Dark Justice(39)

Dave’s gaze would not waver. “You look scared to death.”

No kidding.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

Emily swallowed. Her mom hadn’t wanted her pulled into this. Now she understood. She felt the same about Dave. “Please. For now, can you just . . . Did you see the static at the beginning?”

Dave gave her another long look. “Yes. At the left side, bottom, about three seconds in.”

Emily’s nerves wavered. “I need to know what it says.”

Dave nodded. “So do I. Then you’re going to tell me what this is all about.”





Chapter 19


Back in the hotel I could not sleep. Mom had crawled beneath the covers of her bed, still clothed, and dozed off right away. I lay on top of my bed staring at the ceiling.

What should I do?

The question spun around inside me until I thought I would go mad. The wrong decision could cost us our lives.

And meanwhile terrorists just might be planning to attack the electrical grid somewhere in America. If that was true, how long from now? How could they be stopped?

I might have killed a man.

The thought hit me like a rogue wave. What if I did? Me, who worked with a doctor. We saved lives.

But that man could have killed my mother. I’d do anything to protect her.

I didn’t have to shoot him in the chest.

What had I done? He could be somebody’s husband. Father. Had I taken away a woman’s husband?

Tears filled my eyes and ran down my temples. Jeff wouldn’t have wanted me to kill someone. Not really. Just protect myself.

Thou shalt not kill. One of the Ten Commandments I’d never expected to break. How did I even ask for forgiveness for something as terrible as that?

I rolled over on my side, sick in my stomach. God, forgive me. I didn’t want to kill him! Please let him live. Let the police find him and take him to jail, away from me and Mom. But let him live.

How could I have done all this? In one day I’d lied to a sheriff’s deputy, then tried—maybe succeeded—to kill a man. How could the honest, peaceful person I’d been all my life cross such a line, just like that?

Guilt poured over me, glazed with fear of the unknown. What would I have to do next? What might I descend to?

I tried to pray again but couldn’t do much more than plead for help. And demand answers. God, why are You doing this to me? Isn’t it enough that I lost Jeff?

What little energy I had drained out with the tears. Despite the grief, after some time I found myself drifting off to sleep . . .

Out of nowhere I thought of Mom’s caretaker, Dorothy. My eyes dragged open. I checked the digital clock. Almost 8:00. She would be arriving at the house any minute now. When I didn’t answer the door, she’d use her key. What would she think, going through the empty house? Would she call the police to report us missing?

Or would police already be there? The surveillance deputy must have told them I was long gone.

What about my coworker, Sonja, and Dr. Nicholson? What would they think when I didn’t show up at the office? I’d never failed to be at work on time.

Hard as these questions were, they were better than wondering if I’d killed a man.

Thickness spread through my limbs again, weighing me down. My body wanted to sleep from sheer exhaustion. But my mind could not rest.

The news. I should turn on the TV and see if I could find anything more about Morton Leringer’s death. Or the break-in at my house.

What if there was news about the man I’d shot? And he was dead?

I hesitated.

Scraping up bits of courage, I forced myself off the bed to pick up the remote near the TV. I hit the power button and found the channel for ABC’s Good Morning America. That show would cut to local news numerous times. I kept the volume low while Mom slept.

Hands fisted, I sat on the edge of the bed, watching the screen with bleary eyes.

God, please forgive me if I killed him.

The show dragged on. I had to use the restroom. I headed into the bathroom, leaving the door open, ears still cocked toward the TV. Still my tired mind managed to wander—until I was washing my hands and heard Morton Leringer’s name.

I locked eyes with myself in the mirror, then smacked off the water. My feet took me out to the room. The reporter who’d shown up at Morton’s accident stood in a field.

“. . . happened here yesterday on Tunitas Creek Road in Half Moon Bay.” She swept out her arm. “The sheriff’s department has confirmed that Leringer died not from injuries sustained in the accident, but from a stab wound in the back. The so-called ‘accident’ was called into 911 by Hannah Shire, age fifty-five, of San Carlos.”

My driver’s license picture appeared on the screen. I sank onto the bed.