Sacrifices of Joy by Leslie J. Sherrod Page B

blast.” He reached for his champagne flute.
    â€œNo, I think he did it.”
    Laz looked at me from over the top of his glass before setting it back down. “You do know that they have who they think did it in custody. The man you just named, Jamal Abdul.”
    â€œI know, Laz, but something is not sitting right with me. I can’t put my finger on it but I feel like they have the wrong person. You’ve known me long enough to know that my gut is normally right. I wish I felt differently. Heck, I’ve been trying to feel differently, but this feeling won’t go away. That man I talked to”—I shook my head—“he knows something, he did something. I’m sure of it.”
    There. It was out, and now that it was, I didn’t feel as crazy as I had when I tried to keep it in.
    Laz didn’t look convinced. He took another bite of his salad and followed it with a piece of the chicken cordon bleu. “What was his name?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWhere was he from?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWhat did you talk about?”
    â€œI don’t remember.” I shut my eyes and opened them again. “Look, he said, ‘You’ll know my name soon,’ or something like that. He was . . . creepy.”
    Laz put his fork down. “And yet the bomb has gone off and he has not put his name out there for you or anyone else in the public to know.”
    â€œAnd he said he didn’t believe in God. Or, he didn’t believe in believing. His words were really bizarre.”
    â€œSienna, I think this has been a traumatic experience for you and, like anybody else would, you’re trying to make sense of what happened. You’re trying to find a way to make it better, to be the superhero who saves the day. But it happened. There’s nothing you could have done to stop it. You did nothing wrong. It was horrible. You survived. Now, we have to heal and move on.”
    â€œLaz, this is eating at me.” I looked down and picked at my plate. “I gave him my card and he called and left a message saying that he wanted to have a conversation with me. Plus, I got a crazy e-mail at three in the morning, and I wholeheartedly believe that it came from him.”
    â€œWhat did it say?”
    â€œUh, the sender was ‘Everybody Anybody,’ or something like that, and had five fun facts about him, or whoever sent it. It said that he didn’t like animals or papier-mâché. That he brushed his teeth for a long time and, well, I don’t remember. It was weird.”
    â€œAnd possibly random spam, right?”
    â€œI guess. Let me get my phone and I’ll show you. I left it in the nightstand drawer.”
    â€œI know where your phone is. It was ringing and dinging like crazy. I shut it off and put it in my pocket. And I’m going to hold on to it for a little longer. You need a break. You really need a break. I’m trying my best to give you one.”
    â€œI know, thanks. I’m just trying to make sense out of it all.” I shook my head, opened my mouth to say something else, considered demanding my phone back, but fell quiet instead.
    â€œHmm . . . Tell you what, Ms. St. James.” Laz’s easy smile returned. “I’ll let my source at Homeland Security know that you were at BWI right before the explosion and that you met a man who made you feel uncomfortable. If there is a need for further investigation, they will make that call. How’s that?”
    I bit my lip, nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate it. I’m not trying to come off as delusional. I’ve just learned to trust my gut, and my gut is telling me something is wrong, that there’s more to the picture.”
    â€œSienna, it sounds like you met someone who might need mental health treatment. You are a trained clinician, so you’re going to pick up on such things. He has your card and will contact you for an