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“Strike three!” The words from the umpire turn my gaze back to the field. And it’s now that I see Robert off to the side talking with a man.
No, talking with Jeff Holmes.
What is he doing here?
I get up and glance at Burke. Because Jeff has put his hand on Robert’s chest, pushing him. A father never stops caring.
Especially a father obsessed, grieving and desperate for justice. I’m familiar with the type, so, oh boy. “Burke—”
“Yep,” he says and we take off around the back of the dugout toward the altercation.
Someone screams when Jeff grabs one of the bats lodged into the fencing. His voice raises. “I’ll kill you for what you did to her!”
Robert has picked up a bat too and the two are facing off. “I didn’t kill her!”
“You raped her!” Jeff takes a swing at Robert, who dodges.
“I didn’t!” He backs up, sweating. Jeff takes two quick steps toward him.
“Jeff! Stop!” I shout, but he’s beyond hearing. Really, I don’t blame him. He takes another swing at Robert who meets his bat with a resounding clang that rattles even my bones.
The vibration makes him drop the bat and he staggers back, his hands up.
“Stop—”
“She was a kid. Just a kid, and you—I don’t care if she agreed—you got into her head. You—” Jeff drops a description that is apt but probably has the mothers in the stands gasping.
Not me. This scum deserves whatever Jeff dishes out.
But I can’t let Jeff go down for murder, so— “Jeff! Let us handle it!”
He ignores me and swings again.
This time, as he back peddles, Robert trips.
He’s a sitting duck. Well, lying I guess. He rolls over and is crawling across the ground when Jeff runs him down. Grabs his collar, raises the bat.
He’s going to break ribs—or, if he hits his head, Robert really is dead.
I’m just three steps away, so of course I launch myself at Jeff.
The man goes down under me. But let’s not forget he’s a bit of a loose cannon and wasn’t afraid to hurt me before. He roars and slams an elbow into my side. It bulls-eyes on the still-healing stab wound, and I submit to an inner howl. But I grit my teeth, grab his arm and lay on him. “Stay down!”
No murder in front of the kiddos, pal.
“He didn’t do it!” Angie has run up behind us, and she’s crying, holding her baby, standing away from both men, but shouting over and over. “He didn’t do it!”
And he didn’t. Because the crime has already formed in my head.
Robert didn’t kill Gretta.
Angie did.
Or at least she was there.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe a caravan, or a couple sedans, Teresa said.
Burke is there, again, with cuffs and I roll off Jeff to let my partne
