Free Fit To Be Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 1) by Nancy G. West

shiver rose up my neck. Once the medical team put her in the ambulance, technicians would swarm the area where she’d lain. I envisioned them shooting photos, gathering fibers, glass, metal and other bits of evidence. Detectives from Traffic Investigation would measure the distance from where she landed to stationary landmarks like the curb to determine the force of impact and probable damage to the hit-and-run car. They’d look for skid marks: Did the driver swerve, brake or accelerate? Did Holly’s shoes mark the concrete at the place where she left the ground? The car that hit her was probably gone, but officers would search the garage for cars with signs of damage.
    I got out of my car and forced my legs to carry me into the kitchen. How would the police know whether a careless driver had screeched from the garage, hit Holly, panicked and driven off? Or whether someone had heard Holly say she was leaving, waited until she stepped across the exit and raced toward her at full speed before she could reach the other side? Was this another accident? The day after Holly was nearly electrocuted? I didn’t think so.
    Throwing my workout bag onto the dining table, I sank into a chair. If EMS couldn’t save Holly, the emergency room physician would pronounce her dead. The hospital would notify the Bexar County Medical Examiner. Because of Holly’s age and the circumstances, he’d order an autopsy to verify the cause and manner of her death. Everything was so clinical. So tragic. So final. In minutes, a girl full of life would be reduced to an object of study.
    Stumbling to the sofa, I collapsed. I’d lost so many people I loved: Lester. Aunt Novena and Uncle Fred. My baby girl. Then Katy and Lee. When Sam fled Chicago to escape the pain of their death, I lost him, too .
    I’d grieved silently with Holly over the loss of her child. And the loss of my child. No wonder protecting Holly meant so much; I was also protecting myself. Now, Holly might be gone. She wouldn’t even have the opportunity to grow old.
    My sculpture of bronze runners stood poised on the coffee table. They were strong, free and leaping forward, the way I wanted to live. Instead, I felt like Grace’s shattered tiles, immobilized by grief, waiting for passersby to step on me and crush me into smaller bits.
    Pushing myself off the couch, I wandered aimlessly and gazed at my paintings, the impressionistic watercolors I loved. Now they looked amorphous—littered with broken bonds like the formless path of my life. I felt such sadness for Holly, for Sam’s misery, for aborted relationships, for my own weaknesses. I peered through the window at cars cruising up and down Burr Road. Golfers played on Ft. Sam Houston’s course, even in January. How odd. Life continued unaware.
    Thankfully, SAPD wouldn’t send Sam to investigate this crime. Sam’s Murder Squad in Homicide didn’t handle traffic investigations. When someone discovered a body other than a traffic fatality, SAPD assigned Sam’s unit to investigate. Murder was so alien to Sam’s nature, I supposed he could deal with it objectively. But it would be agonizing for him to deal with this young girl’s death. Fortunately, a detective from Traffic Investigation would work the case. I peered through the window and gazed down the street, amazed at how normal everything looked.
    Although officers had questioned people at the scene, tomorrow they would interrogate the club’s staff and members, trying to determine what time Holly exercised and who her friends were. I dreaded the interview. It was bad enough to have helped save Holly from drowning only to see her lying still on the concrete. The police would require me to relive every detail.
    I raced to my bathroom and lost the last of my lunch. I’d eaten very little breakfast. After Sheldon’s dissertation, I’d only picked at my sandwich. After I brushed my teeth, I trudged to the front door, made myself scrape the mail off the floor and opened a