I closed the refrigerator and scanned the kitchen table. Final notices and unopened bills—Georgia Power, Atlanta Watershed Management, Scana Gas—were scattered across the table alongside my Houghton ID badge. What the hell was Sam doing with my ID badge? And right beside the badge, a small black flip phone. Sam carried an iPhone. I knew because he was on my phone plan. But a lot of folks who engage in activities they shouldn’t carry several phones, so maybe it wasn’t so far off that he would have one.
I flipped it open. It still had a bit of charge left on it. No emails. Only one text from a 614 area code. It looked like the same phone number from the email Anna had given me! The text contained several photos, all of the same man. One was a professional headshot of a middle-aged man dressed in a dark suit and striped tie. The man’s receding hairline and staged smile was like a thousand other white male faces I’d seen in legal journals and company org charts. There were other photos of the same man, one as he left the W Hotel in Midtown, another of him getting out of a town car.
I checked the phone log. Only one number there. The same 614 area code phone number. I decided to call, listen to whoever answered and then hang up. Maybe the person on the other end might say enough to lead me to Sam. I hit the redial button. The call took a few seconds to connect. An instant later, the phone rang—behind me.
A heavy knot of fear landed in my chest. Before I could turn around, I felt it.
Hard.
A sharp blow to the back of my head, landing so fast and severe that it knocked me onto the kitchen floor. The pain was quick, a hot pulsating throb rushing through my head. I heard footsteps race through the kitchen. I tried to lift my head, to follow the direction of the blow. The hard tread of a boot hit the side of my face and bashed my head into the floor again. The pain engulfed me.
“Sam!” I yelled.
Sparkles of light swirled around my head. I tried to get up, fighting against the dizzy spin of light. I couldn’t see through the blur of pain in my head. But I could hear. The footsteps were behind me. On the move again. Racing from the kitchen to the living room. I tried to get up. My legs were failing me. A lock clicked, then the hard slam of the door against the wall. Footsteps barreled out the door and down the front porch. The last thing I heard, the squeal of rubber against the road.
After a moment, I finally managed to prop up on all fours and squinted toward the living room. The front door stood wide open. My head throbbed. I crawled to one of the kitchen chairs and bolstered myself upright. A putrid wave of nausea rushed over me as I stood and stumbled to the front door, searching the street. The black Escalade was gone. My attacker had vanished, leaving me with a colossal headache and a rapidly swelling knot on the back of my head. I rubbed the spot, sending a bolt of pain through my entire body. A dull ache settled over the side of my face. Who the hell was that? Sam would never hit a woman, especially me. Maybe someone he owed money to?
I fished my phone from my coat pocket to dial 911, but stopped short. How would I explain this to the police? I came looking for my brother—the same man they were looking for. The same man I lied about and said I didn’t know. What if they asked me for a picture of Sam? They could connect it to the surveillance photos from Houghton’s lobby.
If he had something to do with Michael’s murder, I couldn’t risk being linked to him. But more important, Sam had seen his fair share of trouble with the law. If he was involved in Michael’s death, I needed to find him first and figure this whole thing out. I couldn’t just send him back to prison.
I had to find Sam.
I slid the phone back inside my pocket and stumbled back into the kitchen. Every step I took, every time I moved, my head pulsed. I rubbed the back of my head again. The knot was more painful than the first time I touched it, and bigger, too.
I scanned the room and spotted it immediately—an empty space on the kitchen table where the small black phone had been just a couple minutes ago. The phone was gone. And so was my ID badge.
Outside, the last vestiges of natural light were ebbing away. I headed out, this time through the front door. The temperature was beginning to drop. I shivered against the cold prick of wind as I ran to my car. Inside, I locked the doors and dialed Sam’s cell again. Still no answer. I couldn’t even imagine what the hell Sam was into this time. Waves of panic and dread washed over me.
Could Sam have killed Michael?
Sam was a thief. He had a criminal record a couple inches thick. He had abominable judgment when it came to picking his friends. But Sam didn’t kill people. I turned the engine and hit the seat warmer before I dialed his number again. This time I let the call roll into voice mail.