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“I’d hoped it would be something more. Something that would make sense of what happened.”
    “I know.” I rubbed the aching stub of my leg. The world had stopped making sense for me too.
    ***
    “Mr. Blackman.”
    A hand shook me awake. I must have been dreaming about Tikima because I thought she was shaking me again.
    The duty nurse stood over me. “The woman who called last night. She’s on the phone again.”
    I was awake enough to notice daylight coming through the blinds. “What time is it?”
    “Nearly seven. My shift’s over in a few minutes. Is it really an emergency?”
    “Yes. Should I come out to the desk?”
    “No. I can transfer her to the room phone.” She wheeled the bedside table closer and left.
    I snatched the receiver up in mid-ring. “Nakayla?” I whispered.
    “Mr. Blackman, it makes sense. It makes sense.” She was so excited she was nearly screaming.
    “The journal?”
    “Yes. Elijah was our great-great grandfather. In 1919, his body was found in the French Broad River. He’d been murdered.”

Chapter Four
    Although I didn’t know how I could help Nakayla, I couldn’t dismiss the possibility that her sister had selected me for a specific reason. Around nine, I told the duty nurse I’d be working on my own for a few hours in rehab. Then, I slipped on my pants and Hawaiian shirt, and for the third time in two days, I made a break from the hospital.
    Nakayla nearly ran over my good foot as she tried to save me from stepping down from the curb. I slid onto the seat and swung my prosthetic leg in without a problem.
    “You’re getting better,” Nakayla said.
    “In another twenty years, I might be able to walk on the damn thing.”
    Nakayla drove forward without comment and I realized my whining was petty self-indulgence to a woman who had just buried her sister. The psych docs in Walter Reed had warned me that my emotions would swing through extremes—that was normal. But the more insidious development would be letting those emotions harden into bitterness. Not only would that eat away at my spirit but it would also distance others from me.
    “Now if they could put a retractable wheel on the bottom,” I said, “like in those shoes the kids wear. You’ve heard the expression hell on wheels?”
    Nakayla glanced over and saw what I meant to be a friendly grin.
    “We could call you Scooter Man,” she said. “Get you a red cape.”
    “I do have my Hawaiian shirt.”
    Nakayla cut her eyes to the gaudy pattern and then accelerated onto Tunnel Road. “Take my advice. Send it back to the Hawaiians.”
    I reached down, found the seat controls, and inched out a little more legroom.
    Nakayla noticed my effort. “Sorry if you’re cramped. I started to bring Tikima’s Avalon but I’m not up to driving it yet.”
    My investigative instincts kicked in. “Where did they find her car?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Was it abandoned near the river?”
    “No. It was in her parking spot at the Kenilworth.”
    “The Kenilworth?”
    Nakayla zipped the Hyundai up the ramp to I-40. “Her apartment building. Where we’re going now.”
    “So someone picked her up.”
    “That’s what the police think.”
    I heard the skepticism in her voice. “You don’t agree?”
    Nakayla glanced at the speedometer and set the cruise control. “Tikima told me she was going to meet someone, not that someone was picking her up.”
    I approached the other possibility as tactfully as I could. “Is there a chance she might have had someone up to her apartment? Someone she didn’t want you to know about?”
    Nakayla shook her head. “We were sisters. I knew every man in her life—even the jerks—especially the jerks. She’d just broken up with a guy two weeks before and she wasn’t seeing anyone.”
    “This guy she broke up with, is he a suspect?”
    “I gave the police his name, but I doubt he’s involved. He’s married with two kids. When Tikima found out, she dumped him.”
    “How’d she