when you were there?” Sam asked.
“ No.”
Lizard man stepped in front of me holding a long cotton swab. “Open your mouth.”
I did and as he wiped the swab along the inside of my cheeks, Sam continued. “Did you see anyone else coming and going from there?” I rocked my head to indicate I hadn’t. “How long have you lived here?”
The room felt small. My mouth tasted cottony. I needed air. “About three years.”
I pictured Ashleigh on the love seat. So young. So hopeful. So alive.
My stomach turned sour and the blood drained from my face. Sweat dropped off my chin. I rested an elbow on the counter and laid my head in my arm. My skin turned ice cold.
Detective Jones dragged a stool out and sat in front of me. “You don’t look too good, Richard. Are you all right?”
I drew in a slow, cleansing breath. “I’m sorry. I just need a minute.” Sweat beaded on the end of my nose and hung there.
Staten stepped away. “You mind if we have a look around, Mr. Baimbridge?”
I raised my head and wiped the perspiration off my nose. “You know, I’ve got nothing to hide here, and I’ve answered every question as best I could, but I think I need to consult with an attorney before I let you go any further.”
Sam folded his pad shut and jammed it back into his breast pocket. “All right, Richard.”
Lizard Lips gathered his samples together and they showed themselves out leaving me feeling like a flat tire. I saw that nosy Mrs. Winslow scrutinizing the situation from her back deck and wanted to close the blinds, but just didn’t have the strength.
I tried to reach my attorney, Joe Forrester, at his home and on his cell phone, but got no answer. I turned the lights off, spent a moment at the window watching the police at work, then collapsed onto the couch. My body trembled and I couldn’t stop it. What in the hell could have happened at Ashleigh’s last night after I passed out?
I don’t know for whom I grieved the most Ashleigh or myself. My emotions catapulted back and forth between being furious —and being terrified .
9
T HE NEXT MORNING I was dressed and downtown by 7:30. Like my mood, the weather had turned cold and blustery—not the best for Azalea Festival Week. I pulled my collar up against my neck for the short walk to Tripp’s Ham and Eggs still stunned by the events of the night before. Inside, I tracked to the same table with the same five other guys I join for breakfast most every morning.
Sappy Talton was doing his customarily splendid job of getting our waitress Sheila flustered and confused. Sappy and I had been best friends since eighth grade when we stole a pack of Lucky Strikes and a can of Miller’s Beer from Smith’s IGA, which started a summer of wildness that cemented our friendship forever.
A burst of laughter spread through the group as I took a seat. That’s what I like about these guys. They’re relaxed and fun to be around. No heavy burdens allowed.
Besides Sappy, there was Fred Gorman, a salt and pepper-haired fishing guide who’d lost two fingers off his left hand to a winch. Next to Fred sat Bob Bennett, an accountant with black horn-rimmed trifocals and buckteeth. George Reason, the bald-headed and goateed past-president of the Chamber of Commerce sat next to me. And my attorney, Joe Forrester, sat on the other side of George.
As I took my seat, Sappy reached across the table and slapped my arm. “Hey, that girl they think got murdered day before yesterday? Wasn’t that over in your neck of the woods?”
I exhaled. “She lived next door.”
Sheila slid a cup of coffee in front of me as she walked past without even slowing down.
“ You have anything to do with that?” Sappy asked, his usual smart-alecky smirk plastered across his face.
“ Actually,” I tore open a packet of artificial sugar and dumped it in my coffee. “I might have been the last person to see her before it happened.”
They all got quiet and turned
“ No.”
Lizard man stepped in front of me holding a long cotton swab. “Open your mouth.”
I did and as he wiped the swab along the inside of my cheeks, Sam continued. “Did you see anyone else coming and going from there?” I rocked my head to indicate I hadn’t. “How long have you lived here?”
The room felt small. My mouth tasted cottony. I needed air. “About three years.”
I pictured Ashleigh on the love seat. So young. So hopeful. So alive.
My stomach turned sour and the blood drained from my face. Sweat dropped off my chin. I rested an elbow on the counter and laid my head in my arm. My skin turned ice cold.
Detective Jones dragged a stool out and sat in front of me. “You don’t look too good, Richard. Are you all right?”
I drew in a slow, cleansing breath. “I’m sorry. I just need a minute.” Sweat beaded on the end of my nose and hung there.
Staten stepped away. “You mind if we have a look around, Mr. Baimbridge?”
I raised my head and wiped the perspiration off my nose. “You know, I’ve got nothing to hide here, and I’ve answered every question as best I could, but I think I need to consult with an attorney before I let you go any further.”
Sam folded his pad shut and jammed it back into his breast pocket. “All right, Richard.”
Lizard Lips gathered his samples together and they showed themselves out leaving me feeling like a flat tire. I saw that nosy Mrs. Winslow scrutinizing the situation from her back deck and wanted to close the blinds, but just didn’t have the strength.
I tried to reach my attorney, Joe Forrester, at his home and on his cell phone, but got no answer. I turned the lights off, spent a moment at the window watching the police at work, then collapsed onto the couch. My body trembled and I couldn’t stop it. What in the hell could have happened at Ashleigh’s last night after I passed out?
I don’t know for whom I grieved the most Ashleigh or myself. My emotions catapulted back and forth between being furious —and being terrified .
9
T HE NEXT MORNING I was dressed and downtown by 7:30. Like my mood, the weather had turned cold and blustery—not the best for Azalea Festival Week. I pulled my collar up against my neck for the short walk to Tripp’s Ham and Eggs still stunned by the events of the night before. Inside, I tracked to the same table with the same five other guys I join for breakfast most every morning.
Sappy Talton was doing his customarily splendid job of getting our waitress Sheila flustered and confused. Sappy and I had been best friends since eighth grade when we stole a pack of Lucky Strikes and a can of Miller’s Beer from Smith’s IGA, which started a summer of wildness that cemented our friendship forever.
A burst of laughter spread through the group as I took a seat. That’s what I like about these guys. They’re relaxed and fun to be around. No heavy burdens allowed.
Besides Sappy, there was Fred Gorman, a salt and pepper-haired fishing guide who’d lost two fingers off his left hand to a winch. Next to Fred sat Bob Bennett, an accountant with black horn-rimmed trifocals and buckteeth. George Reason, the bald-headed and goateed past-president of the Chamber of Commerce sat next to me. And my attorney, Joe Forrester, sat on the other side of George.
As I took my seat, Sappy reached across the table and slapped my arm. “Hey, that girl they think got murdered day before yesterday? Wasn’t that over in your neck of the woods?”
I exhaled. “She lived next door.”
Sheila slid a cup of coffee in front of me as she walked past without even slowing down.
“ You have anything to do with that?” Sappy asked, his usual smart-alecky smirk plastered across his face.
“ Actually,” I tore open a packet of artificial sugar and dumped it in my coffee. “I might have been the last person to see her before it happened.”
They all got quiet and turned
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