I did that for long enough.
So instead, I lift my chin at him before saying to Eden, “Oh, we’ll see, alright. And I bet you fifty bucks I’ll win.”
“Fifty bucks?” Tyler asks. “I’ll take that bet.” His gaze slides over to me. It’s dark with understanding. “But my money’s on Indy.”
“Maybe I’ll get in some practice time tonight,” I muse. “Get ready for my big win on Saturday.” After a beat, I add thoughtfully, “I wonder what I’ll do with my money once I?—”
But I’m interrupted by the unexpected sound of my phone buzzing. Unexpected because the people who would usually be texting are sitting at the table with me. And my mother never texts, complaining that it’s too impersonal. She prefers calling, and it’s always on Sunday night, unless I’m away on a job.
The text isn’t coming from anyone I talk to regularly, because they all have their own ringtones. Anyone in Blade and Arrow—the guys in the original New York branch or the one in Texas—has a special one. Same with my old Green Beret teammates, like Beau, Fox, Chris, and Walker.
So who could it be?
A spam number trying to convince me to buy an extended warranty? Or some other equally fraudulent scam?
With a small sigh, I pull my phone from my pocket and ask, “Okay, what do you think? A warranty on my car? Or do I owe back tolls from the last time I drove on a highway?”
Ace chuckles. “It could be a package you need to claim. I’ve been getting a lot of those lately.”
“I got a job offer via text yesterday,” Tyler says. Sarcasm tinges his voice as he adds, “Great opportunity. A hundred bucks an hour to start. And all I had to do was give them my license and social security number.”
But it’s none of those.
Instead, it’s a text from John, a guy I met back at the VA hospital in DC. We used to chat while waiting for our PT appointments, and while we don’t talk often, one of us will shootoff a text every six months or so just to see how the other is doing.
But I just heard from John at Christmas. So why is he texting less than a month later?
As I skim the first message of several, my confusion only grows.
Do you still keep up with DC news?
I click to the next one.
Just saw this. She used to be your PT, too, right? Crazy, isn’t it?
My PT? Why is he bringing up my physical therapist from three years ago?
Not just my PT, but the woman I’ve tried to put out of my mind in the years since?
Then I open the third message, which is a link to a post on a local DC news outlet, and I realize why.
The headline proclaims,Physical Therapist at VA Hospital Arrested in Gruesome Murder, and beside it is a grainy photo of the PT in question.
I’m so shocked, I actually jolt in my seat.
It’s Bea.
Beatrix, really. But she insisted we all call her Bea. “My mother lovedPeter Rabbit,” she explained at the start of our first appointment, “so she convinced my father to name me Beatrix. But I prefer to go by Bea, if that’s okay with you.”
I’m not sure how old the photo is, but she looks just as I remember her. Smiling, her bright blue eyes crinkled up at the corners, her blonde hair falling in a golden curtain around her face, and she just has thisglowabout her. A cheerful glow that used to make me feel all itchy and grouchy whenever I’d show up to my PT appointments but would inexplicably miss once they were over.
As I start reading the article, my brain wants to resist what I’m seeing.
Beatrix Howe accused of murder. Second degree at the minimum, but charges could be escalated to first-degree murder after further investigation. Allegedly, she killed one of the other physical therapists at the hospital during a grisly knife attack. Motive isn’t mentioned, but there’s a clear implication that the attack was planned.
The very thought of sweet Bea killing someone is so unbelievable, I have to skim through the article again.
Not Bea. There’s no way. Not Bea with the endless patience and ready smiles, who never, ever got mad even when I gave her every reason to be. Not the Bea who would bring in samples of food she cooked at home for all her patients, insisting she didn’t mind sharing since she lived alone.
