The Blood Red Indian Summer
“Mitch was standing there with an adorable little sun-browned couple who were instantly identifiable as his parents. Mitch had his mother’s dense curly hair and busy little rabbit nose. And his father’s bright, probing eyes. Happily, Mitch did not share his father’s fashion sense. Mr. Berger’s salmon-colored slacks were yanked up so high it was a wonder the man could swallow.
“Morning, Des,” Marge said wearily as Des climbed out of her cruiser.
“Back at you. Feels like I just saw you ladies ten ...minutes ago.” “It was ten minutes ago,” Mary said.
Des hopped into the van with the girl, acutely aware of Mitch’s parents watching her. “What have we got here?” “Collateral damage from that party, we’re figuring,” Mary said. “Meet Jane Doe.” Jane Doe was an African-American in her teens. She had an oxygen mask over her face and an IV tube in her forearm. She was swaddled in blankets.MoreLess
“Morning, Des,” Marge said wearily as Des climbed out of her cruiser.
“Back at you. Feels like I just saw you ladies ten ...minutes ago.” “It was ten minutes ago,” Mary said.
Des hopped into the van with the girl, acutely aware of Mitch’s parents watching her. “What have we got here?” “Collateral damage from that party, we’re figuring,” Mary said. “Meet Jane Doe.” Jane Doe was an African-American in her teens. She had an oxygen mask over her face and an IV tube in her forearm. She was swaddled in blankets.MoreLess
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