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CHAPTER 8
Head pounding, Kara eased her way downstairs to let the dog out into the still-dark yard, then hit the button on the single-cup coffeemaker on the kitchen counter and ignored the grit in her eyes and the headache starting to bloom at the base of her skull.
Margrove hadn’t called back, though, to be fair, it wasn’t even seven. Most of the world just waking up. Yawning, she glanced through the dining area to the front window, where, peeking through the blinds, she noticed the streetlights casting a vaporous glow, snow now gently falling from a black sky fighting the coming dawn.
She thought she hadn’t slept a wink the rest of the night, but somehow the hours had passed, so she had to have dozed. In the cupboard near the sink, she found a bottle of ibuprofen and shook out the last remaining tablet.
The coffee machine sputtered and steamed, spitting out a shot of espresso to which she added a healthy stream of Baileys.
Just to take the edge off. A bit of “the hair of the dog,” as Daddy had once told her years before when she had no idea what he was talking about.
As she popped the pill and washed it down with a hot swallow of the doctored coffee, the TV was blasting, news of Jonas’s release still the top story.
So where was he?
Why hadn’t he tried to contact her?
More importantly, why was she torturing herself when her head already felt twice its normal size? She found the remote and snapped the sunny-looking reporter right off the screen. “Better,” she said, hoping her headache would shrivel as she sipped from an oversize cup.
She opened the door and Rhapsody bolted into the kitchen, waiting eagerly, tail slapping the side of the counter as Kara added dry food to her empty bowl.
Already showered and dressed, with minimal makeup and more than one drop of Visine in her eyes, she decided she’d waited long enough. She needed to see Jonas, and the only way she knew how was to talk to the attorney who lived across the river.
She dismissed last night’s prank call for what it was. A stupid joke. Jonas, by all accounts a new man, certainly would phone her directly, right? He already had her number, a gift from Aunt Faiza. Wouldn’t he just call her instead of playing some ridiculous high school game in the middle of the night? Or was he that cruel?
So the caller had to have been someone else, someone who wanted to bug the crap out of her, to scare her. But who? Not many had her phone number. So what? She didn’t exactly have anonymity, and there were ways to find out all kinds of information on the Internet. No, Jonas hadn’t called her, but some person in her past. Someone jealous or pissed off had tried to get their jollies by leaving the weird message in the middle of the night.
“Get used to it,” she told herself as she drained her cup and reached for her jacket. “I won’t be gone long,” she said to Rhapsody, who had raced to the door in anticipation of a jog. Guilt cut through Kara’s already pain-filled brain. “Later,” she promised. First, she was going to track Margrove down and find out how she could contact Jonas.
Why?
She didn’t answer the question, because she had no good response. Yes, he was her sibling, a member of her family, but he’d never responded to her letters, refused to see her the two times she’d visited Banhoff after she’d turned eighteen. The prison’s massive concrete walls, razor wire and stone-faced armed guards had convinced her that she never wanted to be incarcerated, and she’d wondered how Jonas had survived all this time without going insane.
Maybe it had been a short fall to insanity for Jonas. Because a boy who had been capable of killing his entire family had already slipped over the edge.
And now he was out.
A good thing?
Or bad?
She guessed she’d find out.
“He didn’t do it,” she reminded herself, and snagged her keys and purse before heading to the garage. She slapped the button for the garage door opener, then slid behind the wheel. As the door cranked noisily open, she started the SUV. Placed her hands on the cold steering wheel.
Her cell phone buzzed again and she glanced at it. No name. No number. “Forget it,” she said aloud, her breath fogging as she rammed the Cherokee into reverse and gunned the engine as snow had piled on the driveway. The Jeep lurched backward, her tires bumping over the icy berm, a gray daylight starting to illuminate the streets.
“Hey!” a startled voice yelled.
Thump!
From the corner of her eye, she spied a man leap from the driveway to the side yard.
Jesus!
She’d hit him?
What? No!