Page 62 of Tell Me (Savannah 3)

s a typed scrap of paper.

Bingo!

AGMAAL was written above 8JDOM3.

He’d used his initials and occupation as his user name, no big surprise there: Alexander Gregory McBaine, Attorney at Law and the password . . . She didn’t really have time to figure it out, so she just entered the information into his computer and waited. Still, as she put in the information and was allowed into his private legal files, she wondered why those numbers and those letters. No one in the family was born in August, the eighth month, nor March, the third.

Of course not, it has something to do with his profession. An address, or some significant date . . . oh, crap. As she waited for the file folder to open, she looked at his wall of awards, to the law degree she’d just read, his Juris Doctor degree. He’d laughed about it with her, she recalled, claimed he was a JD, just like some of Elton’s friends, which caused Hollis to roll her eyes and Elton to remind his father that none of the kids he hung out with were juvenile delinquents.

She looked at the degree. The eight and three were split, but he’d graduated from law school in 1983. From Ole Miss, hence the OM. “Got it, Uncle,” she said under her breath, though she didn’t understand why she was whispering or why her ears were straining; she was certain no one else was in the house.

The documents finally loaded, and she was in. “Here we go,” she murmured, scrolling first the years and then the names. Spying “O’Henry, B.” she started to click on it.

Bleeeeeat!

An alarm sounded.

She froze. What the hell had she tripped?

Had her uncle booby-trapped his file and . . .

Bleeeeat!

Her heart nearly stopped.

No, the sound wasn’t coming from the computer.

Ears straining, she barely dared breathe. Had her aunt returned and . . . ?

Bleat!

“Oh, for the love of God,” she whispered in relief as she realized the alarm was just the dryer’s end-of-cycle signal. She’d been inside the house exactly thirty-seven minutes.

Already too long.

Aunty-Pen could arrive home at any moment, and what then? She really could be trapped up here. “No way.”

Removing the jump drive from her pocket, she wondered how many laws she was breaking. Probably half a dozen, but she kept at it, downloading all the information pertaining to Blondell O’Henry onto her portable drive. “Come on, come on,” she whispered, as time seemed to stretch and . . . Oh, no! The sound of the garage door rolling upward reached her ears.

Oh, Jesus!

Panicked, Nikki stared at the screen. Her file was still loading . . . sixty-five percent, sixty-eight percent.

She heard a car pull into the garage.

Damn!

A car’s engine purred loudly, the smooth rumble audible through the walls. Aunty-Pen’s Mercedes.

Eighty-two percent.

“Oh, please.”

The engine died.

Ninety-five percent.

Almost . . . almost . . .

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