Abigail
"What are the chances that Finnegan would skin me alive for this?"
"A hundred and forty percent," Annette replied, tapping rapidly on her laptop, while I scanned through the Facebook lists on my phone.
The clock at the top of my screen read 11:04. It was still morning, but I was bored out of my wits. I couldn't stay in bed any longer. My bruises throbbed, but the pain was dull.
The more we wasted time and dragged around, the riskier it was that we would lose this case.
I had the evidence now — real, damning evidence from Cole's phone — but it wasn't enough. We needed a witness.
We needed Owen Smith, and we had better find him before that scheming old witch realized we were looking for him and tried to get rid of him like she got rid of Cole.
I wondered if she had found out Gavin was dead yet. Or maybe not.
Annette and I sat on her bed. The doctor had ordered bed rest for both of us, but that was about as likely as sleeping in a burning house.
