Conspiracy Girl Read Free Page B

was living in a
Veterans Association home in Arkansas and McCrory was working on the rigs up in Alaska.
    I head to my wardrobe, wondering if I should ask Agent Corbell what she thinks, but the question gets stuck in my throat. It must have something to do with Miles and McCrory. Why else would the
FBI be here?
    Now that the shock is wearing off I’ve started shivering and my limbs are stiffening up. I grab a pair of black jeans, a camisole top and a thick hooded sweater. I need to keep busy, keep
moving, keep my mind from wandering too far into dark places, dredging up memories I’ve worked hard to bury.
    Taylor’s screams still echo in my head like nails scraping down a blackboard, making me grit my teeth. The flashbacks are starting up too. I thought I’d got past that, that I’d
found a way to control the panic attacks, but now it feels as if I’m right back at square one.
    Agent Corbell turns around while I pull on my clothes and pretends to interest herself in my book collection. It’s only then I remember my iPad. There are a dozen security cameras
installed at different points in the building. My iPad connects remotely, via encrypted wireless, to a security company’s server which uploads all the video and the keycard entries for the
day.
    ‘The cameras,’ I say. ‘My iPad. Everything should be on that. Call the security company. There should be footage from the cameras!’
    Agent Corbell is already at the bedroom door. ‘Where’s the iPad?’ she asks.
    ‘I’ll get it.’ I try to push past her, but she bars the doorway.
    ‘Sorry,’ she says, giving me a weak smile. ‘We’re trying not to contaminate the crime scene. Tell me where it is and I’ll go get it.’
    Glancing over her shoulder I see that my apartment is now a hive of activity, with crime scene officers combing every inch of space. One is on his knees behind the sofa, searching for evidence
that may have fallen between the floorboards. Two more are taking fingerprints from the door and windows. A man in white coveralls is snapping photographs of the oil-spill of blood by the door.
Hugo.
I swallow hard as I notice the baseball bat has rolled across the floor, painting a crimson streak across the floorboards.
    ‘Where is it?’
    I turn back to Agent Corbell. ‘Um, it’s over there,’ I say, pointing. ‘In my bag. On the sofa.’
    She walks past the guy on his hands and knees and past a woman fingerprinting the door and alarm pad. I stare at the green blinking light. How did they get in? The alarm was on. I take a step
towards the keypad but a guy in a mask and white coveralls holds up his hand and warns me back.
    I can’t even walk in my own home. But it’s not my home any more, is it? All those efforts I made to feel safe, to create a place that was all mine, where nothing bad could happen,
were for nothing. Nowhere is safe.
    My lungs feel like they’ve caught fire. I can’t catch a breath and my mind is whirring a thousand miles an hour. I can’t stop thinking about Hugo, worrying if he’s OK.
Someone needs to call the security company and find out what happened. The panic alarm too. Why didn’t they respond to it? The armed response team was supposed to be here within three
minutes. They never arrived.
    Agent Corbell walks back over just then. ‘I couldn’t find it,’ she tells me.
    ‘How did they get in?’ I say. ‘The alarms were all set. I know they were.’ After the LA incident I was diagnosed with OCD. I’m obsessive about setting the alarms
and locking the doors. ‘How did they get in?’ I repeat, anger masking the more plaintive note of despair in my voice. I want her to give me an answer.
    But Agent Corbell just shakes her head at me in confusion. ‘We’ll look into it.’
    I look around, taking in the cracked television screen and the open door of the refrigerator, which is still being swabbed for prints. ‘What did they want?’ I ask.
    ‘You tell me,’ Agent Corbell answers.
    I frown at