and he hoped she didn’t take it as a come-on.
“Make sure I get in okay?”
“Something like that.”
She shook her head at him. “I’m the law around here, Wolfe. If I’m not safe, who is?”
CHAPTER 5
Jordan Wheatley lived in a small A-frame cabin on the banks of Dry Creek. True to its name, the creek had not a drop of water in it when Allison’s pickup bumped over the low-water bridge and rumbled up the dirt road leading to the house. Railroad ties marked off a parking area beside a large pecan tree, and Allison swung in beside a dark green hatchback. Her Chevy shuddered and coughed when she cut the engine, and she avoided Mark’s gaze as she climbed out.
“Right on time,” she said.
Mark stood beside the car, studying it. Leaves had collected at the base of the windshield. The tires were low. She wondered if he was drawing the same conclusion she was.
He glanced up at her. “Remember, I take the lead.”
She gave a noncommittal look as the front door swung open and a German shepherd bounded out.
“Maximus, stay!”
The dog halted, his body quivering with restrained energy.
A tall woman stood in the doorway. She held acigarette in her hand and wore a baggy gray sweat suit. A thick pink scar on her neck stretched from one side to the other like a necklace.
Allison stepped forward. “Hi. I’m Allison Doyle.”
“Who’s he?” She nodded at Mark, who had crouched down to pet the dog.
“Morning, Mrs. Wheatley.” Mark stood up and walked over to the weathered porch steps, hands in his pockets, very low-key. The dog followed him. “I’m working with Detective Doyle on one of her cases, and she asked me to come along today.” He held out a hand. “Special Agent Mark Wolfe, FBI.”
She gave him a long, cool look. “Come on in,” she said at last, and held open the door.
Mark went inside. Allison followed, attempting to ease the tension with a smile.
“Thank you for meeting with us, Mrs. Wheatley.”
“It’s Jordan.”
Her house shoes snapped against the wood floor as she led them inside. Allison noticed her hair—the brunette pixie cut was matted on one side, as if she’d just gotten out of bed.
“Y’all want coffee?”
“I’d love some, thanks,” Mark said.
“Detective?”
“No, thank you.”
Jordan showed them to a large, open room that smelled like cigarettes and . . . soil, Allison thought. She glanced around the open floor plan. Casual furniture, throw rugs, a TV. Upstairs was a loft that looked out over the main room. Through the wooden railing Allison saw a king-size bed with a green comforter bunchedat the foot. If there was a second bedroom, she couldn’t see it, which confirmed her information that the Wheatleys had no children.
Jordan was on the kitchen side of the room now, pouring two cups of coffee.
“You take sugar?”
“Black.”
Jordan slid the mugs into the microwave, and Allison studied the home more carefully. She spotted the source of the soil smell—a wooden table beside the window where someone was potting herbs. Allison wandered over to it, aware of Maximus’s attentive gaze tracking her around the room.
The house backed up to a sloping hillside. Through the windows Allison saw six neat lines of trees—pear, lemon, some young pecans.
“Nice orchard.” Allison turned around. Jordan was leaning against the kitchen counter, puffing on her cigarette and watching her.
“It’s Ethan’s.” She flicked her ash into the sink. “He’s a landscape architect. Raises plants, too, to supplement things. He’s on a delivery right now.”
The oven dinged, and she retrieved the mugs, deftly handling them and her cigarette as she made her way to the sitting area. She set the coffee on the table and sank onto the couch.
Mark took his cue and lowered himself into the armchair near his mug, leaving Allison with the futon. Maximus brushed past her and plopped down at Jordan’s feet.
“So.” She took a deep breath. “You want to hear
“Make sure I get in okay?”
“Something like that.”
She shook her head at him. “I’m the law around here, Wolfe. If I’m not safe, who is?”
CHAPTER 5
Jordan Wheatley lived in a small A-frame cabin on the banks of Dry Creek. True to its name, the creek had not a drop of water in it when Allison’s pickup bumped over the low-water bridge and rumbled up the dirt road leading to the house. Railroad ties marked off a parking area beside a large pecan tree, and Allison swung in beside a dark green hatchback. Her Chevy shuddered and coughed when she cut the engine, and she avoided Mark’s gaze as she climbed out.
“Right on time,” she said.
Mark stood beside the car, studying it. Leaves had collected at the base of the windshield. The tires were low. She wondered if he was drawing the same conclusion she was.
He glanced up at her. “Remember, I take the lead.”
She gave a noncommittal look as the front door swung open and a German shepherd bounded out.
“Maximus, stay!”
The dog halted, his body quivering with restrained energy.
A tall woman stood in the doorway. She held acigarette in her hand and wore a baggy gray sweat suit. A thick pink scar on her neck stretched from one side to the other like a necklace.
Allison stepped forward. “Hi. I’m Allison Doyle.”
“Who’s he?” She nodded at Mark, who had crouched down to pet the dog.
“Morning, Mrs. Wheatley.” Mark stood up and walked over to the weathered porch steps, hands in his pockets, very low-key. The dog followed him. “I’m working with Detective Doyle on one of her cases, and she asked me to come along today.” He held out a hand. “Special Agent Mark Wolfe, FBI.”
She gave him a long, cool look. “Come on in,” she said at last, and held open the door.
Mark went inside. Allison followed, attempting to ease the tension with a smile.
“Thank you for meeting with us, Mrs. Wheatley.”
“It’s Jordan.”
Her house shoes snapped against the wood floor as she led them inside. Allison noticed her hair—the brunette pixie cut was matted on one side, as if she’d just gotten out of bed.
“Y’all want coffee?”
“I’d love some, thanks,” Mark said.
“Detective?”
“No, thank you.”
Jordan showed them to a large, open room that smelled like cigarettes and . . . soil, Allison thought. She glanced around the open floor plan. Casual furniture, throw rugs, a TV. Upstairs was a loft that looked out over the main room. Through the wooden railing Allison saw a king-size bed with a green comforter bunchedat the foot. If there was a second bedroom, she couldn’t see it, which confirmed her information that the Wheatleys had no children.
Jordan was on the kitchen side of the room now, pouring two cups of coffee.
“You take sugar?”
“Black.”
Jordan slid the mugs into the microwave, and Allison studied the home more carefully. She spotted the source of the soil smell—a wooden table beside the window where someone was potting herbs. Allison wandered over to it, aware of Maximus’s attentive gaze tracking her around the room.
The house backed up to a sloping hillside. Through the windows Allison saw six neat lines of trees—pear, lemon, some young pecans.
“Nice orchard.” Allison turned around. Jordan was leaning against the kitchen counter, puffing on her cigarette and watching her.
“It’s Ethan’s.” She flicked her ash into the sink. “He’s a landscape architect. Raises plants, too, to supplement things. He’s on a delivery right now.”
The oven dinged, and she retrieved the mugs, deftly handling them and her cigarette as she made her way to the sitting area. She set the coffee on the table and sank onto the couch.
Mark took his cue and lowered himself into the armchair near his mug, leaving Allison with the futon. Maximus brushed past her and plopped down at Jordan’s feet.
“So.” She took a deep breath. “You want to hear
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