again. She pulled me into her arms. “Everyone in this community loved Freddie. Believe me, justice will be swift.”
For both our sakes, I hoped she was right.
CHAPTER 7
Getting up the next morning was rough. Pain lit across my body like wildfire—a torturous dread so intense my bones ached. The thought of going to work without Ms. Freddie left me hollow.
I curled up in the middle of my queen-size bed, the downy fabric of the comforter pulled up over my nose, while sunlight streaked across the headboard and obliterated all chances of sleep. I rolled from the mattress onto the carpet to shield myself from the rays and listened to Ma in the next room. She was up at her usual time, 7:00 a.m., but absent were the cheerful songs she usually sang to start the day.
Her silence left me to stare at the walls covered with award-winning essays and plaques from regional Math Maven competitions. Each one prompted a memory of Ms. Freddie coming backstage to offer advice. She became better than Ma at dispensing encouragement because she never treated me like a fragile doll, and she always told me the truth.
Don’t let them underestimate you because of your skin color.
Rise above and forge your own path.
Simple words, but they sparked me to action. I got dressed and made sure her recommendation letter had a prominent place on the wall alongside the other memories.
“Angel?” Ma pushed open the door and leaned into the room. She wore a white version of the fitted Ashley Stewart suit she’d sported the day before. Her lips formed a tight pout.
“If you insist on going to work, hit the polls first. I don’t want you using that as an excuse to miss my results party.” Her mouth softened, and she blew me a kiss. “Just…be careful today. Remember, you’re all I’ve got.”
Sitting in the courthouse parking lot, I pressed an I voted sticker onto my cowl-neck sweater and mentally prepared for my first day of work without Ms. Freddie.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
My head snapped toward the sound.
Grace Tisdale stood at the passenger window, her fist poised to pound on the glass again. “Let me in.”
I hit the power locks, and she climbed inside.
The seat creaked as she shifted to make room for her gun belt. “You can’t go in that way.”
“What?”
“I was hoping you’d get here a little earlier when there were only a few of them, but now there’s no way you’re getting inside the courthouse without a hassle.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The press. They’ve been badgering everyone who goes in the building. They’ve latched onto this theory that a courthouse employee committed the judge’s murder.” She peered out the windshield like she thought people were watching us. “I asked Capitol Police—you know, Jim and those guys who do perimeter security for all the state facilities—to hang around out back a bit and keep the reporters off the workers, but all the nosey buzzards do is wander around the parking lot and come right back.”
“Don’t you think you’re overreacting? We have media around here all the time.”
“Don’t you think you’re underreacting based on what happened here yesterday?”
I frowned. She had a point, but the concept of the courthouse as a dangerous place wasn’t something I wanted to consider.
“I appreciate the warning, but I’m pretty sure I can ignore a few desperate reporters.” I put my hand on the door latch.
Grace reached over to stop me. “Do me a favor. Come around to the side of the building. We can use the judges’ entrance. The media hasn’t discovered that doorway yet.”
I studied her for a moment. Despite the twenty-year age difference, Grace and I had formed a strong friendship inside and outside the courthouse because we didn’t play the catty mind games so frequently displayed by our female coworkers.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” I asked. “You’re not seriously buying into their killer employee theory, are you?”
“Magistrate Murderer is what they’re calling them.” She scratched at the bulletproof vest that bulged under her long-sleeved polyester uniform. “Maybe. Even the worst rumors start with a grain of truth. But even if it isn’t true, do you want to spend your morning answering questions about it?”
“You’re right.” I grabbed my shoulder bag. “Lead the way.”
We stepped out of the Mustang and headed straight for the sidewalk that ran parallel to the rear of the parking lot. Thanks to my stop at the polls, I’d had to park about as far from the employee entrance as one could park without using one of the meters on Merchant Street. From our vantage point, we could see the entire intricate puzzle that was the back of the courthouse.
Eight columns of cars stretched out from the rear of the structure. On one side, York Road flanked the building. This area marked the street entrance people used when called to jury duty. There weren’t any people standing on the sidewalk by that entrance. No trials. The other side marked our destination and bordered the rear of the County Administration Building on Bickerton Boulevard.
At the head of the parking lot lay a gated loading bay and the half-glass double doors of the employee entrance. An army of reporters and four mobile camera crews milled about, blocking our safe passage.
Grace held up her hand for me to wait while she took a moment to speak into the walkie-talkie mic attached to the shoulder of her uniform.
“Tango Charlie Delta one two zero six, do you copy?”
Static popped on the mic and a raspy male voice sounded. “Copy.”
“Pull out the van. I’m trying to deliver a package. Over.”
“Roger that.”
No sooner than Grace’s mic went silent, a large blue and white striped van, with metal mesh lining the windows and the official Delaware State seal decorating the sides, backed out of the heavily gated loading bay that Trident County’s Corrections Department used to transport inmates between the prison and the courthouse. The sea of reporters I’d spotted earlier reluctantly parted to make room for the vehicle.
“Let’s go,” Grace said once the diversionary tactic had been set into motion.
We raced our way to the far side of the courthouse—the portion closest to The Quad, where the sides of the County Administration Building and the Superior Court facilities met at a right angle to create a small area recessed from the parking lot. Prominent town officials parked their cars in this area, which marked the super-secret location of the side door our judges used to enter the courthouse from the street.
Ms. Freddie’s empty parking space caught my eye as we dashed toward a nondescript navy-blue door at the side of the building. I broke pace as my thoughts drifted toward the judge’s fate, but I soon snapped back to reality at the sound
