CHAPTER 3
“No.” My legs felt as if they were disintegrating. “No, no.” The walls seemed to sway. Get a grip, I ordered myself. Boyd’s face was a study in misery I could not bear to contemplate. Armstrong shrugged and looked away. Helen Keene eased between the two men. She grasped my elbow firmly, then guided me toward the small striped couch in the secretary’s office.
I could not assimilate Boyd’s words. Got the drop on him. Fell … pushed down the creek bank. Schulz missing.
It was simply not believable.
“I don’t understand. Where did this happen?” My voice came out like a croak.
Wordlessly, Helen Keene, victim advocate, advocate for me, I realized dully, drew a quilt out of the Hefty bag she was carrying. Gently she pulled it around my shoulders. I was shivering uncontrollably. There
