Lisa Scottoline - Daddy's Girl

"Help!" a woman cried. "Help, somebody!"

Nat turned on her heel reflexively, and to her surprise, an old woman was pointing at her.

"Stop that girl!" The old woman had an open cell phone in her other hand. "She keyed that man's truck! I saw it! I called 911!"

Nat froze, taking in the scene all at once. Shoppers stopped in their tracks and turned to her. The pickup driver and Graf came out of Houlihan's. The old woman hollered to the pickup driver, waving her cell phone. He and Graf turned toward Nat. Graf's expression changed after a beat, when he recognized her.

And came running at her.

Nat turned and ran for the mall entrance, its twin doors clearly marked. Shoppers walked in the parking lot in all directions, and' she bolted around a mom and a little boy with a balloon, then a flock of little girls in party hats. She blew through the glass doors like an explosion. Her hat flew off. Her purse bumped against her side. Her heart pounded with exertion and fear. She ran down a wide beige-tiled corridor flanked by Houlihan's and Jos. A. Bank. Whitney Houston sang about somebody to love. The hall ended in a glitzy fountain, and Nat veered to the right, almost slipping, then glanced back. Graf was coming on strong, closing the gap between them, knocking a man out of his way.

She flew down the corridor, past a jewelry store with sparkling window displays, looking for a way out of the mall or a store to hide in. Two women leaving Kitchen Kapers looked aghast, and Nat realized that they were seeing a terrified little woman being chased by a big burly man. Three women came out of Lane Bryant and frowned at the sight, obviously thinking the same thing, and behind them two pregnant women stood talking outside of Mother Maternity.

They were in a mall. In other words, girl country.

"Help!" Nat screamed. "My husband's trying to kill me!"

"My God!" one of the older women cried, closing ranks behind Nat. "Security! That poor woman, her husband's chasing her!"

"Stop that man! He's abusive!" The pregnant women joined the outrage. "Stop him! The bully!"

Nat screamed, louder, running down the shiny mall corridor. "Save me from my husband! He's going to kill me!"

"Watch that!”

“Look!”

“Check it. That jerk in the flannel's going to beat up his wife!" Horrified shoppers stopped to watch. Some shouted for security. Others pointed. In no time Nat had the complete attention of the crowded mall, and they were all on her side. She rounded the corner in front of JCPenney and almost plowed into a throng of teenage boys in blue football jackets.

"Guys, please!" Nat yelled. "My husband's trying to kill me!"

"Hurtin' a chick?" one of the players said.

"That's so not cool," said another, as they formed an offensive line. Still fleeing, Nat looked back to see Graf running into the football players, who tackled him to the ground. Converging on the fracas were two security officers, running down from the second level.

She was too terrified to look back again, but there was no way Graf could catch her now. A sign showed an arrow to the exit. She took a fast right and streaked down another hall, past startled shoppers. She had to get out of here. Sooner or later Graf would explain everything and call the cops. She burst through the exit doors, hit the cold air running, and darted across another busy parking lot, trying not to get hit by a car. She sprinted through the parking lot and came to a road and another building. The sign out front read, Chester County Library.

A library? They wouldn't come looking for her there. They would expect her to escape to her car, but if she did that now, she'd be spotted. She ran to the large library, which was all tan stone, modern sloping roofs, and smoked glass windows, and when she got near the entrance, slowed her pace, arranged her clothes, and slipped inside.

She exhaled in relief the moment she stepped inside, finding the hushed atmosphere a sanctuary. The library was large and modern, with a thick gray-blue carpet, a wide entrance aisle, and double-sided bookshelves down the middle. The circulation desk was on the right, with brown signs that read, Payments, Returns, and Library Cards. Patrons collected around the desk.

Nat turned right, passed the desk, and down a wide aisle, where she could see that the foot traffic was less. She ducked into the stacks to hide. Books surrounded her, and she felt at home among the plastic covers and Dewey decimal system. A line of red skulls on the spines signified that the books were mysteries, her favorite. Then she caught her breath, noticing a lineup of computers on the other side of the room. The reference section. Almost no one was there.

She left the stacks and crossed to that area, passing up rows of computers for the back of the room, where modern wooden carrels held more computers and green-bound periodicals guides. The only other patrons in the area were a gaggle of teenage girls, talking and giggling away, undoubtedly hiding out for their own reasons. Nat was short enough to pass for one of them, if she acted the part. She made a beeline for the seat next to them, took it, and hunched over the computer keyboard, keeping her face down. They were all gathered around a computer monitor, so she did the same thing, logging onto the Internet. She cruised online and giggled when the girls did, keeping her head down.

The blondest teenager was saying, "I can't believe he put that picture of her on his MySpace page because he IM'd me and told me that he didn't like her and he was only taking her to prom because he wanted to show me-"

Sitting at the computer made Nat think. She logged onto Google and typed Anjela Reynolds and Pennsylvania, and in a nanosecond, the screen gave her the results. She clicked on the top entry. Anjela Reynolds, age 76, was crowned Mrs. Senior Golfer today…

The blond teenager was saying, "I tried to IM him and you know what? He blocked me. Can you believe it? He's such a poser. So I used my mom's screen name and saw that he was online when he told me he was gonna be at the movies with his parents and-"

Nat clicked the next entry. A headline popped on the screen. CHILD KILLED IN CROSSFIRE. She skimmed the article:

The death of little Anjela Reynolds is a classic story of someone being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The only difference is that this time, the person was four years old. Little Anjela slumbered peacefully in her blue Graco stroller when gunfire broke out between rival drug dealers in front of her mother's rowhouse in Chester. Police estimate that it was the third shot that ended Anjela's tragically brief time on this earth.

Nat skimmed the article, but it didn't tell her anything about the man whose pickup bore a memorial to Anjela. She looked at the picture on the webpage. A crestfallen family at a graveside, sitting behind a tiny white coffin. A grief-stricken woman slumped on the shoulder of a man with cornrows. Nat recognized the man instantly. The driver of the pickup. She checked the caption of the photo.

Mourning baby Anjela Reynolds are, left to right, mother Leticia Reynolds, father Mark Parrat of Chester…

Mark Parrat. He was the pickup driver. Nat's thoughts raced ahead. Had it been Parrat in the ski mask, too? Had he been the one who shot the trooper and Barb? She went back to Google, typed in Mark Parrat, Chester, PA, and read the headline.

MARK PARRAT FREE ON BAIL.

Parrat, free on bail from what? She was about to read the article when she heard a commotion behind her and peeked over the girls' heads. A security guard was talking with the librarian, who was wearing a long corduroy skirt and snow boots. Nat kept her head down, praying he wouldn't see her.

The blond teenager continued. "So then I texted him and didn't tell him I knew he was online and I asked him what restaurant was he at because me and Kimmy were-"