Free Burn 2 by Dawn Steele Page A

stunned.
    Then . . . yes, he understands it. Abby would have a motive – in the eyes of the police.
    Jealous of her boyfriend’s liaison with a beautiful, successful older woman, she befriends the older woman on the street and follows her to her store. Seeing the ‘SALES REP VACANCY’ sign on the window, she applies for the job and uses her superior knowledge of ceramics to land it.
    Thereafter, in a fit of rage, she follows her boyfriend to his rendezvous with the older woman, who is now her boss. The elevator security is on the fritz, and s o she manages to get upstairs to the twenty-second floor. She waits till her boyfriend has finished his session with the older woman, and goes in to confront her boss. They have an argument, and Abby brains her boss with the vase.
    It is extremely tangled, but Devon can clearly see what the police would make of all this.
    “She would never do it,” he says hotly. “Abby is not a murderer. She was home when I got back, asleep in bed.”
    “It’s only your alibi for her. Did you go back to your apartment immediately?”
    “No. I wandered around for a bit and had a drink.” He wanted to digest what Rachel asked of him and the final fight they had over it.
    Pat says, “The police could also suspect that the two of you collaborated on the murder of Rachel Krieg, and that you both are covering for each other.”
    “It’s not true!”.
    “I’m just telling you the way it is.”
    Devon abruptly gets up. He takes out his wallet and extracts t wo ten dollar bills from it. He lays them on the table.
    “I can’t deal with this right now. I have to find Abby. She’s not answering her cellphone and I’m going batshit crazy.”
    Pat holds his eyes. “I don’t know Abby all that well, but I have a hunch as to what happened to her.”
    She reaches for her cellphone.
    “And I know just who to call.”

 
SEARCH
     
    Devon and Pat race out into the sidewalk and hail the first yellow cab that approaches. They both get in.
    Devon says to the cab driver, “To the corner of thirty-third and seventh.”
    He is bunching his fists so hard that he can feel the little indents on his palms from his fingernails. Please, please let her be OK , he prays.
    Pat senses his consternation.
    “I don’t think he will hurt her, Devon. Not if he answered Dresschler’s call. He is her father after all.”
    The cab speeds off. The driver is from one of the African states, Devon can see from his license which is plastered on one side of the dashboard.
    Devon says, “I know. But there’s so much we don’t know as to what happened between them.”
    He can’t forget the burn marks he has seen on Abby’s palms. Who would burn their own daughter? He doesn’t even know if Abby has been a victim of incestuous molestation. All sorts of dark thoughts tumble in his head, each worse than the previous one. All he knows is that he wants to protect Abby against that man . . . that monster . . . and he will kill to do it.
    Kill.
    The word petrifies him all of a sudden. This is what got you in trouble in the first place . Is he capable of killing? And the police are asking . . . has he?
    This is so much of a mess. So much they have to put right . . . together.
    The cab can’t get there fast enough. Traffic lights seem to tur n red as soon as they approach, causing him to want to beat his fists on the glass separator between the driver and them. Frustration gnaws at his every fiber. The streets of New York City have never seemed to him more crowded, and the pedestrian crossings at the end of each block never more overflowing.
    It’s all your fault. You left her in that apartment.
    Pat glances at him. “It will be all right, Devon.”
    “I hope so.” He will never forgive himself if she isn’t.
    A little too late, isn’t it?
    Finally, they draw up to the corner of Thirty-third Street where it crosses Seventh Avenue. There is a Corner Bakery there, its interior warm, golden and welcoming.
    Pat pays the cab