Page 17 of Ezra
“I posted this yesterday morning,” I tell him, showing it to him. “And the blast happened shortly after noon. In the café.”
Dad furrows his brow. He’s silent for a moment. “We would’ve been eating in the café?”
“Yes,” I reply. “Non-employees aren’t allowed in the breakroom, and you can’t walk around with food in the museum.”
“It’s possible,” he grunts, leaning back. Dark troubles are painted on his face, as clear as fresh colors on a canvas. “What did you tell the police?”
“Only what I knew at the time. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before,” I say. “I’ll call them.”
“Good. I’ll make a few calls myself. Ramsey Feldman is typically in charge of my social media. He might have shared your post to my platform. Maybe he saw something strange.”
I nod swiftly. “I’ll call Ashley Barnes.”
“My PR consultant?”
“Yes. After I talk to the police, I’ll ask her what she thinks we could do to make sure the message doesn’t get lost in all of this.”
“It may be best that we get away from New Carnegie for a few days. All of us,” Dad replies. “I’ll call your mother.”
I rush up to my room, dialing quickly. I place the phone down and put it on speaker as I make my bed and fetch a duffel bag from my closet. I’m just happy Dad believes me.
“Call the New Carnegie Police Department’s non-emergency number,” I call to my phone.
An artificial voice responds to me. “Calling now.”
After a few rings, a young woman picks up. “New Carnegie Police Department. How can I direct your call?”
“I need to talk to Detective Washington or Detective Ezra,” I say. “It’s urgent.”
“Who is this?”
I’m getting ahead of myself. “Sorry, it’s Katrina Carson. It’s about the bombing yesterday. I have some information I forgot to tell them when we spoke. Can you connect me to one of them?”
“That’s not really the way it works,” the officer replies. By her tone, she’s had a hell of a morning already. “I can take down a message and pass it along, but all of our officers are very busy.”
“Okay. Sure. It’s—” I’ve got my shirt halfway over my head when I hear a loud noise in the kitchen, and it makes me jump. I look around, confused as I pull my shirt down. “Hang on a second.”
That sounded like a firecracker. No, something else.
A gunshot. But that can’t possibly be—not here. Not at home.
My muscles tense. I grab the phone. Movement in the front yard draws me to my bedroom window. A man in dark clothes runs away from my house, glancing over his shoulder. I see the glint of white irises when our eyes meet.
Within moments he’s out of my sight. My blood runs cold.
“Ma’am?” the officer asks. “Are you still there?”
“Dad?” I rush out my bedroom door, calling louder frantically. “Dad!”
Why isn’t he answering?
“Dad!” I shout, skidding down the stairs and around the corner, flying through the house toward the kitchen.
“What is it? What’s going on?” the officer demands.
Dad is lying on the kitchen floor, face down.
The world around me stops. I forget to breathe. This has to be a nightmare.
