Buried Evidence by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg Page A

fueled him. Even her brilliance and unwavering dedication to her career were commendable yet unexceptional. The world was full of intelligent women, many who were far more accomplished than Lily. As fiercely as she upheld the law, one fact would always remain. Lily had killed a man and gotten away with it. Single-handedly she had tracked down and assassinated a hardened gangster, a man with no regard for human life. In addition, she hadn’t committed her crime under the cover of darkness. She’d shot him with her father’s shotgun in broad daylight on the sidewalk in front of his own home. Faced with the same circumstances, could he have done what Lily did? He hoped he would never have to find out the answer, but how could he not love a woman possessed of such amazing courage?
    He decided he would tell Joyce their relationship was over at the restaurant. “I don’t feel well,” he said, more truth than fiction.
    “It’s probably because you didn’t eat enough protein,” shetold him. “Why don’t I heat up the takeout for you? Then after you eat, you can jump in the shower.”
    “I can’t,” he told her, holding his stomach. “My stomach’s upset.”
    “We have some Tums,” she offered. “Do you want me to get you one?”
    His skin felt clammy. He brought his hand to his forehead, feeling the moisture. Was he on the verge of suffering a panic attack? He’d never had a panic attack in his life. Telling Joyce they were finished was not something he was looking forward to, but finding himself in the eye of the hurricane again with Lily was downright frightening.
    “Please,” he said, waving Joyce away. “It’s nothing. I’m tired … just let me get some sleep.”
    “Whatever,” she said, wandering out of the room.

7
    S hana was curled up on the sofa watching television. Just as she was about to doze off, she heard what sounded like a pebble striking the window. Peering out through a crack in the drapes, she saw a man standing on the sidewalk, his face bathed in shadow. Hunching down on the sofa, she hit the redial button on the phone, listening to the series of mechanical clicks. A recording answered, stating that the cellular customer she was calling was not available.
    “Damn,” she exclaimed, kicking a throw pillow off the sofa. Her father must have turned his phone off accidentally after she spoke to him. How could he take over an hour to drive only a few blocks down the street? She decided her suspicions that he had been drinking earlier that evening had been accurate. He probably got lost. Now she had to feel responsible for sending him out in the car.
    Dropping to the floor, she crawled around the sofa to the window, not wanting the man to see her through the curtains. They weren’t even drapes, just cheap sheers left over from the previous tenants. Her eyes widened as she strained to make out his features. He was the same height and build as Marco Curazon. The week before, she’d lingered around the UCLA campus after an evening class, visiting with some of her friends. While she was walking to her car in the parking lot, a dark-skinned man wearing a red parka had followed her. He had looked almost identical to the man who had raped her. Instead of going directly to her car and taking a chance that he might follow her home, she’d been lucky enough to flag down a campus police officer. By the time she’d climbed inside his patrol car, however, the man had darted between two of the buildings and disappeared.
    Shana kept her gaze pinned on the sidewalk as she frantically dialed her mother’s number. “Are you asleep?”
    “I was,” Lily said, bolting upright in the bed. “What’s wrong? You sound—”
    “There’s a man outside!” Shana said, cupping her hand over the phone. “I think it’s him, Mom! He tried to follow me home last week.”
    “When you say him, who are you referring to?”
    “You know,” the girl answered, “Marco Curazon. He’s been out of prison for six