Her heart nearly stopped when she saw his picture along with several news feeds, two of which had the story. As Tanisha had indicated, the news of his death was just going viral. Brianna felt hot tears rush to her eyes, if not for the man and his loss of life, then for the injustice of it all, the frustration of her own impotence. In her heart she never believed that he killed Delta and Diana, the sisters he claimed to dislike, but now it didn’t really matter. Brianna had failed him by not proving his innocence before he died.

Not just you, Brianna, but the system. The cops. The attorneys. The press. Everyone who helped convict him.

Tears streaked down her face. “They’re not saying how he died?” she said, scanning the first article.

“Not that I saw. But you can’t fit much on Twitter.”

“I still can’t believe it.”

“I know. Look, I gotta run. Still on the clock. I’ll call you later.”

“Do . . . and thanks,” Brianna said, still reading as Tanisha hung up. Once disconnected, she continued to search the Internet, but so far the details of Donovan Caldwell’s death were sparse.

But Jase possessed the resources to find out more.

She would go to him first. Then she would try the police, though she figured she would hit a brick wall there. Jase was her best bet.

So why the hell hadn’t he called with the news about Donovan Caldwell? Why Tanisha?

Granted, Tanisha Lefevre worked at a job where she was continuously on the Internet, but still, shouldn’t crime reporter Jason Bridges have access to even more information, just as quickly? Probably even faster?

“I guess you’re going to find out,” she said, dashing her tears away and packing up her laptop, iPad, and the notes she’d printed out. Though it was earlier than the agreed-upon time to meet, she decided to head to his apartment. If he wasn’t there, she would wait.

Rand Cooligan’s acid reflux was acting up again. Big-time.

Driving toward New Orleans, he kept one hand on the steering wheel of his pickup and searched the console with his free hand. He was pretty damned sure he’d left a bottle of Tums in the truck, but so far no luck. He rummaged around the rat’s nest of lipsticks, receipts, gum, sunglasses, and whatever else Barb decided to leave in his truck, his truck, and didn’t find one stinkin’ antacid. For the love of St. Mike, couldn’t she keep her crap in her own car? Wasn’t that why they’d bought the damned Ford Explorer from her cousin? So she could have her own vehicle?