CHAPTER FIFTEENI peered through the peephole until the reporter and her sidekick left. Moving to the front window, I watched the two heading for an unmarked van that gave no clue who they worked for. Awesome. The man stowed his camera in the back, as the woman—well-coifed reddish-brown hair, late twenties, medium build—slid into the passenger seat, clutching her notepad and pen.
I snorted. “I don’t believe this. They have to know you won’t be willing to discuss the case.” Shaking my head, I added, “Journalists. They’re goddamned vultures. Idiots and vultures.”
Jamila remained silent, gaze fixed on the television. She’d muted the sound, but kept staring at the images. She was either inwardly steaming or taking this remarkably well.
“I guess those guys go after anything that even smells l
