Carter emphatically shook his head. "What vendetta could anyone possibly have against my mother? It doesn’t make sense! Who would want her dead?" His eyes narrowed. "My mother didn’t have any enemies. You know that, Jake. Could it be a random act?"
"I don’t know, Carter."
Carter’s nostrils filled with the stench of the smoldering ruins. He coughed, and then spat at the ground. "Fill me in on what you do know, Jake."
"There’s not too much at this point," he answered, pulling on his chin.
"I’ve known you my entire life, Jake. You must have a theory."
Jake was thoughtful for a moment. "I do."
"And?" Carter persisted.
His eyes slanted. "My theory is that the perpetrator knew your mother would be out this evening. He then entered the house and rigged up a device in her bedroom lamp that would detonate the moment she turned the lamp on." He paused. "After the lamp was turned on, everything just blew."
Carter grabbed the sheriff’s arm. "A bomb? Why? What could my mother have ever done to cause someone to want to blow up her house with her in it? It still doesn’t make sense."
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