Cast the First Stone by David Warren (i have read the book a hundred times txt) 📗

is suggesting, but maybe we missed something, so I stay silent.

However, I’m antsy, because none of this conversation hastens the suspicion that the bomber was on a timer. That he might have been nearby.

We don’t know to look at the…photographs. The photographs Eve took. This time, we can get them developed.

“This is taking too long,” I say under my breath to Burke. I dump my coffee in the trash bin and am pushing out the nearby door when I hear Burke stifle a word and fall in behind me.

We’re out in the hallway when he grabs my arm. “Where are you going?”

Because this is just a dream—a very rich, vivid dream, for sure, but a dream nonetheless, I say, “We’re running out of time. There’s another bomb out there, and we have to find it.”

Burke’s mouth opens, and he stares at me like I’ve just told him the Vikings are going to win the Super Bowl.

Burke drags me toward the men’s room. He pushes me inside, and I sort of bounce off the tile, rounding on him fast. “What’s your problem?”

“What’s yours?” Burke says. “You’re running this investigation, but instead of helming it, it’s like your mind is somewhere else. And I’m starting to figure out where. Did you get a tip that you’re not sharing with the rest of us? About another bombing? Why are you keeping the rest of us in the dark? A toddler died, Rem. If you know something—”

“Step back.” I give him a shove. “I don’t know anything.” Which, frankly, isn’t a lie. We just didn’t get that far into the investigation before the trail went cold, just like that, nothing else to go on.

We have stop him this time, because I can’t wake up to another case gone frigid. “I just…I have a hunch, okay?”

Burke’s eyes narrow.

And that’s when I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

You’ve gotta be kidding me.

I’m staring at the twenty-eight-year-old version of myself.

A very young, bright-eyed, and way-too-confident version, thanks to my New York Times bestseller run. My hair is shaggy and top-heavy, with a oh-so-90s lock over my face. I’m wearing a black suit jacket and a white shirt, but my tie—it’s wide, red and it has baseballs on it. Whose idea was this? Yeah, probably mine, but Burke is wearing a normal gray, striped number that I barely noticed.

I rip off the tie and shove it in the trash, but the next thing I notice is…I have my body back. The one I spent way too much time honing.

I liked this body.

And, I very much like this dream.

Especially the second chance I’m getting. I turn to Burke. “I just have a hunch that this is only the first bomb. And that maybe the bomber was in the crowd, watching.” I close my eyes for a second. “I need to talk to Eve.”

Burke is frowning. I still can’t get over that hair. Or that stupid soul patch.

“Eve?”

“Eve Mulligan, the CSI at today’s scene? She was snapping pictures—”

“The redhead? Danny Mulligan’s daughter?”

Yeah, the redhead. And if Eve heard Burke call her that, he’d be so very dead.

Burke is shaking his head. “You’d better stay away from that one, Rem.”

I don’t know why, but a spurt of cockiness makes me say, “Naw. I’m going to marry her.” Well, it’s true, isn’t it?

Burke stares at me like I’ve taken a hit too hard. “Right. Okay, Rem, whatever you say.”

I push past him. Because I’ve just come up with a reason to see her. And a way to stop bombing number two. I’ll get the photos, go to the next scene and simply stake it out. Wait.

Stop the carnage and get the bomber.

Unless, of course, I wake up first.

So, right now, I’m sloughing off the eerie voodoo of this dream and diving in, tasting the sweet sense of justice, of triumph.

While I’m stopping the crime of the decade, maybe I’ll also take this body for a spin at the gym, one more time. Climb into the ring with Burke, now that I know his moves. I hide a smile, wishing on stars that whatever took me down and into this dream has me out for a long winter’s nap.

“I’m going over to the crime lab to see if Eve has downloaded her pictures—”

“Downloaded?”

“Uh … developed. But first, I’m going back to the Cuppa. I need a white mocha with a berry shot.”

“A what?”

I try not to smile. “It’s coffee. Like an upgraded latte.” Oh, the nineties. “Don’t you watch Friends? Man, I forgot how sheltered you are. You need to live larger, dude.”

“Hey—”

I grin, because I’m seeing the Burke I knew, and our friendship is still intact, the sparring fun, the laughter easy. Back when he didn’t consider me a traitor.

“Take a breath, Burke. I’ll text you if I find anything.”

The frown is back on Burke’s face. Deeper this time.

I push past him, unbuttoning the collar of my shirt at the neck as I leave the restroom.

“I’m coming with you,” Burke says, on my heel.

I turn, walking backwards. “Actually, you’re not. I need to talk to Eve alone. You go back in there. Tell Booker I’ve got a lead. And keep an eye on Danny Mulligan.”

Burke stops in the middle of the hallway. “Stay away from her.”

“Not a chance.” I turn back just in time to hit the door, and find myself outside, in the glaring hot sun. A couple of Rollerbladers skate by, along with a car pumping out Puff Daddy’s “Bad Boys for Life.”

Funny how songs come back to you, as if they’d just been tucked away on a shelf.

I head around back to the lot and stand in the middle of the pavement, searching.

My car isn’t here. Sure, I rode in with Burke, in his Acura Integra, but I thought for sure I’d left the Porsche at the station.

I turn, baffled and I see Burke come out. I ignore the fact that he’s ignored me, and say, “Where’s my 911?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I hope, in the