Read Friday Edition, The for Free Online Page B

she said, not wanting to meet anyone’s eyes.
    “I’d better get over there and calm him down,” Wyatt said before looking at Jonathan. “I’ll be in touch.”
    As Wyatt was about to retreat, Sam’s pager chirped loudly, capturing everyone’s attention. The men silently stood on as Sam fumbled for it. They watched as she read the message several times, moving her lips as she read. She looked at them, feeling her face flush with heat. “Sam,” Wyatt asked. “Are you all right?
    Sam had enough sense not to say anything. She was determined not to let anyone see her surprise, and hoped she was not failing miserably at masking her emotions.
    “Sam? What is it? You’re pale. Are you all right?” Jonathan asked and put a reassuring hand on her elbow to steady her.
    “It’s … it’s a … nothing,” she stammered. “Just something I need to check on later.”
    Sam glared at Jonathan as she saw him trying to catch a glimpse of the message and folded her hands around her pager. “Would you please just leave!” she said and pulled away from his grasp.
    Jonathan and Wyatt left and walked toward the Caprice. Sam was shaking so hard inside that she could hardly stand. Her hands trembling, she clipped the pager to her waistband, her worst fears confirmed. The text message in the phone’s screen was etched in her mind:
     
    Your sister’s death was not an accident
    Trust me
     
    Todd put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You’re shaking, Sam. Are you sure you’re all right?”
    She ignored his question and crossed her arms tightly across her chest, looking at the green awning covering the hole over Robin’s grave. The folding chairs were empty now, turned this way and that. Someone would come soon to fill the hole with dirt. She closed her eyes and turned away. It was something she did not want to witness.
    “Want to get a cup of coffee?” Todd asked.
    Sam shook her head and managed to turn the thin line of her lips into a small smile. “I just want to go home.”

Eight
     
    On the way home from the funeral Sam was thinking so intently that she couldn’t have begun to sort everything out. One phrase rang, like a bell, over and over.
     
    Trust me. Trust me. Trust me.
     
    The anonymous text message had confirmed what Sam had known almost from the beginning: Robin had been murdered. But who wants my trust?
    And how could she trust anyone? The text message at the cemetery was unnerving, but the first message — the voice mail that came from Robin on Christmas Eve — set her on edge. Robin needed help. She must have sent me a message Christmas Eve and I didn’t know it.
    Sam pulled to the side of the road to check the number again, to make certain it was Robin’s home phone number. One long dash and another number followed it:
     
    555-8809—911.
     
    911, Sam thought. The three numbers spun around in her head like a whirlpool.
    “Something was urgent. Robin was trying to tell me something,” she said aloud.
    She thought of Brady’s outburst at the cemetery. You’re a drunk. Many people had called her a drunk, but not Brady. Never Brady. Maybe it was because of Robin, but he had always treated her kindly, though she suspected he had never much cared for her.
    A drunk. “What does he know?” Sam said as she steered her Mustang onto Sixth Avenue. “So I like to have a few drinks once in awhile. Big deal. It helps to take the edge off life. So what? What the hell’s wrong with that? I don’t have to have a drink every single day.” She drove in silence a moment, fuming. “And now you’re talking to yourself, Sam. Do drunks talk to themselves, too?”
    She realized she was griping the steering wheel hard. She took a deep breath and relaxed her grip. The drive gave her time to think. It was as if Brady’s words had opened a floodgate, and she allowed thoughts to creep in that she usually kept at bay. Nothing seemed to work anymore. She was having more bad days than good. She had lost track of the