CHAPTER EIGHT
Georgie dialled out on her mobile and rubbed her eyes. The thick fumes were irritating them like crazy.
The phone picked up.
‘Maeve. It’s Georgie.’
‘Oh, love. Have you heard?’
‘Yes. Long story, but I’m at the scene.’ She sketched what she could on Sam, then Denise, dreading the inevitable question.
‘And Irvy?’
The quiver in Maeve’s words nearly undid Georgie. She cleared the smoky phlegm coating her throat. ‘No news on Irvy or the Murrays yet.’
‘Oh, no.’
Georgie tuned into approaching sirens. The volume of voices rose around her, driving her to the point. ‘Franklin needs your help.’
Franklin clocked a car ablaze with strobes coming up Riley’s Lane. With its fluoro-yellow outlined blue-and-white chequers and high-vis lettering, the highway patrol car was designed for
