Free Shadow Image by Martin J Smith Page A

is continuing, unquote,” the reporter persisted, “which obviously suggests that there is some concern on their part about how Mrs. Underhill was injured.”
    Brenna smiled. “Obviously, Mr. Underhill is concerned about how his mother fell, too, as we all are. We’d certainly hope the sheriff shares that concern as well.”
    â€œAny evidence this was anything other than a suicide attempt?” the reporter asked. Christensen could tell he was getting frustrated.
    â€œNot that we’re aware of,” she said.
    â€œBut you’re a criminal-defense attorney. You’ve also been involved in several high-profile cases that bear striking similarities to this one, all of which involved disabled elderly people. Why did Ford Underhill’s campaign office refer us to you?”
    â€œI can’t speak to that. I’m not involved in Mr. Underhill’s campaign.”
    â€œThat’s our point—”
    â€œThe family’s main focus right now is getting Mrs. Underhill back home, and we’re cooperating fully with the sheriff’s office to clear up questions about the fall. Any speculation beyond that right now would be inappropriate. Thank you for your concern, though.”
    She smiled when she said it. The reporter surrendered as Brenna turned and walked into the office tower. The camera shifted from Brenna’s back to the bulldog face of Channel 2’s Myron Levin, whose name appeared suddenly at the bottom of the screen. “Again, Kelly, that’s Underhill family spokesperson Brenna Kennedy with the latest on the—” Levin cocked an eyebrow—“
perplexing
fall on Saturday that injured the mother of Democratic gubernatorial front-runner Ford Underhill. Back to you.”
    Kelly looked worried. “We’ll certainly keep Mrs. Underhill in our thoughts.”
    â€œWe certainly will,” offered co-anchor Rob. He looked worried, too. “Thanks, Myron.”
    Taylor’s fork hung halfway between his plate and his mouth, as it had since his mother’s face first appeared on the screen. He’d seen his mom interviewed on television before, each time with the same dumbfounded amazement. “Awesome,” he said.
    Christensen patted him on the back. “You know that lady?”
    â€œBrenna looks fat on TV,” Annie said.
    Christensen noticed the stove clock and checked it against his watch. “Whoa guys, it’s ten to eight. Finish up, get your clothes, brush your teeth, and let’s get out the door. Hate to rush you, but the bell rings in ten minutes.”
    â€œShe should tell them just to show her face,” Annie said. “She has a pretty nice face.”
    â€œUpstairs,” he said.
    New living arrangement aside, the morning was building to a familiar crescendo. Christensen collected the paper plates and put away the syrup and margarine. He turned off the coffeemaker, rinsed the silverware, and dropped it into the kitchen’s ancient dishwasher, which was half full of plates and bowls unpacked at random in moments of need. He poured Cascade into the soap holder, shut the door, and clicked the dial to normal cycle. The machine groaned once and stopped with an unhealthy noise. He spun the dial again.
Kachunk,
it said. He tried again but it made no noise at all.
    Even if he had time to tinker with it, he didn’t have the slightest idea what might be wrong. He scribbled a Post-it note for Brenna—“Bren: It went kachunk and stopped. Help!”—and stuck it on the dishwasher door. “Everybody ready?” he shouted.
    The kids rumbled down the stairs looking like a Disney mule train, Taylor beneath an overstuffed and weighty
Hercules
backpack, one of Annie’s discards, and carrying a lunchbox that looked like the disembodied head of Mickey Mouse. He’d insisted on it over Christensen’s objections. Annie was strapped into her silver
Action Rangers
backpack with