by Sarah Fox
After backing out of my parking spot, I steered my car toward the end of the line of vehicles. As I turned a corner, my headlights flashed across the back of the theater, briefly illuminating a figure standing next to the building. My breath caught in my throat, and a frostiness that had nothing to do with the outside temperature spread through my veins.
I’d recognized the figure as Harold Dempsey, and he’d been staring right at me.
Alarmed, I quickly turned my car toward the exit. Although I’d only caught a brief glimpse of Harold in the beam of lights from my car, that had been enough to see the dark expression on his face, and I didn’t like it one bit. The mere memory of it sent another chill through me.
All I wanted to do was to get home, to lock myself safely away in my apartment. Before that evening, Jeb had been the judge I’d focused on the most as a suspect, but now I sensed that Harold deserved more of my attention. He hadn’t had an opportunity to kill Pavlina, but there was still something very frightening and dangerous about him. I suspected more than ever that Tiffany’s death was tied to the recent ones, and there was a good chance that Harold was involved in all of them. How, exactly, I didn’t know, and I wasn’t in a state to figure it out right then. I was too shaken. If I hadn’t walked out with Bronwyn, would Harold have approached me? Harmed me?
I didn’t want to know.
Glad to leave the theater and Harold behind me, I turned onto Tenth Avenue. I relaxed slightly, comforted by the distance I was putting between myself and Harold, but that relief was short-lived. A car had followed me from the lot and had pulled in behind me. My heart thumping away like crazy, I checked my rearview mirror, trying to get a look at the driver, but I couldn’t see much more than headlights. I thought I caught a glimpse of a man’s figure behind the wheel, but I couldn’t be sure. That didn’t seem to matter to my heart, though. The possibility that it could be Harold had sent its tempo up another notch.
My hands tightened around the steering wheel and I struggled to think clearly.
If it was Harold, was he planning to follow me home?
Spotting the bright lights of a grocery store up ahead, I flicked on my turn signal and pulled into the store’s parking lot. To my immense relief, the car behind me continued on straight ahead. I pulled into a parking spot and stopped my car, realizing then that my hands were shaking.
It wasn’t Harold. You’re fine, I told myself.
My hands continued to tremble as I dug through my tote bag until I found my cell phone. Pulling off my gloves so I could use the touch screen, I tapped out a text message to JT.
I thought someone was following me home from the theater, I wrote. Turns out they weren’t, but I’m a bit freaked out. Can I stop by your place?
After sending the message, I stared at my phone, as if I could will JT to respond immediately. The device remained silent and my eyes strayed to the street beyond the parking lot.
If I wasn’t in any danger of being followed home, I could head for my apartment without a problem. But I didn’t want to. Maybe it was silly, but I wanted the company of my best friend, if only for a few minutes before going home.
I continued to wait, my car growing colder by the minute. I’d just decided to give JT another two minutes to respond when my phone buzzed in my hand.
Definitely, he’d written. Are you sure no one was following you?
Yes, I wrote back. But I’m still a bit shaky.
I’ll be watching for you. And be careful. The roads are icy tonight.
Letting out a relieved breath, I started up my car again and left the parking lot. I was lucky to have a friend like JT. He was always good to me and, looking back, it seemed inevitable that I’d fallen in love with him over time.
Something tugged at my heart as I turned onto Blanca Street. I really did need to find the nerve to tell him how I felt. Recalling the moment earlier in the day when he’d held my hand and looked right into my eyes, my heart gave a hopeful flutter. Perhaps it was dangerous for me to think there was a chance he reciprocated my feelings, but those few seconds of intense connection had given me a sliver of hope. Another flutter of my heart almost caused me to forget about my fear of Harold, but my wariness refused to disappear completely.
As I followed Sixteenth Avenue to Southwest Marine Drive, I wished I’d taken a different route to JT’s house. This last stretch of road that would take me to the edge of his neighborhood was dark and lonely, bordered by woods on both sides for most of the way. I tried to tell myself that I didn’t need to worry since no one was following me, but that didn’t loosen my grip on the steering wheel or diminish my anxiety. I kept my speed slightly below the posted limit, worried as well about the icy conditions. Black ice could be lurking anywhere and was probably a greater threat to me than anyone on the road behind me. Somehow, though, that was still hard for me to believe, especially when a quick glance in my rearview mirror revealed a bright set of headlights in my wake.
It’s nothing, I told myself. Just another innocent driver.
I glanced at the rearview mirror again. The car was gaining on me. Fast. Maybe the driver wasn’t following me, but they were definitely speeding. Staying in the right-hand lane, I hoped the car would pass me without incident. But the headlights grew brighter and brighter.
My hands held the steering wheel in a death grip now.
You have lots of room to pass! I wanted to yell at the other driver.
The car kept coming. At the last second, I tried to move out of the way, but my MINI Cooper hit a patch of ice and I skidded onto the shoulder of the road. As I fought to regain control, the other vehicle hit me from behind, sending my car spinning.
I screamed as the world went off kilter. Bright headlights flashed in my eyes and the nose of my car dipped down. I was vaguely aware of an impact, of something smacking me in the face, and then I lost all awareness of the world around me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
THE FIRST THING I noticed was an acrid, burning smell. I wrinkled my nose, and my face ached in response. Voices murmured around me, as if I were hearing them from under water. The acrid smell needled my nose and throat. I coughed, sparking a volley of aches in my head, face, and upper body.
“Ma’am? Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?”
Now that I could make out some words—these ones spoken by a man—I did my best to force my eyes open in response to his question. It took some effort, but my eyelids lifted. Bright lights pulsed through the darkness and a radio crackled in the distance.
“You’ve been in an accident,” the voice said.
“Have I?” I said vaguely.
I realized then that I was still in my car, the nose of it angled downward. I took in the sight of the young paramedic leaning over me, the owner of the voice that had spoken.
“The smell,” I said, wrinkling my nose again, and regretting it as much as the time before. My face ached more than ever now.
“It’s from the airbag.”
I undid my seat belt and made a move to climb out of the car. The paramedic put a hand on my shoulder.
“Just hold still.”
“I’m all right.” I tried to wave him out of the way and climbed out of the car, his hand on my arm.
As soon as I was on my feet, the world tipped precariously beneath me and my vision went dark. I was vaguely aware of strong hands lifting me, and when I became fully conscious again, I was lying on my back on a stretcher.
I groaned. “My car.”
I couldn’t believe I might have totaled it after only a few weeks of owning it.
“Don’t worry about your car,” a female paramedic said. “What’s your name?”
“Midori. Midori Bishop.” Through the thick fog clouding my thoughts, I remembered something. “My violin!”
After further explanation, one of the paramedics fetched my instrument from my car and
assured me it would make the trip to the hospital with us. That allowed me to calm down, and I let the fog obscure my thoughts again.
The two paramedics tended to me for another minute, fitting a small tube beneath my nose and placing a blanket over me. I lay there on the stretcher, answering questions when asked, thankful to be out in the night air and free of the harsh burning smell inside my car. But as the paramedics loaded me into the back of an ambulance, I shivered, the cold air finally registering. Once I started shivering, I couldn’t stop, not even when the female paramedic covered me with an additional blanket. I became aware of blood trickling along my forehead, and the paramedic told me I had a gash near my hairline that would require stitches. She bandaged up the wound temporarily and soon the ambulance was on the move.
Although I didn’t lose consciousness again, my mind wasn’t working quite right. I couldn’t figure out what had happened to me—other than the fact that I’d been in an accident—and I couldn’t be bothered to try to think beyond that at the moment. I simply let time slip past me as the ambulance delivered me to the hospital, where I was moved into a curtained cubicle.
A nurse brought me a heated blanket and finally my shivering eased. Soon after, a female physician introduced herself as Dr. Tremaine. She informed me that the soreness of my face and torso had resulted from the impact of the airbag and was nothing serious. She did, however, confirm that the gash on my head needed stitches. She also asked me a bunch of questions and checked my vision and reflexes.
I was relieved that all my fingers worked normally, without any pain. Although my arms were a bit sore, they were otherwise fine, and that meant I could still play my violin once the rest of me was feeling up to it.
A headache had taken hold inside my skull and was now throbbing away furiously. Dr. Tremaine gave me something for the pain and numbed up my forehead before stitching my gash closed. It was only as she put the last stitch in that my mind finally managed to piece together the events leading up to the accident.
“I was run off the road,” I said.
“You’d better tell that to the police officer,” Dr. Tremaine said as she wheeled into view on her stool. “There. You’re all stitched up.”
“Thank you.” My sluggish brain registered her words. “Police officer?”
“He’s waiting to speak with you about the accident.” She stood up. “You’ve got a minor concussion and you’ll be sore for a few days. Is there anyone at home who can look after you?”
I shook my head and regretted it. The painkillers had taken the edge off my headache but hadn’t obliterated it completely yet. The room also seemed to shift around me in a dizzying way. “I live alone.”
Dr. Tremaine glanced at the watch on her wrist. “It’s nearly midnight. I’d like to admit you overnight, but you’ll probably be good to go home in the morning.”
I zeroed in on her first words. “Midnight?”
I tried to sit up, but another wave of dizziness hit me and I groaned, lying back down.
“Take it easy,” Dr. Tremaine cautioned.
“I was supposed to meet my best friend,” I explained. “He must be worried sick.”
“You can contact him soon, or someone will do it for you. Shall I send in the police officer now?”
“Sure,” I said, still focused on thoughts of JT.
I thanked the doctor and she left my cubicle. Seconds later, a uniformed police officer approached my bed. When I repeated my worries about JT to him, he produced my tote bag and cell phone along with my beloved violin. Thankfully, my phone was undamaged, having weathered the accident better than I had. I hoped the same would be true of my instrument.
As soon as I activated the screen of my phone, I saw that I’d received numerous text messages and phone calls from JT.
“I need to tell him I’m okay,” I told the officer.
Slowly, I eased myself into a sitting position. After a few seconds, my dizziness wore off and I was able to focus on my phone.
Dori, I’m freaking out here. Where the heck are you? I’m coming to find you, JT’s last message read.
He’d sent it several minutes ago and my stomach clenched as I pictured him coming upon my damaged vehicle by the side of the road.
I was in an accident. I’m at the hospital but I’m okay! I wrote back.
Tired from the effort of sitting up and focusing on the device, I lay back down. When the officer—Constable Darzi—asked me about the accident, I told him what I could remember.
“Whoever it was, I think they ran me off the road on purpose.” I explained to him about the recent murders and the fact that I’d been doing some digging into the lives of the suspects. “And I think I know who the driver was. Harold Dempsey was watching me when I left the theater. I think he followed me and was trying to kill me.”
I shivered despite the warmth from the blanket. I hoped the officer didn’t think my story was the result of my head injury, but he seemed to be taking me seriously. He accepted the threatening note I dug out of my purse, and when I gave him the names of the detectives working on the homicide cases, he assured me he’d get in touch with them.
He disappeared a few minutes later and I checked my phone.
Which hospital? Are you sure you’re all right???
VGH, I wrote in reply to his first question. And yes, I’m sure. It’s nothing serious.
I’m on my way, his next message read.
Those words warmed me, easing my shivering and allowing me to relax. I closed my eyes, and the sounds of the emergency room blended together and faded away. I must have drifted off for a while because when I next opened my eyes, JT was standing by my bed.
“Thank God, Dori,” he said when he realized I was awake.
I’d never seen him look so worried.
“I told you I was okay,” I reminded him, although I was touched by his concern.
I raised a hand from the bed and he wrapped it in one of his.
“You scared me half to death. When you didn’t show up at my place and you weren’t answering your phone or my text messages . . .” He cleared his throat, unable to finish.
I squeezed his hand. “I know. I’m sorry.”
He returned the pressure on my hand. “Not your fault. But you’re really okay?” His eyes traveled up to my forehead where the doctor had stitched my wound.
“I promise. Just a cut, some bruises, and a minor concussion. I’m not so sure about my poor car, though.”
“Cars can be replaced. You can’t.”
“I guess that’s true.” I smiled up at him. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
My heart gave a happy skip. If my smile was on the goofy side, I hoped he’d attribute it to the painkillers.
“Are they letting you go home?” he asked.
“Not until tomorrow.”
The curtain swished aside and Detective Salnikova stepped into view.
“Detective,” I greeted with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
Salnikova nodded a greeting at JT before turning her attention to me. “Detective Van den Broek has had to take some time off for a family emergency, so I’ve stepped in to investigate the murders along with Detective Chowdhury.”
Hallelujah, I wanted to say, but I held my tongue.
I was glad I had when the rest of her words registered. “Family emergency? Does it have anything to do with his daughter?”
“It does, yes,” Salnikova said, a shadow of sadness passing across her face.
“Oh no,” I said, remembering the picture of the cute little girl. “Is she going to be okay?”
“I don’t know,” the detective replied. “She’s been very sick for a while now and took a turn for the worse. Detective Van den Broek is a single father and wanted to be with her as much as possible.”
&nb
sp; I swallowed back a lump of emotion, feeling terrible for the little girl and her father as well. No wonder Van den Broek hadn’t been a joy to spend time with. He must have been so worried about his daughter.
“You said you’ll be investigating the murders now,” JT said, redirecting the conversation. “What does Midori’s accident have to do with those cases?” He shifted his gaze to me. “Wait—was someone following you after all?”
“I think so.”
“What’s this?” Salnikova asked.
I backed up and told her about my initial suspicion that Harold had followed me from the theater. “I thought I was imagining things, but I guess I wasn’t. I was run off the road. Intentionally.”
JT’s hand tightened around mine. “You could have been killed.”
“I think that was the plan.”
He frowned, but Salnikova wanted to hear more so I filled her in on everything I’d learned recently, including my research into Tiffany Alphonse’s death three years earlier. “I think Harold killed Tiffany,” I said to wrap up, my voice growing scratchy. “I don’t know how he could have killed Pavlina, but he’s involved somehow. I’m sure of it.”
“What about the other judge?” JT asked. “Could it have been him who ran you off the road?”
I considered that possibility. “Not unless he used someone else’s vehicle,” I said as I recalled the headlights behind me on the dark road. “It was a car that hit me, not a truck like Jeb’s.”
“Can you pick up this Harold guy?” JT asked Salnikova. “If he finds out that Midori’s still alive, he might try to finish the job.”
A shudder ran through my body.
JT must have felt it through my hand, still clasped in his. “Don’t worry,” he assured me. “He’s not getting near you again.”
“I certainly want to question him,” Salnikova said.
“Tonight?” JT asked.