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CHAPTERONE
Kir
Evie looks up at the sound of her name and when she spots us, her face horrified at the vision of her sister in hysterics, the cops step aside and let her run to us.
She collapses into Charleigh’s arms, just about matching her sister’s wailing.
“Oh my god,” Charleigh screams, “I thought you might be… I thought you were in the car.”
“I’m sorry, Charleigh, I’m so sorry,” Evie cries. “I’ve put you through so much. I promise to stop, I promise to behave. Please forgive me,” she begs.
I get to my feet. We’re now surrounded by three officers who want to know what the hell is going on.
But first things first.
I step closer to the two men and one woman in uniform and lower my voice. “Are there… is there any chance of… survivors?”
I choke on this last word, so close to the conversation I had when I lost Clara in the accident, words I never thought I’d have to utter again.
The female cop grimaces and shakes her head sadly. “Sorry, sir, I’m afraid not. Do you know the person who was driving? Was she a… friend?”
Ugh. Papa always taught us to share as little as possible with the police. Every little bit of information leads to more and more questions.
So I tread carefully. “That’s my brother’s car. We loaned it to one of our employees who was picking up her little boy at school.”
One of the other cops takes notes. “What did you say her name is, sir? The victim?”
“Um, Stacey. Her name is Stacey. ItwasStacey,” I say, the flames now under control thanks to the fire department’s water hoses.
“Staceywhat, sir?” he asks.
Shit. I have no idea of her last name.
“Uh, I’m not sure, Officer. I mean, I’m kind of rattled right now, and her last name isn’t coming to me. I’m sorry,” I lie.
Charleigh looks up from her sister huddle and glares at me. She knows I’m full of shit. “Jones. Her last name is Jones,” she calls.
“Right,” I add. “Jones.” Like I actually knew all along.
Jesus Christ. One of our employees just died and I have no freaking idea what her last name was. What a douche I am.
“Do we know how it happened?” I ask, hoping to redirect the conversation.
They gesture toward an older gentleman who pulls off his trucker hat and runs his fingers through his thinning grey hair. He’s talking to another cop.
He looks oddly familiar.
Do I know a truck driver?
The officers and I approach him and the other officer questioning him.
“She ran a light. Officer, she ran the light,” he insists.
His rig is mostly fine, and he’s completely without injury himself, but his hands shake violently, and he keeps looking down, avoiding everyone’s gaze.
I watch quietly as he answers questions with briefyes’sandno’s.
Interesting. He’s not avoiding everyone’s gaze. He’s avoidingmine, I find, as he makes eye contact with the cops.
