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Feeling as though I could think clearly for the first time since I got out of the hospital, I started an outline of the things that had happened since the trial began.
I thought back to the first day when Stella and I saw Cope storm out of the courtroom after only a little over an hour. That afternoon, someone had leaked a story about a deal. If that were a possibility, I would’ve received a brief about it from Money.
Next, was my accident, which had resulted in a continuance. The following night, my apartment had been broken into. I still hadn’t come up with a reason for it. Cope had suggested that someone saw me with him, but the only thing that made sense was if someone was investigating me like I was him. Otherwise, there hadn’t been enough time for my presence to raise any suspicion.
Cope didn’t say anything about what had happened at the courthouse in the days between then and now, but I’d been checking the wires, and there were no reports on it, even from Stella.
Friday, someone had planted a bomb.
Cope walked up beside me and placed a rolled-up hand towel on the corner of my laptop, next to my keyboard. “See if this is the right height.”
I rested my wrist on it.
“Can your fingers reach the keys?”
“Perfectly. Thank you, Cope.”
He nodded and walked around the counter to get his plate. He came back and sat beside me. “Come up with anything yet?”
“Can you tell me more about the bomb?” I took a bite of my eggs.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before taking another bite of his food. This was something he didn’t want to talk about.
“Where was it?”
“In the hallway behind the courtroom,” he answered without looking at me.
“Behind the courtroom? Is that what you said?”
Cope nodded.
“There’s no question, then, that the bomb was meant to go off during Warrick’s trial?”
“That’s right.”
I rested against the back of the stool. “Cope?”
He set his fork down and turned his head slowly to look at me. “Yeah?”
“I was driving your car.”
His eyes bored into mine as he watched me process through what he already knew. Someone was trying to kill him. Maybe Irish too, but definitely him.
I got up from the stool and paced.
“Ali?”
“Why you?” I asked, barely above a whisper.
His forehead was creased when he turned his head away.
“Cope? Why you?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“But you know the answer?”
“Ali, please.”
