J.A. Jance's Ali Reynolds Mysteries 3-Book Boxed Set, Volume 1: Web of Evil, Hand of Evil, Cruel Intent by J.A. Jance Page A
Authors: J.A. Jance
Ads: Link
loaded gurney, my blood turned to ice. And when I had to look down into that scratched and battered but oh-so-familiar face, it was all I could do to remain upright. I didn’t exactly faint when I saw him lying there, but my knees went weak. Fortunately, someone helped me to a chair.
I didn’t cry, couldn’t cry. Mostly because I didn’t know what I was feeling or what I was supposed to feel. Fang and I were divorcing if not divorced. Our relationship was over if not ended. And yet, this was a man I had loved once—someone vital and strong with whom I had hoped to share the rest of my life. It makes my heart ache to know that he is gone. And yes, it makes me sick to think that his unborn child—a baby due within the next few weeks—will never know him at all, will grow up without ever once seeing him. That’s wrong. Leaving a child fatherless is WRONG! WRONG! WRONG!
After I’d done the ID, someone—a clerk—gave me a paper to sign—a form that says what’s supposed to happen to Fang’s remains once the authorities are finished with them. It seemed inappropriate for me to be the one deciding which mortuary should be brought in to do that job. I’ve been out of Fang’s life for a long time—longer, it turns out, than the six months I’ve been out of the house. It seemed to me that Twink…No, correction. Make that, it seemed to me that his fiancée—the woman who’s expecting his child—should be making those decisions, but it turns out the very fact that we were still legally married automatically puts me in charge. So I looked in the phone book, tracked down the name of the mortuary that handled Fang’s mother’s services six years ago, and called them.
Two days ago—was it just two days?—I told you about my plan to pick up some new clothing on my way through Scottsdale so I could go to court looking like a bit of a fashion plate in something more sophisticated than what I wear hanging around home in Sedona. I even splurged on a haircut, a manicure, and a pedicure. I wanted to be able to put my best foot (and toes) forward when Fang and I stood in front of the judge to disavow our vows.
The irony is, when I came back to the hotel, I took off my courtroom duds and slipped into something comfortable—a T-shirt, a pair of jeans, comfy tennis shoes. I took off my makeup and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. That’s how I was dressed when two homicide cops came to ask me to ride along and see if I could positively identify the body of their dead victim. And that’s how I looked hours later when the identification ordeal was finally over and I stepped back outside the Riverside County Sheriff’s Substation in Indio to return to the hotel.
I have no idea who alerted the media to what was going on. I know for sure someone had already leaked Fang’s name. As cameras flashed and reporters yelled questions, someone recognized me and called me by name as well. I’m sure my photo will be all over the news tomorrow, and I’ll look as bedraggled as some of those awful mug shots that turn up when some celebrity gets booked for drunk driving.
It’s one thing to stand outside the emotional box and report on someone’s untimely death for whatever reason. It’s something else to be living it—to be inside that awful box and trying to make sense of it. Now, because of the way the media works, I’ll no longer be reporting on events—I’ll be part of the story.
So this is an early warning for all my cutlooseblog.com fans. I’m sure all kinds of crap is going to hit the fan first thing in the morning. I just want you to know that I’m fine. And I’ll keep you posted as we go.
Posted 1:07 A . M ., September 17, 2005 by Babe
Scrolling through her e-mail list, Ali could see more than a dozen comments lined up and waiting to be read, but she was too drained to face them.
Go to bed, she told herself, switching off her computer. Tomorrow’s another day.
Ali did go to bed then. Not only that, she
I didn’t cry, couldn’t cry. Mostly because I didn’t know what I was feeling or what I was supposed to feel. Fang and I were divorcing if not divorced. Our relationship was over if not ended. And yet, this was a man I had loved once—someone vital and strong with whom I had hoped to share the rest of my life. It makes my heart ache to know that he is gone. And yes, it makes me sick to think that his unborn child—a baby due within the next few weeks—will never know him at all, will grow up without ever once seeing him. That’s wrong. Leaving a child fatherless is WRONG! WRONG! WRONG!
After I’d done the ID, someone—a clerk—gave me a paper to sign—a form that says what’s supposed to happen to Fang’s remains once the authorities are finished with them. It seemed inappropriate for me to be the one deciding which mortuary should be brought in to do that job. I’ve been out of Fang’s life for a long time—longer, it turns out, than the six months I’ve been out of the house. It seemed to me that Twink…No, correction. Make that, it seemed to me that his fiancée—the woman who’s expecting his child—should be making those decisions, but it turns out the very fact that we were still legally married automatically puts me in charge. So I looked in the phone book, tracked down the name of the mortuary that handled Fang’s mother’s services six years ago, and called them.
Two days ago—was it just two days?—I told you about my plan to pick up some new clothing on my way through Scottsdale so I could go to court looking like a bit of a fashion plate in something more sophisticated than what I wear hanging around home in Sedona. I even splurged on a haircut, a manicure, and a pedicure. I wanted to be able to put my best foot (and toes) forward when Fang and I stood in front of the judge to disavow our vows.
The irony is, when I came back to the hotel, I took off my courtroom duds and slipped into something comfortable—a T-shirt, a pair of jeans, comfy tennis shoes. I took off my makeup and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. That’s how I was dressed when two homicide cops came to ask me to ride along and see if I could positively identify the body of their dead victim. And that’s how I looked hours later when the identification ordeal was finally over and I stepped back outside the Riverside County Sheriff’s Substation in Indio to return to the hotel.
I have no idea who alerted the media to what was going on. I know for sure someone had already leaked Fang’s name. As cameras flashed and reporters yelled questions, someone recognized me and called me by name as well. I’m sure my photo will be all over the news tomorrow, and I’ll look as bedraggled as some of those awful mug shots that turn up when some celebrity gets booked for drunk driving.
It’s one thing to stand outside the emotional box and report on someone’s untimely death for whatever reason. It’s something else to be living it—to be inside that awful box and trying to make sense of it. Now, because of the way the media works, I’ll no longer be reporting on events—I’ll be part of the story.
So this is an early warning for all my cutlooseblog.com fans. I’m sure all kinds of crap is going to hit the fan first thing in the morning. I just want you to know that I’m fine. And I’ll keep you posted as we go.
Posted 1:07 A . M ., September 17, 2005 by Babe
Scrolling through her e-mail list, Ali could see more than a dozen comments lined up and waiting to be read, but she was too drained to face them.
Go to bed, she told herself, switching off her computer. Tomorrow’s another day.
Ali did go to bed then. Not only that, she
Similar Books
