drove back, tapping his horn and waving as he passed. Diane stopped at a service station to fill up. As the pump filled the tank, she pulled out her cell and called Frank. He must be frantic , she thought.
Frank Duncan was Diane’s friend, lover, confidant, adviser, the person she most trusted, and the person she lived with—and the person who was probably out looking for her. Frank wasn’t someone who monitored her time, or worried over the time she spent at her jobs, but she was hours late.
Frank was a detective in the Metro-Atlanta Fraud & Computer Forensics Unit. Though he lived in Rosewood, he worked in Atlanta, about ninety miles away from his quiet home. He was good at his job. And he was good for her.
“Diane,” he said. “God, Diane, where are you?”
Diane heard the worry in his voice and felt guilty that she had caused it. Not that she had been given a choice.
“Frank, you don’t know how good it is to hear your voice. I’m filling up the gas tank on the way back. I’ll be in Rosewood in about forty-five minutes. Can you meet me at the museum?” she said.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Where have you been?”
“I’m fine, now. It’s a really long story, Frank. There was no cell service and no working landlines up in the mountains. I’m sorry to have worried you. Let me tell it to you face-to-face,” she said.
“Something’s happened.” It sounded more like a statement than a question.
“Yes, a lot of things happened. I’ll tell you all about it when I get to the museum,” she said. “Call David and Jin, please, and ask them to meet me there too. Apologize for me. I know they’ll be in bed asleep, but I need them,” she said.
“I’ll call both of them. Izzy’s here with me. We’ll meet you at the museum parking lot.”
David was Diane’s assistant director of the crime lab. He had worked with her when she investigated human rights abuses around the world. They both quit that work after a tragic massacre aimed at intimidating them. It hadn’t made them afraid, but it did make them grief-stricken. Diane took the job as director of the museum and hired David when the city wanted her to house a crime lab in the museum’s building. Jin and Izzy were two of her crime scene crew. Jin, a transplant from New York, worked in the DNA lab, and Izzy was a Rosewood police officer who wanted a change after his own personal tragedy. He was also Frank’s best friend.
“Are you sure you’re all right? You don’t seem fine,” he said.
“I’m not injured,” she amended. “I am very tired.”
She wasn’t sure about mental injury. She was exhausted—her adrenaline seemed to be running out again. She’d explored caves and climbed rock faces for a longer period of time than she was lost in the woods. Why was she so exhausted?
Because you were afraid all that time , she said to herself. She was still frightened—scared that someone was following her.
Damn, I’m probably going to dream about being chased for the rest of my life—by dogs, and Slick, and Tammy with her long nails.
And Diane was sick about the Barres. Who had done this to them? While she was out in the woods trying to get to their house, who was killing them? And why?
Diane said good-bye to Frank, closed her cell, and put it in her pocket. She had taken off the poncho, rolled it up, and put it in the passenger seat, glad Deputy Conrad hadn’t asked for it. At the same time, she was disappointed that he hadn’t requested it, suggesting that he—as he confessed—didn’t really know how to investigate a crime like murder.
Diane drove the SUV from the gas pumps and parked in front of the door to the convenience store. She walked to the back to the women’s restroom. It was small and relatively clean, thank goodness.
She washed her hands and scrubbed with soap the tender red scratches on her arm made by Slick, mentally cursing him. She looked at her face in the mirror. No one who knew her would recognize
Frank Duncan was Diane’s friend, lover, confidant, adviser, the person she most trusted, and the person she lived with—and the person who was probably out looking for her. Frank wasn’t someone who monitored her time, or worried over the time she spent at her jobs, but she was hours late.
Frank was a detective in the Metro-Atlanta Fraud & Computer Forensics Unit. Though he lived in Rosewood, he worked in Atlanta, about ninety miles away from his quiet home. He was good at his job. And he was good for her.
“Diane,” he said. “God, Diane, where are you?”
Diane heard the worry in his voice and felt guilty that she had caused it. Not that she had been given a choice.
“Frank, you don’t know how good it is to hear your voice. I’m filling up the gas tank on the way back. I’ll be in Rosewood in about forty-five minutes. Can you meet me at the museum?” she said.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Where have you been?”
“I’m fine, now. It’s a really long story, Frank. There was no cell service and no working landlines up in the mountains. I’m sorry to have worried you. Let me tell it to you face-to-face,” she said.
“Something’s happened.” It sounded more like a statement than a question.
“Yes, a lot of things happened. I’ll tell you all about it when I get to the museum,” she said. “Call David and Jin, please, and ask them to meet me there too. Apologize for me. I know they’ll be in bed asleep, but I need them,” she said.
“I’ll call both of them. Izzy’s here with me. We’ll meet you at the museum parking lot.”
David was Diane’s assistant director of the crime lab. He had worked with her when she investigated human rights abuses around the world. They both quit that work after a tragic massacre aimed at intimidating them. It hadn’t made them afraid, but it did make them grief-stricken. Diane took the job as director of the museum and hired David when the city wanted her to house a crime lab in the museum’s building. Jin and Izzy were two of her crime scene crew. Jin, a transplant from New York, worked in the DNA lab, and Izzy was a Rosewood police officer who wanted a change after his own personal tragedy. He was also Frank’s best friend.
“Are you sure you’re all right? You don’t seem fine,” he said.
“I’m not injured,” she amended. “I am very tired.”
She wasn’t sure about mental injury. She was exhausted—her adrenaline seemed to be running out again. She’d explored caves and climbed rock faces for a longer period of time than she was lost in the woods. Why was she so exhausted?
Because you were afraid all that time , she said to herself. She was still frightened—scared that someone was following her.
Damn, I’m probably going to dream about being chased for the rest of my life—by dogs, and Slick, and Tammy with her long nails.
And Diane was sick about the Barres. Who had done this to them? While she was out in the woods trying to get to their house, who was killing them? And why?
Diane said good-bye to Frank, closed her cell, and put it in her pocket. She had taken off the poncho, rolled it up, and put it in the passenger seat, glad Deputy Conrad hadn’t asked for it. At the same time, she was disappointed that he hadn’t requested it, suggesting that he—as he confessed—didn’t really know how to investigate a crime like murder.
Diane drove the SUV from the gas pumps and parked in front of the door to the convenience store. She walked to the back to the women’s restroom. It was small and relatively clean, thank goodness.
She washed her hands and scrubbed with soap the tender red scratches on her arm made by Slick, mentally cursing him. She looked at her face in the mirror. No one who knew her would recognize
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