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Wednesday, 23 May 2018


     Two days later, she was getting ready to be released. Dr. Robert had given her every test  imaginable, seemed satisfied with her results and now she was just waiting for the results when the door to her hospital room creaked open. “Miss Fiona?” a man said poking his head inside. ”I’m Detective Joe. San Francisco Police Department.”
      Her heart skipped as he, dressed in dark pants and jacket tossed over a casual shirt, eased into the room. He would be full of questions. Questions for which she had no answers. Her head was clearer but images would still flicker and die, leaving her with nothing. He flashed his batch and Fiona’s heart sank.
       “Sorry to bother you here at the hospital, “Joe apologized with a deep brown eyes and a solemn, concerned expression, he seemed like a nice enough guy. He was studying her with dark suspicious eyes. “I’m helping with the investigation of the accident. I’d like to hear what you remember about what happened.” He placed a recorder on the table. “Tell me anything you recall.”
“That’s easy”, she said. “Nothing .”
“Haven’t you already talked with my Doctor?”
“Yeah, he mentioned you had amnesia.”
“It’s true, Detective and a real pain in the neck.”
“Believe me, I’d love to help you, but I just don’t know much.”
“You don’t even remember what ran out in front of you to make you swerve, if anything?” he asked
“The driver of the truck, Parteno James is barely holding on in a burn ward at a hospital across town. We’re hoping he wakes up and can remember something.”
“The poor man,” she whispered. “I’m sorry,”
“Me, too.” Getting to his feet, he fished in his pocket and placed a card on the table. He switched off the recorder and kept it in his pocket. “That’s it for today, but if you remember anything, contact me.”
“I will”, she promised.
                           *           *          *
“A hundred grand.” He was irritated as he spoke into the pay phone.
“Twenty-five doesn’t cut it.”
“Of course, it does……want her dead, a hundred grand settled”
“You’ll get your money, but you have to try harder this time around. She has to die. And it has to be an accident.
“I could go to the police.”
“Try it.”
“I will”
“Not with your record.”
“You’ll get your money, once the job’s done and done right. No fuck-ups. Got it?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
The woman god-dammed deserved to die.
“I need a number where I can reach you.”
His nose was beginning to run. He swiped at it with his sleeve and sniffed.
“No. I’ll contact you.”
The connection was lost
“You son of a bitch. You goddamned rich son of a bitch.”
He slammed the receiver down
Dealing with rich bastards usually made him thirsty.

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