Shit.
Colson grabbed my elbow and yanked me to the side of the building. I jerked my arm away.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” He threw his hands up. “I can’t. I can’t do this right now. I’ve got a pregnant insomniac at home waiting for her biscuits and sausage, blueberry double stack, cheese grits, T-bone steak, and extra-large chocolate milkshake. I don’t have time or patience to deal with your antics or try to figure out why you’re so hellbent on sabotaging your career?—”
Saved by my ringing phone. I yanked it from my pocket, glanced at the name, then looked at Colson. “Since I’mcausing you so much trouble, I guess I’ll get the hell out of your way, then. Enjoy your pancakes.”
He muttered something as I pushed past him, ignoring the stares from the windows. The gossips should thank me for giving them something else to talk about for the evening.
I answered the call as I slid into my Jeep.
“Thanks for calling me back.” I fired up the engine.
“Sorry it took a while. Had a financial review to prepare for.”
“Prisons get enough of tax payers’ money.”
“Wardens don’t. Anyway, what can I do for ya?”
“Kenzo Rees. Does that name ring a bell?” I asked.
“Does botulism make you vomit?”
“More pain than vomit, actually.”
“You’ve had botulism?”
“Mongolia isn’t known for its sanitation standards.”
“Damn, dude. I sometimes forget you were a SEAL.” Wish I could. “Anyway, yeah, what’s got you hunting down Rees?”
“I’ve got a case that Rees is loosely linked to. His former girlfriend was recently attacked in a city park. Does the name Sunny Harper ring a bell?”
“Sure does. Rees wrote her a few letters the first few weeks of his sentence.”
“Letters? You mean, mail?”
“Yep. We still check all the incoming and outgoing mail. Some prisons don’t. We do.”
“What did they say?”
“Short of it, he was going to kill her. Finish the job when he got out. Blamed her formakinghim hit her and for getting thrown in jail.”
My pulse kick-started. “Did she see them? The letters?”
“Hell no. I’ll have to check, but I think it was only twoletters total. We showed the prosecutor, addressed it with Rees, and it stopped. Guy was crazy the first few months of going in. The letters are still in his file.”
“I want to see them. I’d like anything you can give me on him.”
I pulled onto Main Street and immediately clocked the change.
The Moon Magic Festival protesters had doubled—maybe tripled—since I passed through thirty minutes ago. But it wasn’t just the numbers that were different. The tone had shifted.
Gone were the handmade signs with clever slogans and glitter glue. These weren’t innocent protests anymore. The chants were louder now, angrier. Fear had crept in, sharp and raw, like the heat pressing down from the sun overhead.
One woman stood on a milk crate in front of the courthouse steps, waving a Bible in one hand and a poster in the other that read:
“The Pastor’s Son Was Killed—Who’s Next?”
