Flash Point. Metsy Hingle

the beads. And without warning, the world seemed to spin out from beneath her. Suddenly she was no longer sitting in Peter’s law office. Instead, she was in an empty church—no, a chapel—she realized as she looked around at her surroundings.

      And then she saw Sister Grace. Kelly’s heart stopped as she realized the rosary had connected her to the nun. And there was Sister Grace, kneeling in the pew, her head bowed and her rosary beads in her hands.

      “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst all women, and blessed art—” Sister Grace stopped mid-prayer and started to turn around.

      “No! Don’t turn around, Sister,” a woman’s voice said from behind her.

      A flicker of anger raced through her blood. “What are you doing here?” the nun demanded.

      “This is a church, Sister. I thought everyone was welcome.”

      “This is a chapel and the evening services are over,” the nun countered. “What do you want?”

      “Maybe I want to pray. Since God has seen fit to throw this nasty little surprise at me and mess up my life, I thought maybe if I prayed real hard, He’d make the problem go away. What do you think, Sister? Will God listen to my prayers?”

      “God hears all of our prayers.”

      “Ah, but the question is does He answer them?”

      “He answers them. But the answer isn’t necessarily the one we want,” Sister Grace replied.

      “I guess that means you haven’t changed your mind about giving me her name.”

      “I’ve told you, your information is wrong. I can’t help you.”

      “That’s what I thought you’d say. And since I can’t risk having you warn her about me, I’m afraid I have no choice but to make sure that you keep quiet.”

      And before Sister Grace could move, the woman plunged a needle into her neck.

      “Kelly? Kelly, are you all right?”

      Kelly dropped the rosary. She felt the world spinning beneath her once more. And then someone was gripping her by the shoulders, calling her name. She blinked, tried to regain her balance. Finally when she was able to focus, she saw Peter standing in front of her, a worried expression on his face.

      “Are you okay?”

      “Yes,” she told him. “I’m fine.”

      “You don’t look fine,” he informed her. He picked up the rosary, returned it to the pouch and handed it to her. “You want to tell me what happened just now?”

      “What do you mean?” she asked, unsure of what she had said, what she had done.

      “One minute you were holding that rosary and the next minute you seemed to…to zone out.

      “I can’t explain it. And you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” After stuffing the pouch with the rosary into her bag she stood, eager to leave. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

      “Kelly, are you sure you’re all right? You’re as white as a ghost.”

      “I’m okay. Really,” she assured him. “Thank you for everything, Peter,” she said, and after shaking his hand, she raced out of the office.

      Once she stepped outside into the cool November air, Kelly attempted to hail a taxi while she digested what she had just learned.

      Sister Grace hadn’t died of a heart attack. Someone had murdered her.

      Anger churned in Kelly’s stomach as she recalled the nun’s last moments and her fear. Somehow, some way, she had to find out who was responsible. She owed Sister Grace that much.

      Five

      After being briefed that no arrest had yet been made in connection with the city’s latest murder victim, and the police department’s only lead was a self-proclaimed psychic, District Attorney Alexander Kusak sighed as he climbed the steps of City Hall. Just what he needed, he thought and wondered for the thousandth time what had ever possessed him to take this job.

      But he already knew the answer. Tom Callaghan had been the reason. The man had taken the badass punk, with a chip on his shoulder, under his wing. Mr. Callaghan had made him believe he could be someone who could make a difference. And most of the time, he admitted, he felt that he did make a difference. He just wished that taking the job hadn’t come with the price of his privacy and, in particular, revealing his past. A past that included having a drunk and a whore for parents. Although he’d made something of himself and his life that he was proud of, having all that garbage dug up during the campaign last year had opened old wounds. It had also caused him to see himself through other’s eyes—through Meredith’s eyes. He hadn’t liked what he’d seen. It was the reason he had pushed Meredith away. And she’d done what he’d expected—she’d run off. Again. Only now she’d come back and was making noises like she intended to stay.

      Alex started down the nearly deserted hallway toward his office. And when he stepped through the doors and spied all the empty desks, he headed for Edna’s station. “Where is everybody, Eddie?”

      Edna Boudreaux, the stalwart office manager he’d inherited when he’d taken the office last year, glanced up from the reports on her desk. The woman did a hell of a job. She’d run the office for the retired D.A. for more than twenty years. Alex had been only too happy to keep her on since she knew anyone and everyone, and could cut through bureaucratic red tape faster than a hot knife through butter. He’d also never met a more dedicated employee. But damn if he didn’t feel like a punk running from the law again whenever she looked up at him with that “what have you been up to” expression on her face.

      The way she was looking at him now.

      “It’s lunchtime, Mr. Kusak. They’re at lunch. As am I,” she advised him, referring to the sandwich and pickle slices that sat next to the reports. “And I really do wish you would dispense with that ridiculous nickname. My name is Edna or Mrs. Boudreaux. Not Eddie.”

      Alex sat on the corner of her desk, helped himself to one of her pickle slices. “Come on, Eddie. Didn’t the late Mr. Boudreaux ever call you anything but Edna?”

      She waited a moment, then said, “He called me Buttercup.”

      Alex bit back a grin. With her tidy bun, granny glasses and prim suits, he couldn’t imagine Mrs. Boudreaux as anyone’s Buttercup. “I think I like Eddie better.”

      “So you’ve said, Mr. Kusak.”

      Alex sighed. Even after working side by side for nearly a year, the lady refused to call him by his first name. As she’d informed him when he’d first suggested she do so, she’d never called the former D.A. anything but “Mr. Newman” in the entire twenty years she’d worked for him. She saw no reason to resort to any such familiarity now. And though he doubted she’d admit it, he had a feeling he was growing on her. “You know, Eddie, one of these days you’re going to slip and call me ‘Alex,’ and when that happens our secret’s going to be out.”

      “And what secret would that be, Mr. Kusak?”

      “Why that we’re madly in love with each other.”

      “If you’re finished talking nonsense, why don’t you tell me what it is you wanted.”

      Alex flashed her a grin. “I need to get a brief typed,” he began, and proceeded to explain what was needed. As he spoke, he loosened his tie. Despite eight years in the D.A.’s office, first as an assistant and now as the district attorney, he still hated wearing the things. He might have come a long way from his days on the opposite side of the law, but he’d never gotten used to being trussed up like a turkey with a scrap of cloth choking him. “Do you think you can get it finished for me to take to court in say, forty minutes?”

      Mrs.