Endangered Read Online Free Page B

“This is good?” Her brows furrowed.
    He nodded holding her glare. “Yes, it is. I really have to go.”
    â€œOkay, okay,” she said.
    As Janae walked toward the elevator, a woman sideswiped her in a rush. Janae steadied her gait.
    â€œShe’s got a gun!”
    Janae turned in the direction of the scream, toward Courtroom B. She could see the public defender she had just spoken to frozen in place through the gaps of people running toward her to get to the exits. To avoid the stampede, Janae dropped to her knees and hid behind a tall metal trash can.
    Janae could see the PD’s terror-filled eyes fixated on a silver gun brandished by the woman.
    The woman’s face was wild with rage. Her chest heaved violently. “You don’t even remember my son, do you?” the woman screamed at the PD. “How is this for routine !” The gun blasted. Blood exploded from the PD’s chest as he crashed to the floor. The woman turned the gun on herself, placing the barrel to her right temple. She pulled the trigger.
    Before her body had hit the floor, while everyone was still screaming, Janae made a mad dash out of the building. She quickly fought her way through the crowd. The cold air felt good on her face. Oh my God. Malik .

Chapter Four
    JANAE CALLED IN SICK AT HER JOB. SHE WAS DEVASTATED BY WHAT SHE’D witnessed at the courthouse. Since leaving the courthouse she could not stop shaking and crying. Noise of any kind pierced through her head and ran down her spine. Every sound resembled a gunshot and caused a burning in her stomach. She paced around her cramped apartment, half thinking about the CPHR’s call, but mostly missing Malik.
    Janae picked up Malik’s Xbox and played with one of the controllers. She held it close to her chest, thinking it was quite possibly one of the last things he’d touched in their home. He had on a few occasions played with it with so much intensity that the tenant below banged on her ceiling to get him to tone it down. It worked for about a minute, if that, and then he was right back to his loud roughhousing. She would tease him that maybe he should get a paycheck for how he played the thing.
    One of Malik’s jackets was still hanging from a kitchen chair; that’s where he would put it when he was just making a pit stop before going out again.
    She avoided his bedroom.
    The phone finally rang.
    â€œHello,” she said tentatively.
    â€œIs Janae Williams available?”
    â€œThat’s me.”
    â€œI am calling from the Center for the Protection of Human Rights. My name is Margaret Banks,” the woman said, then paused. She had a forceful voice, with a slight rattle. “I am calling on behalf of Attorney Roger Whitford. Mr. Whitford would like to get you into our office ASAP to discuss your son’s case.”
    â€œI’m sorry, when does he want to see me? And did you say your name was Margaret Banks?”
    â€œYes, Margaret Banks. You can call me Margaret. I am the office administrator, among other things, here at the Center for the Protection of Human Rights. Mr. Whitford needs to see you ASAP—you know, immediately. Within the next twenty-four hours, preferably.”
    Janae’s mind was spinning with many questions. “Can you tell me why my son’s case was continued today? Why is your office trying to take over his case?”
    â€œWell, Ms. Williams, that’s what the appointment is for. Mr. Whitford will explain everything. Do you have pen and paper to write down some info?”
    â€œOh, oh . . . yes.” She moved quickly to her junk drawer next to the refrigerator. She yanked on it, nearly pulling it off its broken bracket. Janae sighed. Just one more thing the landlord refused to fix. She tossed aside lost game pieces, a scratched-out grocery list, paper clips, and buttons as she searched for a pen. Her eyes fell upon an old photo of Malik. It was half buried under a