Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Her words come out in short puffs of breath between sobs.
“Shot?” I say because that doesn’t make any sense. “Where?”
“In her condo.”
Rich girls don’t get shot in their condos. Rich girls end up with coke problems and either die from an overdose or car crash from driving under the influence. Levels of violence involving guns doesn’t make sense.
“I-I didn’t know who else to call. Can you come here? Maybe they’ll talk to you.” Anna’s voice is almost begging, but it’s almost like she’s at the other end of a mile-long tunnel.
“That won’t work,” I tell her. “Go to my office.”
“Office?” She sounds surprised but assures me she’s got the address when I spit it out.
I hang up before she can say anything else. Police at an active crime scene won’t talk to me, but it so happens that I know a couple of guys who can get me the info I need within minutes.
I wave to Jake, and he nods in my direction, well aware of my line of work. He won’t be offended that I had to duck out early.
A couple of drinks and telling a dear friend congratulations on his retirement has somehow managed to turn into a night I have the feeling is going to change my life forever.
Chapter 2
Anna
I can’t help but think calling Deacon was a mistake, but the second that stretcher passed in front of my peephole it was almost instinctual.
I didn’t call my dad or one of my many cousins. I didn’t even call someone in Dani’s family to seek help. He was my first and only thought. He’s the man who always knew what to do when things got crazy in the past, and here I am shoving him right back into our present, a man I haven’t seen or talked to in nearly a decade.
I thought he’d hang up on me, and I’m certain that’s exactly why he sent me to voicemail twice before answering. Even after years and years he’s willing to help, and that says something about the man. I don’t have time to think about what any of this means. Why he’s so willing to help with just a short strangled conversation. I push the memory of his sad face after his divorce from my head.
My hands tremble, making it nearly impossible to pack a bag and gather my things to leave. Not paying attention to what I’m shoving into my overnight bag, I just grab things at random so I can get out of here.
Anxiety over not knowing a thing is slowly morphing into fear for myself even though I have no reason to be afraid. As time ticks by, I grow scared that whatever happened with Dani could happen to me. It settles in my stomach like a brick and speeds my hands as I pack.
Voices flow into my apartment, letting me know that the hallway is still filled with uniformed officers loitering around long after the EMTs left with her bloody body.
There’s a good chance my best friend is dead or dying on her way to the hospital, but the cops wouldn’t tell me anything. All I got was a couple of inquisitive looks, ones that told me they’d have questions for me later when they discover that I’m not just a nosy neighbor. The thought of answering questions right now when they refused to answer mine is more than a little unnerving. I feel guilt even though I had nothing to do with what happened next door.
I’m not just some intrusive person next door. Dani is my best friend, and she has been since we were babies. We haven’t seen or spoken much to each other in recent months, but we’ve been as close as sisters for as long as I can remember.
Go to my office.
Those words from Deacon’s lips don’t even make sense. Last I knew, he was a military guy, still in the Army when he and Dani divorced. No matter how much I try to picture him working in an office to quell my frantic thoughts, I just can’t. I was privy to his goals since Dani and I were inseparable, and he made it clear from about sixteen that he was planning a career in the military. There’s no way at thirty-two that his military time is over.
I’m inches away from reaching out to open my front door when the banging begins. I jolt, the sound of hard knuckles rapping against the wood frightening me more than I thought it could.
Instead of opening the door and demanding answers, I run through the apartment and head out the back. I know it makes no sense. I know I’m not in trouble, but I also don’t have answers. I can’t open that door and have those men tell me that my best friend was murdered. I can’t face that alone.