CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“You have reached the mailbox of Marlese Broussard. I am not available to take your call. Please don't hang up; leave something of intelligence, like a name, a number, or even—a message. I will return your call. Bye.”
As much as I wanted to hear my daughter’s voice and her wit, this was not the form I wanted.
“Mar, it’s me,” I said to her voice mail. “I need you to call me back immediately. It’s an emergency.”
I tried calling my house again, but the line was busy.
Bo tore down the city streets like a NASCAR driver. Cars honked at him as he cut people off and ran red lights. At one point, he had my Lincoln Town Car airborne through an intersection, and I clung to my seat for dear mercy.
“Wardell is a sonofabitch,” Bo said. “Trying to get to know us when he was the
