For the last hour she’d sat with two FBI agents and gone over and over what had happened. She’d described the bomber’s appearance, his actions, what he’d said, and the slight accent when he spoke. Despite her nearly photographic detail of the events, she knew it amounted to very little useful information, and the FBI had finally excused themselves. “We’re free to go,” Calvin stuck his head into the room. “I have your things, and there’s a vehicle standing by to escort you home.” Lauren dug her cell phone out of her purse and was relieved that she hadn’t missed any calls. Earlier, she’d phoned the babysitter and found out that, yes, the cops were there, and, no, Aimee wasn’t going to leave until Lauren came home. Lauren was touched by the girl’s dedication. As she stood, she groaned from battered muscles that had gone stiff sitting in the chair. “How small is this escort? I’d rather not arrive home by motorcade.” “They’re being cautious,” Calvin said.
