Page 39 of What She Saw
“Okay.”
“I mean it. You’re not good to anyone dead.”
“Such sweet words. Let me know when you have a meeting set up.”
I ended the call, and I laid on the horn. The man driving the Mercedes slowed ahead of me. Our cars approached a semi in the right lane. I was unable to pass, so I rode the Mercedes’s tail, gripping the wheel as the space around the car shrank to inches in the front and to the right. The driver shot me the bird.
When we passed the truck, I cut into the right lane and zoomed past the Mercedes. I cut left and slowed. He slammed on his brakes and swerved in his lane. His driver’s-side wheels went off the road before he righted his car. I tossed him a grin and accelerated.
My heart raced as adrenaline shot through my body. Games like this were pointless and dangerous. I was going to get myself hurt or killed one day. And I was getting a little old for stupid choices. Still, the snarl inside me stopped twisting tighter. I felt better. I could manage now.
Time to focus on the article.
Laurie had worked the hamburger stand with Patty. She’d also crossed paths with Buddy, Sheriff Taggart, and Paxton. Buddy testified that he’d dropped off extra burgers and buns and cleaned out the cashbox about 10:00 p.m. on Friday night. He’d met Laurie but couldn’t remember her name.
I had hoped talking to Monica Carr would give some more insight into Laurie. But like the other women, the festival had swallowed her whole. Buddy’s impression of Laurie would be different.
Twenty-five minutes later I parked in front of the Depot. I felt better. And I was hungry.
When I glanced through the window, I saw Bailey sitting at the bar eating cherry pie. Never one to avoid trouble, I entered the diner, sat beside her, and smiled. “Hey.”
Her Realtor smile flickered to life. “Did you find Monica?”
“I did.”
She arched a brow. “How did it go? You get something to use for your article?”
The news was spreading fast. “Sad. She’s never gotten over her niece’s loss.”
Bailey lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “I still miss my dad.” The words sounded rote, like they’d been rehearsed too much.
“It’s not the same. You know how he died, and where he’s buried.”
Her grip on the fork tightened. “I hear you’re asking a lot of questions in town.”
“It’s the only way to learn.”
“Why didn’t you ask me questions earlier?”
“Still getting my feet wet. But you’re on the list.”
She stabbed a cherry. “Have you written anything I would have read?”
“If true crime is your thing.”
“I don’t care for that. The violence is unsettling.”
“Ignoring it or pretending it never happens isn’t a good plan, either.”
“How do you do it? Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Sure, sometimes.” That was a lie. I could absorb the violent details and testimony with dispassion. But that level of detachment exacted a price, as my highway adventure today proved.
“I can’t watch dog rescue videos on YouTube. Reading about people would be too much.”
“Then you won’t like my stuff,” I said.
I caught the waitress’s gaze, and when she approached the bar, I ordered a soda, fries, and a hamburger. Her name badge read “Callie.” “Thanks, Callie.”
