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Leaving before she said something regretful, Caroline gathered the groceries and threw twenty dollars at the cashier. She made a beeline for the exit, away from the mob of angry women, only to face another kind of danger.
A few miles down the road, the cars brakes failed and sped downhill. Unable to stop, she frantically pumped the brake pedal while passing cars, and swerving around corners narrowly missing oncoming traffic. Through tears and blurred vision, Caroline begged, “Lord, don’t let me die.”
Laying on the horn and alerting other drivers of the dilemma, she avoided a collision by veering onto a barricaded side road under construction. Hoping the snow-covered ground would cushion the fall, she bailed out just before crashing into a cluster of Ohio buckeye trees.
Hours later, “Where am I?” she asked from a hospital bed.
Kissing his disoriented and medicated lady on the forehead, Harmon said, “You’re safe now, darling. A telephone work crew found you and called an ambulance. You had a close call. Whoever cut your brake lines meant business.”
Brandishing a broken arm, she said. “I’ve never been so terrified. Can I go home now?”
“It’s best if you stay overnight for observation while I speak with David and Sheila Weland,” Harmon said. “I mulled over their statements and their alibis for October 12, don’t jive, but most things concerning this case don’t compute. I’ll be here first thing in the morning.”