Free Turn or Burn by Boo Walker Page B

wouldn’t be able to see me, I went to the rail, nearly collapsing. It didn’t matter if my eyes were open or closed. All I could see were the dead faces of Ted and his brother, Jay, morphing into one another. Even in death, they looked so much alike. And I’d been there to see them both take their last breaths.
    As the Bay breeze cooled me down, I began to get a grip. I emptied my mind and let all my thoughts and all those images drop into the cold water below. Let go. Let go. Let go.
    The tightness in my body disappeared. Wiping the sweat from my face, I put my hands on the rail and looked out toward Mt. Rainier for a while. More than anything, I felt shame. I know I should have felt overwhelming regret or sadness, and I did, but more than those, I felt shame. Nothing worse than feeling like you’ve lost what makes you a man.
    I finally returned to the car. So much for all that healing. Sure, I could handle a helicopter flying over the vineyard, but I couldn’t handle being back in the war. I needed Roman next to me, stat.
    Francesca asked me if everything was okay, and I nodded. Then an awkward silence came between us, but I had no desire to fill it. My recovery had just hit a brick wall.
     
    ***
     
    Pulling it together, I borrowed a pen and paper from a neighboring car and began to sketch the mark I’d seen on the woman with the dirty blonde hair, recalling it easily. It would have fit in a circle with a three-inch diameter. Three legs came out of a center point, all spiraling in the same direction, starting out thicker and growing thinner all the way to their curly tips.
    When I finished, I showed Francesca what I’d seen and what the cop had told me. “I’ve got someone who might be able to tell us more about it,” she said. She took a picture of my sketch with her phone and forwarded it.
    I turned on the radio. “Let’s see if they’ve released the names yet.”
    Several stations were discussing the murder at the conference. According to the newscaster, the protesters were continuing to disperse but arrests were still being made. They referred to the deceased as the two female shooters and the male victim.
    My brain wanted to toss out theories, but it was too early. I didn’t want to fall into the trap of making assumptions. So, in an effort to distract my mind, I said, “I’m going to ask you a question, and this time, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “Where are you from?”
    Francesca took a deep breath and turned the radio down. “Look, I’m sorry for reacting the way I did yesterday. In this line of work…”
    “You don’t need to explain,” I said, appreciating our first real conversation. “I get it. And I’m over it. Where are you from? Tell me something about yourself.”
    “Rome.”
    “Georgia?”
    “No. Italy.”
    Then she noticed the little grin I had put on, and she shook her head. With that accent, only a child wouldn’t guess she was from Italy.
    “My father was a fighter pilot and was stationed in Rome, Italy, until I was thirteen. He met my mother over there.”
    “Then where’d you go?”
    “Back to where my dad grew up. Los Angeles.”
    “You’re an L.A. girl? Uprooted at thirteen years old and dropped into L.A. That explains everything.”
    She rolled her eyes. “I was an L.A. girl for a second . I moved back to Rome to go to University and have lived there ever since. My parents moved back there once my dad retired.”
    “So I should say you speak good English, not good Italian.”
    “Of course. My father never let me speak Italian in the house. He wanted to make sure my English was impeccable.”
    “You’re still an L.A. girl, though,” I said. “You were there for the impressionable years.”
    “This is true.”
    “Are they proud of you?”
    “Are my parents proud of me? Sure, I guess so. They’d probably rather I was a teacher. How about yours?” she asked.
    “They would be, I think. Lost them years ago.”
    “Now,