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Colton First Responder

by Linda O. Johnston

Chapter 1

No.

The word kept reverberating through Savannah Oliver’s mind, and not only now. It had done so for days. Even longer.

That wasn’t surprising. This couldn’t be happening.

But of course she knew it was.

She looked around the bland—yet terrifying—enclosed back area of the ugly transport van that was returning her to the Arizona Prison Complex in Phoenix. From where she sat strapped onto a bench—not particularly fo

r her safety—with her back against the partition leading to the driver’s area, she glanced up toward the high, wire-meshed rear windows of the van. No way could she get out of the vehicle through those and onto the rural road, in the middle of nowhere, that they now traversed. The windows were too small—and besides, cuffs kept her hands shackled together behind her.

She couldn’t brush any of her hair away from her face. It was shoulder length and blond—and disheveled, she assumed, as it so often was these days. She couldn’t even secure it with one of the pretty hair clips she loved.

She couldn’t brush away any tears, either, but fortunately those had nearly stopped—though they threatened to begin again any moment.

Without meaning to, she looked down at her legs as she sat there—and nearly smiled in irony. At least she had been allowed to dress in brown slacks and a beige shirt for this outing, instead of the bright orange prison jumpsuit that was her usual attire these days. Her shoes were the same ones she wore every day now—casual black slip-ons.

She had just been in court. Not only had she been arraigned, but she had been denied bail. She would remain in prison—and not just the local jail because of the severity of her alleged crime—until her trial, and who knew when that would be?

But did it matter? Her lawyer, Ian Wright, had promised he’d try for bail, but he had warned her in advance that it was unlikely. She had already been labeled a flight risk, and the charges against her were serious. Very serious.

He had also told her that, notwithstanding the solid defense he would mount for her, she was likely to be convicted.

Now she sat on one of the few seats in this area of the van as it continued forward, attempting futilely once more to pull her hands out of the cuffs.

Wishing she had some way to get out of there, even if it involved somehow shoving open one of those windows and squeezing through. Better yet, if she could open one of the doors where the windows were located, and leap down onto the road.

Of course, she’d get badly injured, or worse.

But what could be worse than being incarcerated, possibly forever, for a crime she didn’t commit?

A crime that might not have been committed at all, since no body had been found.

She was accused of murdering her ex-husband, Zane Oliver. Good old Zane.

Horrible, disgusting, appalling Zane.

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