She’d met the Crossmans and liked them a lot—more than she thought she would. Particularly Catherine, who had a sense of humor to go along with her sense of style.
“I’m going to work from home sometimes.” Often.
“That’s not a problem, but you need your own space here. I have a list of assistants for you to interview. I selected the top three from a large pool of applicants. I know you like to support the university, so I made sure they were all Columbia graduates. We also have an internship program with the college.”
“Good.” Maybe she and Ben would get along after all.
“What’s wrong?”
She walked around to her new desk. There was nothing on it, but that would change. She sat in the chair. Comfortable, but it would need to be broken in. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“I have some news you might like.” He pulled a letter from his pocket.
It was from Cheyenne College, the office of Stephanie Adair, addressed to Ben Lawson, Producer, Maximum Exposure.
“What?”
“Just read it.”
She did, and she smiled. “They fired the chief of campus security.”
“And implemented new security protocols related to when and how they report crimes or potential crimes to the local authorities.”
“Good.” She nodded as she scanned the letter a second time. “Good.”
“It won’t bring Scott Sheldon back.”
“No.”
But maybe the new procedures would prevent another mother from suffering the same grief as Adele Sheldon.
It would never be a perfect world. But keeping a bright light on the truth, exposing lies, highlighting evil, holding people accountable for their actions—or their inactions—would help.
“We’re scheduled to tape in one hour. You should get down to makeup and get ready.”
“Just give me five minutes.”
Ben left, and Max walked over to the window, looked out, and took a deep breath.
Today was the first day of the rest of her life, but she would never forget those who’d died. Not Scott Sheldon, not Karen Richardson, and not her best friend from high school, Lindy Ames. A case that was still unsolved, and probably always would be.
Read on for an excerpt from Allison Brennan’s next book
NO GOOD DEED
Available in November 2015 from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
CHAPTER ONE
Nicole Rollins had always been a meticulous planner. She had contingencies for almost every possible scenario, which was why she’d been able to fool the DEA for fifteen years. People were mostly predictable, and mostly fools.
Even though being arrested wasn’t in her master plan, she had a contingency, and the minute she was arraigned, the clock started ticking. Her people knew what to do and when to do it. The timeline, by necessity, had to be fluid, but when she was ready, she gave the signal and the countdown began. Nothing was left to chance, because she only had one shot at escaping and she had to get it right.
And if she got it wrong? She’d go out big and take as many of those motherfuckers with her as possible.
But she wasn’t going to get it wrong.
Today marked the end of her old life. Cliché, but true. Nicole sat patiently in the back of the federal van, her face blank. Bored. Defeated.
Boredom and defeat were the furthest things from her mind. Anticipation flowed hot through her veins.
Her feet were shackled and locked to a bolt on the floor. Her hands were cuffed in front of her and attached to a chain around her waist. She wore an orange jumpsuit—she despised orange, it made her skin appear sallow—and her blond hair was now cut short, without concern for style.
She kind of liked the short hair. After a trim, it would fun and sassy. She needed a little fun in her life after being in jail for ten weeks. She’d have to dye it darker, maybe add a few highlights, enough of an appearance change until she could hook up with a plastic surgeon she knew in Monterrey, Mexico. He was so good he’d be able to change the shape of her face and eyes just enough that the feds would be hard-pressed to identify her.
Two armed guards sat in the back, one with his back to the front of the truck, the other directly across from her. Another guard drove, and a fourth was in the passenger seat. A steel-reinforced door with a bullet-proof window separated the cab from the back. Closed-circuit cameras showed the rear compartment to the guards up front. They were being recorded, but there was no live camera feed. She didn’t care—within thirty minutes, she’d be dead or gone, and how it happened would be irrelevant.