Dead Past

were there. Some sitting, some with their IVs, some just milling around.
    One patient looked familiar, a young man sitting with two people who were probably his parents. The realization hit her who he was. The one-handed carjacker. Then she noticed the policeman standing a few feet away. The kid was looking much better than the last time she saw him.
    “Why do you have to stand so close?” the mother scolded the policeman. “Can’t you see how injured my son is? I don’t know why you are treating him like a criminal. He is innocent.”
    She was a thin woman with a tan complexion, honey brown hair, and Gaultier clothes. The father—she assumed he was the father—clothed himself in a similar expensive fashion.
    “I ought to have your badge,” the mother said.
    “Lady, I don’t think you would like the job,” said the policeman.
    Diane tried to recollect who he was.
    “Don’t you get smart with my wife.”
    The man stood up and marched over to the policeman. The boy just smirked and looked on. Not a nice kid, Diane thought, but she had come to that conclusion much earlier when he held his gun on her.
    “When I find out who that stupid bitch is who accused him of trying to hijack her car, there’ll be hell for her to pay, and you’ll pay it with her for that smart mouth.”
    “Yeah, yeah, they all say that right before I turn the key and lock their cell. Look mister, I don’t care who you are or who you know. You take one more step toward me with that attitude and you are going to be under arrest along with your son.”
    “What is your badge number?” The father balled his fist by his side, but didn’t take another step toward the officer.
    “It’s on my badge here.” He pointed to it pinned to his shirt. “I assume a man of your standing can read numbers.”
    Diane thought he was laying it on a little too thick. It would have been her advice to keep a professional attitude. But he must have had to listen to these folks smart off to him ever since they arrived. She decided that this was not a good shortcut to take. She started to retreat when the kid recognized her. She was shocked; she didn’t think he could possibly remember her face, given the condition he was in.
    “That’s her. The director of the museum here in Rosewood,” he said.
    Suddenly Diane had two angry people bearing down on her. She really didn’t have time for this.

Chapter 12

    Diane held her ground as she watched the two angry people coming toward her.
    “Stop right there,” she said when they approached her comfort zone. “If you come any closer I’ll call the police. Speaking to me personally is inappropriate under the circumstances.”
    They took several steps forward before stopping, Diane guessed to show that she couldn’t tell them what to do.
    “So you’re the lying bitch who got our son in trouble,” the mother shouted at her. They now had the attention of all the patients and visitors in the sunroom. “Look at him, he’s maimed for life, and he’s not receiving the sympathy he deserves because your lies have the police believing he had something to do with the explosion. He’s the victim here.”
    Diane didn’t say anything. She merely folded her arms across her chest and let them talk. “Sometimes when you remain quiet and just let people talk,” her old boss from her human rights investigation days told her, “they will reveal all sorts of things. There’s a whole set of people out there who really want to confess.”
    “Blake told us how you lured him into your car.” The father said this as if it were some brilliant piece of evidence he had uncovered against Diane.
    The kid’s eyes glittered with excitement. Diane was willing to bet he was used to this—setting his parents off against people, or each other, then sitting back to watch the fireworks. A disturbed kid with clueless parents who apparently had more money than sense. Diane said nothing.
    “He was asking for help, damn you. You know he found that gun in your car. It was your damn gun, yours. He didn’t have it until you lured him into your car. He was just trying to break the window to get out. How dare you accuse him of trying to hijack your car.” His mother was speaking through gritted teeth now and her voice was a low growl.
    “So you are the director of the museum,” his father said when his wife ran out of breath. “I hope you aren’t too attached to your job. I know several members of the board and I serve on three