A cell phone chirped and I nearly fell off the toilet before I realized it was ringing outside the stall.

He answered the call while I heard a stream of water and grimaced at the thought. A few moments later, it was clear he’d finished his business but continued chatting on the phone. I restrained a groan. Didn’t he know I had to report to jury duty?

“No, don’t worry,” he said. “You’re gettin’ worked up for nothing.”

Being over thirty minutes late to jury duty qualified for something to get worked up about as far as I was concerned.

“This thing will never go to trial.”

I pulled out my cell phone and switched it to silent, checking the time. 9:34. Had they already sent the police out to arrest me?

And that’s when I felt it coming. A vision. I braced myself against the side of the stall.

I sat at a beat-up table in an old kitchen. Dirty dishes spilled out of the sink and onto the counter. My left hand held a pen, a half-finished crossword puzzle in front of me.

A cat jumped onto the table, nearly bumping over an ashtray with a burning cigarette. I heard a man say, “We have nothing to worry about.”

My hand picked up a piece of food and held it toward the cat. “Don’t you worry, Felix. They’ll never figure out who that lapel pin belonged to. How many pins got dogs on ’em with a bird and a tree?” I took a drag of the cigarette, blew the smoke out the side of my mouth, then put it down and picked up my pen. My left hand, which had a long jagged scar from my wrist to my forearm, filled in the word buzzard on the puzzle. I laughed. “We’re goin’ to get away with murder.”

My vision faded and I was back in the stall. “You’re gettin’ away with murder.” I clapped my hand over my mouth in horror. Had he heard me?

I froze, straining for any sound. He was no longer talking on the phone. I placed one foot on the floor without my heel clicking, then the other—not an easy task since my heel was flopping. Lowering my head, I looked for the man’s legs and found nothing. He’d left the bathroom.

With a long exhale, I opened the stall door and hurried to wash my hands. What had I just seen?

Had someone really committed murder, and was he going to get away with it?

Then again, getting away with murder was an expression everyone used. It probably meant nothing. So why was he talking about a trial?

I pulled my juror letter out of my purse and ran out of the bathroom. I didn’t want whomever it was to come back and realize I knew his secret, if he actually had one. Besides, I was already late and hoping to avoid getting arrested. I’m sure Officer Ernie would love to give me a strip search, looking for stray rolling pins.

In my haste, I didn’t look before I exited the restroom and ran into something hard. Stumbling backward, I screamed at the top of my lungs, tripping on my broken heel, and fell to the floor as papers floated around like a sudden snowstorm.

The murderer had come back to get me.

Chapter Three

“Watch where you’re going!” a voice snarled above me.

The papers settled enough for me to stare into the angry blue eyes of a man wearing a dark suit, a white shirt and a crisp yellow tie. His dark blond hair was short but styled. He leaned down and I couldn’t help my involuntary squeak as I scooted back in fear.

“This is a courthouse, not a barroom brawl.”

“I… I’m sorry…” I stammered, caught off guard by his hostility. I reached for the paper closest to me.

“Don’t touch those!” He reached for the sheets, his shirtsleeves pulling back to reveal his wrists. No scars. He was scary enough without worrying that he was the man in the restroom.

Jerking my hand back, I got to my knees and grabbed the wall to pull myself up. “I was only tryin’ to help. No need to be nasty about it.”

His entire face puckered as he squatted. “You’ve helped quite enough. Thank you.” Even with his snotty tone, his cultured Southern accent was evident. He appeared to be in his early thirties, but his attitude and haughtiness reminded me of the women in the Henryetta Garden Club. The ones from old Southern money.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m late to jury duty—”

A throaty snort erupted. “Of course you are. Why am I not surprised?”

Indignation squared my shoulders. “It’s obvious that your mother raised you better than this. What do you think she would say, knowing you were treatin’ a lady this way? You should be ashamed of yourself. Mr…” My eyebrows rose as I waited for him to answer.

His jaw dropped halfway through my tirade and his cheeks pinkened, making him look younger and less hardened. “Deveraux.”

“Mr. Deveraux.” I pursed my lips in disapproval. Any properly raised Southern gentleman was terrified of his mother’s wrath. Especially when the combination of poor manners and women were involved. “I suggest you brush up on your manners.” I turned left and started down the hall only to realize, to my horror, I had gone the wrong way. I stopped midstep and squeezed my eyes shut. This whole morning had to be a nightmare, just a bad dream. Situations like this didn’t happen in real life.

Only, in my life, they did.

Sucking in a deep breath, I spun around and headed the opposite direction, teetering on my broken heel. With my jaw thrust forward, I tried to pass Mr. Deveraux with as much dignity as I could muster.

Mr. Deveraux, to his credit, ignored me as he continued to scoop up the papers and stuffed them into manila folders.