Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

“Me? Why?”

She seemed genuinely confused. “I don’t know how else to tell you this, so I’ll just tell you. The police have a warrant for your arrest in Maryland.”

“What?”

“They think you may have murdered Tom Garvey.”

Her face went white. “Tom? Tom is ... dead? Oh ...”

For a moment, I thought she might pass out. “I’m sorry. You didn’t know?”

She shook her head.

“You’re going to need an attorney,” I said. “We can talk about that later. Right now, you have to come back to Maryland. Running away will only make things worse.”

Melanie nodded, staring in front of her. “OK,” she whispered.

“Let’s find the driver, so we can get your luggage.”

“It’s up there ... on the luggage rack,” she said. “The black bag.”

I looked and found a medium-sized black bag. She had packed it solid and it took a bit of effort to get it down. She continued to stare straight ahead.

“Let’s go,” I said, tapping her on the shoulder.

“Oh.” She grimaced and blurted out, “Oh, God, I don’t believe this is happening to me.”

The two others in the bus looked at us in alarm. I ignored them and sat next to Melanie. If this was an act, she deserved an Oscar.

“It’s going to be all right,” I said, keeping my voice low and calm. She started to cry, and I put my arm around her. “Believe me, it will be OK. But we need to keep our heads. I need for you to stay strong, all right?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go to my car. We can talk on the way.”

I picked up her bag and managed to lug it down the aisle. Melanie followed me off. I looked around, blinking in the bright sunlight, trying to remember where I’d parked. Several rows from the building.

“I’ll bring the car,” I said. “I won’t be long. OK?”

She nodded. I guessed she understood. She didn’t look like she was going anywhere. I could be back with the car in no time.

As I jogged out into the lot, I realized that lifting her bag off the rack had aggravated my injuries. I was starting to feel a little tired, too. I backed my pace down to a quick walk, which still jolted my insides a little too much for comfort.

I heard it before I saw it. A car, one row away from me, moving fast, then screeching to a halt. It was the Lincoln.

My legs went wobbly, and I began to back away. One door opened, then another. A man unfolded himself from the car. The man with the scarred face. He looked right at me. I turned and ran toward the bus.

I heard the doors slam and footsteps, as well as the rev of the Lincoln’s engine as it took off. I was too scared to look behind me or notice the pain as my feet hit the pavement. My feet pounded out a bass line to the tune in my head—escape, escape, escape, escape. I came up on the bus and, without missing a beat, threw a hand up and caught the back end, propelling myself around the corner, heading toward the door, where Melanie still stood, looking at me, startled.

“Run!” I yelled.

“My bag.”

“Fuck the bag! Run!” I grabbed her arm and yanked her into motion.

We ran into the cafeteria. I looked for the cops, but couldn’t find them in the crowd. Where was the emergency exit? There had to be one somewhere.

“What are we doing?” Melanie said, sounding frantic. “We can’t just stand here.”