Page 150 of A Dead End Wedding

Unbelievable. Just . . . unbelievable.

Uncle Nathan: "If one of my characters kills somebody, and the victim is on death row, is it legally murder? Or could the killer argue the victim was technically already dead?"

I laughed. Nathan always asked me the most bizarre questions for his books, and I almost never had an answer. I'd have to ask Jim Thies.

Emily: "Pizza at our house? You may be forced to watch the new singing doll movie, sadly."

I clicked off the phone as I pulled into my driveway. Ilovedmy new neighbors.

After I'd changed into shorts and a t-shirt and called to let Emily know I'd be over shortly, I reluctantly returned Jake's call. I kinda owed him.

"Vaughn," he answered the phone.

I sighed. "I thought we were finally on a first-name basis, Brody."

"Only when we're up close and personal." I could hear the smile in his voice.

"Well, I guess we're Vaughn and Brody from here on out," I said. I didn't need that kind of complication in my life.

Silence.

I tapped my fingers on the kitchen counter, refusing to speak first. Finally, he sighed. "Gina is in trouble. She bailed on rehab before her time was up. Any ideas?"

"Yes. Get her a good criminal lawyer. That is so not my area, and I've recently learned not to dabble."

I walked around my kitchen, realizing I was going to have to do a serious cleaning. The police had tromped dirt all over the place. Sadly, hiring somebody to clean was way out of my price range these days.

A bottle of Pine Sol wasn't.

Suddenly, I realized Jake was still talking. "I'm sorry, Jake, my mind was wandering. The, ah, pain from that splinter is distracting me."

Another silence.

"I'm sorry, Vaughn. I shouldn't bother you with stuff like this when you have so much to deal with. Later."

Click.

The man needed to quit babbling on and on so much.

After a pleasant evening of relaxing with the Kingsleys, and three hundred games of Go Fish, I returned to my house for a tense night's sleep. Emily and Rick had insisted I stay at their house again, and I'd been tempted. But the attacks seemed to concentrate on me, personally, and there was no way I wanted my new friends – or their children – to be caught in the line of fire.

Line of fire. God, did that sound melodramatic or what?

I tried to work up some courage, but every sound, real or imagined, woke me, and I'd bolt upright, clutching my stuffed tiger in one hand and the rolling pin I'd borrowed from Emily in the other.

She'd thought I wanted to bake something. I almost smiled at the idea, then settled in for a long night of staring at the alarmclock. A watched clock really moves more slowly than usual. By seven, I couldn't stand it anymore and headed for the shower, mind dull with lack of sleep.

Dragging on shorts and a sleeveless pink blouse, I shook my wet hair out, considered and passed on the idea of makeup, and headed for the office. If I couldn't sleep, I could at least work. Maybe I could figure out who was behind the attacks and threats.

I picked up donuts and coffee at the drive-through, more out of habit than any genuine hunger. The waistband on my shorts was a little baggy, though, and my face had looked pale. I guess being threatened daily was good for the figure. I could write a book: HOW TO STAY ALIVE AND LOSE WEIGHT IN THIRTY DAYS.

At least, I hoped the "stay alive" part would hold true.

"Oh, quit being melodramatic. If anybody had wanted to kill you, they could have. This is some kind of elaborate warning scheme," I muttered to myself.

But warning aboutwhat?

Could this really be all about hiding the BDC coverup of the defective insulin?

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