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An old-fashioned phone with an answering machine sits on a small table tucked against the end of the counter. Jade presses a button, and a man’s voice spills out into theroom.
“Girls. Ralph Turnbull here. I thought I should warn you.” He sounds like every slick lawyer with a grease stain for a soul that you see on made-for-tv movies. I want to punch his lights out and he’s barely said anything .
“There have been coyotes reported in the area around your farm,” he continues. “I’d hate to see them get to your animals ... or that dog of yours. Callme.”
“We never told him about Zander,” Jade says. “Our dog. All our contact has been by phone; he wanted to come to the farm but we saidno.”
She’s trembling, not with fear but with anger. “He’s watching us. That call was a threat.”
“Not a very subtle one, either. He’s counting on you not having anyone to turn to.” I believe in the law as an instrument of justice, but right now I’d like to get Ralph Turnbull alone for five minutes.
And then I’d like to get Jade Callahan alone for five hours.
