Flashback

at the upper end of geographically undesirable.
The only thing she really was sure of was that Justin wouldn’t wait forever.
Alex shivered.
She had to be having a flashback to the last time she’d been here, when they’d been trying so desperately to disprove the assumption that Rainy, their beloved Rainy, had fallen asleep at the wheel and died in the ensuing accident. Why else would she feel a sudden chill, despite the fact that the temperature was a balmy, Phoenix-in-spring seventy-two?
She pulled the rental car into the left lane to pass a slow-moving gardening truck. Someone behind her had the same thought and also pulled to the left. She glanced at the truck as she passed, noting the lawnmowers in the back, and wondering about the people who insisted on having a lawn in this climate.
She smiled at the driver as she passed, silently congratulating him for managing to make a living at being an anachronism.
She eased back into the right lane so she could make the turn up ahead that would take her to the Athens Police Department. As she went, she resumed mentally running through the contents of Marion’s letter. She had it virtually memorized by now, both intentionally and from repeated readings, including last night at the hotel.
She’d left the original with her grandfather, who was going to keep it safe just in case. She’d thought it wise not to carry a copy of the letter around with her, so she’d made a list of the high points in an encrypted file on her PDA.
She slowed her speed after she completed the right turn. Building was going on here at a mad pace, as it seemed it was everywhere in the greater Phoenix area, and she wasn’t sure she’d spot the driveway she needed in time to make the turn.
Sure enough, the vacant lot next to the police station, that area of scrub and mesquite that had always been her landmark, was no longer empty. The big marquee for the new convenience store nearly obscured the small sign for the department, and she almost missed it.
A quick glance in the mirror told her she had enough room between her car and the blue sedan behind her to make the quick turn. She heard some hard braking farther behind her, and silently apologized to the driver of the gardening truck, who was now pulling over to the curb, probably to resecure something that had come loose because of her quick move.
She found a parking spot in front and was quickly out and heading for the front steps when she remembered she’d left her PDA in the car. Since it had all her notes in it, including those on Marion’s letter, she turned to go back for it.
And stopped dead, staring.
She blinked, but she knew she wasn’t mistaken. The blue car that had been behind her was stopped in the convenience-store parking lot. The vehicle was still running, dark-tinted windows closed. Angled so the driver could see the police department building, and the spot in which she’d parked her rental.
She recognized it now as the car that had pulled out from behind the gardening truck at the same time she had. As if the driver had seen her spot him, the car suddenly reversed out of the drive, tires squealing. The car rocked as the driver hit the brakes. She heard the bark of tires biting as the car accelerated hard and fast, cutting back into the traffic lane, nearly clipping an SUV that was driving decorously along in the slow lane.
In moments the blue car was out of sight.
Coincidence?
She couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t think so.
What she did think was that she had the answer to that chill she’d felt before. On some level she’d been aware of the car’s presence.
On some level she’d known she was being followed.

Chapter 4
“Just what I need, a fed.”
Alex caught the muttered imprecation, although she doubted she’d been meant to. Detective Eric Hunt—Kayla had introduced them and then sneakily decamped—looked up quickly, as if he suspected he’d spoken too loudly.
He’d be nice looking, she thought, if he ever smiled. There was something appealing about his boy-next-door looks, sandy hair and golden-brown eyes. He seemed…trustworthy, she thought. A good quality in a cop.
“Look,” he said, “I know you’re a friend of the lieutenant’s—”
“Don’t let that influence you.”
He gave her a look that told her what he thought of that piece of impossibility.
“Just,” she said lightly, “think of me as a P.I.”
She smiled. He frowned.
“A P.I.? With an FBI badge?”
“This has nothing to do with the FBI. I’m investigating an old case of yours, yes, but as a private citizen.”
She supposed she couldn’t blame him for the suspicions that showed in his expression. In his place, she’d be hard-pressed not to wonder herself.
In his place, she thought, I’d get some sleep.
He looked beyond tired. Beyond even exhausted. He looked, she realized, burned out. She’d become familiar with the look, that world-weary, heard-too-much, seen-too-much expression that could quickly collapse into don’t-give-a-damn. Once somebody hit that wall, coming back was a long, hard road many chose not to even attempt.
He leaned back in his chair. It creaked, the way just about every government chair she’d ever seen did. His cubicle was typical, small but not cramped, plastered with notices and suspect photographs, official memos and reminders.
But not, she noticed, much in the way of personal items. A postcard with a photograph of a snowcapped mountain, a snapshot of what appeared to be that same mountain and, looped over a pushpin, a long chain with a set of dog tags. She couldn’t read the name from where she stood.
“How long have you been a cop?” she asked.
His frown deepened. She guessed if she’d been anybody else the answer would have been “What’s it to you?” Instead it was a grudging, “Eighteen years.”
Long enough to burn out. And then some. “First job?” she guessed. He didn’t look over forty, even