“He knows what kind of car I’m driving?”
“Well, yeah, I told him what to look for.”
No.
Emily snatched up the computer bag and backed away from the Kia, shooting wild looks right and left. “Front parking lot or back?”
“Front, I guess. Oh, you’re in the back?”
Emily’s heart kicked at her ribs. “Ronnie. Tell me you didn’t give him my home address.”
Silence.
“Ronnie!”
“I . . . I did. Sorry. I mean, he’s the FBI—”
Emily threw the cell in her bag and ran.
Chapter 26
Sit down, dear.” Aunt Margie indicated the plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast at the table. Mom was already eating and looking very happy about it.
I couldn’t sit. My body couldn’t relax. And my pulse wouldn’t stop spinning. “Oh. It looks lovely. Can I . . . can we eat in front of the television?” I picked up my plate and fork. “I need to see the news.”
Aunt Margie glanced at Mom, then gave me a meaningful look. “Why don’t you go ahead in there?” She pointed to her small living room. “I’ll stay here with Carol.”
“Thanks.” She was right. I was so overwrought I hadn’t thought how the news might upset Mom. I swiveled and headed for the TV, around the corner.
I put my food on the coffee table and yanked up the remote. “Where’s CNN?” I called.
“Channel 20. There’s a guide sitting on the TV.”
With trembling fingers I poked in the numbers. Nothing about the case on CNN. Or FOX. I surfed local channels, muttering, “Come on, come on.” I had to know . . . something. My daughter was out there. I just needed some piece of knowledge to make me think she’d be all right.
I returned to CNN—and spotted the front yard of my house, surrounded by yellow crime scene tape.
My legs sank me onto the couch.
“. . . the home of Hannah Shire in San Carlos, California . . .”
I watched, nerves fraying, as the female reporter intoned about blood drops of an unidentified person leading out my back door. “Police are concerned for the safety of Hannah Shire’s mother, who lives with her. Carol Shire is eighty-two and suffering from dementia . . .”
My mother? The police wanted people to think I’d hurt my mother?
A picture of Mom filled the screen. Someone had taken it at the night club where she used to go. She wore her purple hat. Her eyes were closed, one hand to her chest, and the other arm held wide in her form of dancing. Without context the photo made her look absolutely mindless. Rage flashed through me. I gripped the cushions of the couch.
Dorothy, Mom’s caregiver, appeared on the screen next. She was standing on the sidewalk in front of our house, looking shell-shocked. “I just came to take care of Carol.” She gazed at the yellow crime scene tape. “Now . . . this.”
“Do you think Hannah Shire had anything to do with the murder of Morton Leringer?” a reporter asked.
“No. Absolutely not.” Dorothy shook her head. “I just want her and Carol to be okay. They’re nice people.”
The screen switched to another reporter interviewing Sergeant Wade and Deputy Harcroft. “Sergeant, are you convinced Hannah Shire is responsible for the deaths of Morton Leringer and Nathan Eddington? As well as Deputy Williams, who was conducting surveillance on her house?”
Wade shook his head. “All I can tell you is we have three homicide victims on our hands. And Hannah Shire and her mother are missing. I don’t know the complete truth of what has happened. I do know that we need to talk to Mrs. Shire as soon as possible.”
“Deputy Harcroft, in case she’s watching what would you like to say to her right now?”
Harcroft looked into the camera. “Mrs. Shire, we need you to come forward. We just need to talk to you. Wherever you are, please report to the nearest police station.”
Right, they just wanted to “talk” to me. What about the flash drive and the video? The real story? No one was even mentioning it, including these two.
The scene morphed to an interview with a coiffured blonde woman—maybe midforties?—identified as Cheryl Stein, Morton Leringer’s daughter. Good thing Mom wasn’t watching. It would remind her of her quest to find Leringer’s daughter.
“We are devastated.” Cheryl lifted tear-filled eyes to the camera. “Whoever is responsible for my father’s murder will never know how much has been taken from us. How much has been taken from the world. Just two years ago we lost our mother to a stroke. Now this.” She swallowed hard. “One thing I can assure you,” her voice stiffened, “his entire family will use every resource we have to bring whoever’s responsible for his and Nathan Eddington’s deaths to justice—male or female. And we still not stop—I will not stop—until that’s done.”