I got off work at ten. The fireworks over the lake on the east side of the city were impressive. The reporter’s story about them—not so much so. Not really her fault. After all, there wasn’t much she could do other than interview people watching while I filmed them.
I was tired, so I decided to forego stopping at a bar for a couple of beers and headed home. As I pulled into the cul de sac, I saw two police cars, a CSI van, and an ambulance in front of Jake’s house, which is on the turnaround circle at the end of the Lane. I parked my car and walked up to see what was going on. Half the residents of the Lane were milling around, on the outside of the crime tape the cops had put up. That included Brent. I corralled him, asking, “Trouble?”
“Yeah. Jake’s dead.”
“What the f**k! You’re shitti
