“What others?” Galimore turned north onto Providence Road.
“J. D. Danner, the leader of the Patriot Posse. Danner thought Cindi had a good shot at driving NASCAR.”
“Maybe Bogan was biased. Don’t parents always think their kids are better athletes or artists or whatever compared to everyone else’s kids?”
“Maybe.” I thought a moment. “A teacher named Ethel Bradford said Cindi was highly intelligent. And Lynn Nolan, a high school friend, described her as scary-smart.”
“Bogan wasn’t saying Cindi was dumb. He was saying she was dull.”
I remembered Galimore’s phone interruption. “I hope your call wasn’t bad news.”
“It wasn’t good. There’s a feeding frenzy going on at the Speed-way. I’ve got to get back.”
I checked my watch: 3:20. No wonder I was hungry. There was nothing at home. I’d have to stop for groceries.
Suddenly I remembered something that had fallen through the cracks.
“Lynn Nolan mentioned another of Cindi’s friends. Maddy Padgett. Slidell was going to try to locate her.”
“Did he?”
“I forgot to ask him. When he called, we just talked about the Mustang.”
We wound through town, my thoughts buzzing like wasps in a bottle. So many loose ends. So many unanswered questions.
“Did I tell you that Lynn Nolan thought Cale was abusive to Cindi?”
Galimore turned to me, surprise on his face. “Oh yeah?”
“She thought she spotted bruising on Cindi’s arms.”
“No shit.”
“I think we should talk to Maddy Padgett.”
“We can do that.”
We were almost to the MCME when I remembered the call I’d ignored.
A red dot indicated voice mail.
I tapped the icon and listened.
And felt the tiny hairs on my neck go upright.
I SUCKED IN MY BREATH.
Checked the list of incoming calls.
“Shit.”
Sensing agitation, Galimore glanced my way.
With a shaky finger, I rejabbed the icon.
Listened again.
“Jesus.”
“What’s going on?”
I hit speaker while extending the phone in Galimore’s direction.
The voice was low and deep, the message short.
“You’re next.”
“Play it again,” Galimore ordered.
I did.
“Again.”
We listened to the same two words. Still the meaning was unclear. “Is he saying ‘you’re next’? Or is he saying ‘your next’ and then getting cut off?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Don’t be a smart-ass.”
Galimore was right. I was being a jerk. It’s the game face I wear when frightened.
“If this is a threat, I intend to take it seriously.”
“Thanks, Hulk.”
“Christ, Brennan. Check the number.”
“The call logged in as unknown.”
“Do you recognize the voice?”
