
