Melissa drops her sign into a huge trash barrel and wipes her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” asks Nia. “What’s going on?”
“Damon should be here,” Melissa says. “He would have jumped right up on that stage and grabbed the microphone. He would have shut Woods down and made a speech of his own!”
Nia opens her arms and brings Melissa in for a long hug. “I know, I know.” She pats Melissa’s head gently. “We’ll find him. I know we will.”
When Melissa pulls away, her eyes are red. “I’m not sure anymore, Nia. I’m losing hope. I’m not sure I’ll ever see him again.”
Nia wraps her arm around Melissa’s shoulders. “Stop it. Don’t talk like that. Tell you what—come back to my house. We’ll crash on my sofa, drink some cheap wine, and”—she shouts toward the stage—“forget about all this bullshit!”
Melissa shakes her head. “Thanks, Nia, but I’m tired. I just want to go home. You need a lift?”
Nia thinks for a second. “Nah. I think I’ll just wander around the park for a while, see if I can get into a fistfight with a racist.”
They hug again. Melissa walks down the barricade line towardthe parking lot, now a tangle of exiting vehicles, honking and inching along, bumper to bumper.
Since the lot was already filled to overflowing by the time she arrived that evening, Melissa had parked in a small cul-de-sac at the edge of campus. It was a reserved faculty space, but she’d grabbed it anyway. Hopefully, she won’t find a ticket from campus security under her wiper blade.
Melissa walks up the small grassy rise that separates the parking lot from a cluster of academic buildings. Most of the crowd is behind her now, moving in the other direction. When she looks over her shoulder, she can still see the brightly lit flags behind the stage. The music is still pumping.
Where’s Michaelson Woods right now?she wonders.Probably in his armored SUV heading to his next rally to give his next dog-whistle speech.
Melissa is still simmering with anger, and not just about what Woods said. Maybe without all the disruption and conflict caused by his visit, the Chapel Hill police could have focused on finding the man she loves.
She passes a group of students heading in the other direction, male and female, all giggling and clinging to one another. Melissa can smell the pot fumes in the air. One of the white girls is locked in a kiss with a Black kid.
Melissa wipes her eyes again.Damn it, Damon! Where are you?
Her Kia is just ahead, sitting alone by the curb. Lucky for her, no ticket. Melissa pulls her key fob from her bag and clicks the button. Her car cheeps and the parking lights flash. The building behind the car is mostly dark, just a few scattered offices lit up on the top floor.
It was smart to park here. I can avoid the bottlenecks at the parking-lot exits and cruise home in no time.All she wants to do now is take a hotshower and forget every hateful word Michaelson Woods just spewed.
She reaches for the door handle.
Suddenly, something thick and dank is pulled over her head and down to her shoulders. A hand clamps over her mouth through the covering. Her car keys are ripped from her hand.
Melissa twists and kicks. She slams her feet toward the car door, trying to set off the alarm.“Stop! Let me go!”
No use. Her voice is muffled beneath the covering. Her feet flail in midair.
Whoever’s holding her is a lot stronger than she is—and more than twice her size.
CHAPTER 102
Sampson
ROLAND PERKINS LEADS ME into his home office. A thinking man’s man cave, the kind they show in architectural magazines demonstrating classic Georgetown style. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Oriental carpet centered on a dark hardwood floor. Warm, cozy lighting from a brass lamp on a sturdy oak desk.
Perkins sits down stiffly on one of his matching leather sofas. “You should have called,” he says.
“Surprise visits are best,” I tell him. “Something I learned from my old friend Alex Cross. That way, people don’t have time to rehearse their stories.”
I can tell that Perkins is peeved that I’m here. Also nervous. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
It’s just the two of us. Perkins lives alone. Divorced. Kids on alternate weekends. That much I got from Ned Mahoney.
“What’s this about, Sampson? Is it about Anna Rizzo? Because—”
