Twenty-Seven
ABOUT FIFTEEN MINUTES later, we’re hurtling down the highway at almost 100 miles per hour, a stream of profanity and invective pouring from Helen’s mouth.
Oh, I pray that she never gets this angry at a Ladies of Charity meeting.
“What is that rat-bastard pervert Davenport up to, anyway?” Helen yells.
I take that as a rhetorical question and don’t answer.
“Does he want Chad’s killer caught or not? Because if he does, he has a funny way of showing it.”
“Darling,” I say in a vain attempt to calm her down so she’ll slow down, “I’m sure he wants whoever was responsible for Chad’s death caught.”
“Then why isn’t he being more helpful?”
“That, I don’t know.”
Helen lets out a big sigh and lets her foot of the gas. I notice the needle on the speedometer drop below 90, then 80.
