Unforgivable by Laura Griffin Page B

through the security gate? That didn’t make sense—
    “Write down this case number.”
    She snatched up a pen as the caller rattled off the digits. Then she stared with disbelief at the number she’d written. The Ashley Meyer case. Dear God, who was this? Was Sam with some violent psychopath?
    “Where is that evidence?” the voice demanded.
    Mia could hardly breathe. It felt as though a giant hand was closing around her throat.
    “Where is it?”
    “It’s—I don’t know.” Wrong thing to say. “Wait, it’s here. In the evidence refrigerator, right here in the lab.”
    “Go get it,” he said. “Now, while I hold. And don’t talk to anyone.”
    Mia’s hands shook as she placed the phone atop thefile. She didn’t need the case number—she knew it by heart. She knew all of her case numbers by heart. They were her cases. Her feet felt leaden as she crossed her workroom and pulled open the glass door etched with a double helix. He wanted her to tamper with evidence. Never in her life would she have dreamed she’d do such a thing, but she was doing it right now.
    Her armpits were damp as she walked through the lab where three of her colleague stood at tables, staring into microscopes. One looked up. Two. They’d seen her. Whatever she was about to do, there were witnesses.
    Mia reached for the door of the walk-in refrigerator and pulled it open. Could they see her hands trembling? The skin between her shoulder blades burned, and she felt three laser-beam gazes boring into her as she stood before the shelves lined with evidence bags and rape kits. Her movements were robotlike as she combed through the bags, checking labels. And there they were, right where she’d left them Sunday night—the bags containing Ashley Meyer’s clothes, her shoes, and the duct tape used to bind her. Hardly breathing now, Mia collected everything and returned to her office, careful to avoid eye contact with her colleagues. She couldn’t look at them, and she knew her distress was written plainly across her face.
    The phone was waiting for her, the seconds of the call ticking away on the screen.
    “I’ve got it.” Her voice sounded raspy.
    “All of it?”
    “Yes. It’s three bags.”
    “Combine it into one. Put everything under your coat and walk out.”
    “Where am I—”
    “Keep the line open. No cops. Anyone follows you or you speak a word to anyone, Sammy is dead.”
    The words paralyzed her. But then their meaning sank in. She dropped the phone and sprang into action, ripping open the seal to the largest bag and stuffing the two smaller ones inside, on top of the shoes. She couldn’t look at the blood-covered sandals. Ashley Meyer’s sandals. Sandals that probably had her killer’s blood on them, along with hers.
    Sam, Sam, Sam. Please be okay. How had someone taken him from school? He had to have been at school. It wasn’t even two o’clock yet, and in the photograph, he was standing right in front of the sign.
    Pulse racing, Mia rode the elevator downstairs and stepped into the lobby she’d walked through only a few minutes ago. Ralph stood guard at the entrance. He gave her a nod that she returned numbly. Her gaze veered to Sophie. How would she explain her abrupt departure? Mia’s mind groped for an excuse. She was feeling ill. She’d forgotten an appointment—
    Sophie’s head bobbed. She was on the phone, thank goodness. On impulse, Mia veered right and headed for a side exit that faced the picnic tables. Ralph’s gaze met hers as she reached the door. Did he look suspicious? She imagined that he had X-ray vision and could see right through the coat folded over her arm.
    Mia pushed through the door, and it whooshed shut behind her. Freezing air whipped through the skirt and blouse she’d worn to court as she set out toward the parking lot. She realized her back was sweating. And her neck, her chest, her palms. Her breath was ragged.If she bumped into anyone she knew, they’d probably think she was