tightly, she slowed
to negotiate the sharp turn. No monster truck bore down on her. No cliff edge
tried to drag her over. Only the severed guard rail dangling over the waves
crashing onto the rocks.
And then she’d made it past and the road turned more
inland, toward the farm.
After eating her nuked turkey dinner, she vowed to
shop for real food now that she wasn’t dependent on anyone for transportation.
Armed with the legal pad on which she’d written Frank
Tyson’s information, she keyed his number in her cell phone.
When he picked up, she said, “Mr. Tyson, this is Lani
Cameron.”
A harsh intake of breath. “What do you want?”
*****
Lani suppressed a smug attitude as she sat in the
passenger seat of Jake’s Cherokee. They headed up the East Road from the farm
in what locals called a “thick-o’fog,” typical of June’s fluky weather.
Jake showing up this afternoon as she was leaving was
no coincidence. She’d kept her research away from the nosy library volunteer’s
gaze, but Buddy outed her on the car rental. When the garage owner clucked over
her driving with sore hands, she’d said something like, “Not far, only to Oak
Mills.” If Jake figured out her plan, she wasn’t turning away the result she
wanted in the first place. Don’t look in a gift horse’s mouth or something like
that.
“Bad move to set out alone like this. Dangerous.” He
looked straight ahead, at the road, not at her.
He looked sexy as hell in khakis and a black
French-terry shirt. Brown hairs curling above the v-neck invited touching. A
scar on his face she hadn’t noticed before. His hands held the steering wheel
lightly, regardless of the irritation in his voice. He had broad hands,
calloused and sun-darkened, like his sinewy forearms.
She went on the offensive. “I could’ve driven just
fine. I drove the rental car home last night.”
He reached for her left hand and turned it palm up.
His blue gaze was direct and unflinching. “You’re still bandaged. Driving could
open the wounds.”
She snatched away her hand. “But it didn’t.”
“So now you’re stubborn and independent. You
wanted my help the other day.”
The rich timbre of his voice tripped her pulse. She
sniffed with what she hoped conveyed disdain. “I don’t want charity. You
refused, unless I’m dreaming. Oh, I guess not. Here you are.”
“Word’s around you remember things you didn’t before.
If that truck’s love-tap was an arsonist’s first attempt to kill you, I’d hate
to see the encore. Why go see Frank Tyson?”
“You have files. I don’t. The police chief mentioned
the other day the investigator was retired. I researched Tyson like I did you
and found he lived less than an hour away. I talked him into seeing me. The fire
marshal’s office won’t provide more than the final report—and apparently
neither will you—but I thought Tyson might have personal notes.”
When he didn’t respond, she went on. “Stupid of me to
object to you driving. Thanks for coming. I need your savvy about fires and
interrogation.”
On a slow grin, he tipped his head toward her hands. “Must
be hard to admit you can’t do everything. Give up some of your independence.”
She sniffed. “Only temporary.”
The DHPD had no leads on the hit-and-run. Eliminating
a few lead-footed fishermen and teens with dark-colored trucks was the extent
of the progress. She, on the other hand, had a lead. Maybe Tyson’s notes would
provide a clue. Anxiety and hope bubbled inside her.
*****
When the scene of Lani’s near disaster loomed ahead,
Jake cast a sideways glance at her.
Mouth compressed and shoulders tight, she stared
through the mist at the severed guardrail of the Devil’s Elbow as if daring it
to intimidate her. As the Cherokee took the sharp curve and passed the site, she
exhaled.
“Nerve-racking, driving this yesterday?”
“Wasn’t bad. Like getting on a horse after falling.”
“Atta girl.”
She glared
to negotiate the sharp turn. No monster truck bore down on her. No cliff edge
tried to drag her over. Only the severed guard rail dangling over the waves
crashing onto the rocks.
And then she’d made it past and the road turned more
inland, toward the farm.
After eating her nuked turkey dinner, she vowed to
shop for real food now that she wasn’t dependent on anyone for transportation.
Armed with the legal pad on which she’d written Frank
Tyson’s information, she keyed his number in her cell phone.
When he picked up, she said, “Mr. Tyson, this is Lani
Cameron.”
A harsh intake of breath. “What do you want?”
*****
Lani suppressed a smug attitude as she sat in the
passenger seat of Jake’s Cherokee. They headed up the East Road from the farm
in what locals called a “thick-o’fog,” typical of June’s fluky weather.
Jake showing up this afternoon as she was leaving was
no coincidence. She’d kept her research away from the nosy library volunteer’s
gaze, but Buddy outed her on the car rental. When the garage owner clucked over
her driving with sore hands, she’d said something like, “Not far, only to Oak
Mills.” If Jake figured out her plan, she wasn’t turning away the result she
wanted in the first place. Don’t look in a gift horse’s mouth or something like
that.
“Bad move to set out alone like this. Dangerous.” He
looked straight ahead, at the road, not at her.
He looked sexy as hell in khakis and a black
French-terry shirt. Brown hairs curling above the v-neck invited touching. A
scar on his face she hadn’t noticed before. His hands held the steering wheel
lightly, regardless of the irritation in his voice. He had broad hands,
calloused and sun-darkened, like his sinewy forearms.
She went on the offensive. “I could’ve driven just
fine. I drove the rental car home last night.”
He reached for her left hand and turned it palm up.
His blue gaze was direct and unflinching. “You’re still bandaged. Driving could
open the wounds.”
She snatched away her hand. “But it didn’t.”
“So now you’re stubborn and independent. You
wanted my help the other day.”
The rich timbre of his voice tripped her pulse. She
sniffed with what she hoped conveyed disdain. “I don’t want charity. You
refused, unless I’m dreaming. Oh, I guess not. Here you are.”
“Word’s around you remember things you didn’t before.
If that truck’s love-tap was an arsonist’s first attempt to kill you, I’d hate
to see the encore. Why go see Frank Tyson?”
“You have files. I don’t. The police chief mentioned
the other day the investigator was retired. I researched Tyson like I did you
and found he lived less than an hour away. I talked him into seeing me. The fire
marshal’s office won’t provide more than the final report—and apparently
neither will you—but I thought Tyson might have personal notes.”
When he didn’t respond, she went on. “Stupid of me to
object to you driving. Thanks for coming. I need your savvy about fires and
interrogation.”
On a slow grin, he tipped his head toward her hands. “Must
be hard to admit you can’t do everything. Give up some of your independence.”
She sniffed. “Only temporary.”
The DHPD had no leads on the hit-and-run. Eliminating
a few lead-footed fishermen and teens with dark-colored trucks was the extent
of the progress. She, on the other hand, had a lead. Maybe Tyson’s notes would
provide a clue. Anxiety and hope bubbled inside her.
*****
When the scene of Lani’s near disaster loomed ahead,
Jake cast a sideways glance at her.
Mouth compressed and shoulders tight, she stared
through the mist at the severed guardrail of the Devil’s Elbow as if daring it
to intimidate her. As the Cherokee took the sharp curve and passed the site, she
exhaled.
“Nerve-racking, driving this yesterday?”
“Wasn’t bad. Like getting on a horse after falling.”
“Atta girl.”
She glared
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