of connection with a cop was ridiculously reckless. As was talking to a reporter.
“Neither McCall nor I want to comment about Amelia,” Regan said. “Looks like you struck out all the way around, Mr. Yost.”
“More like I’ll have to wait until the next inning to score.” He took a long drag on his beer. “McCall also refused to comment about what he’d witnessed you do while the two of you were in that car, tending to Amelia. Since he’s a cop, I don’t take his stonewalling personally. The boys in blue trust the press about as much as they trust politicians and lawyers.”
Yost grabbed a handful of peanuts out of the nearest bowl, began shelling them. “Besides, you’re the story, not McCall. There might not be a lot of people in Sundown, but the ones who are here have a right to know what’s going on in their town. At present, you’re what’s going on.”
The dread inside Regan built. There was no way she could get away from Yost as long as he chose to sit at her bar. She was going to have to deal with him, the same way she’d dealt with McCall. Which, in retrospect, had only heightened his curiosity.
“All right, Mr. Yost, I’ll give you a comment. First, my heart goes out to the families of those two teenagers. Second, it’s time the Sundown city council does something about Wipeout Curve. You should research how many accidents have occurred there, find out how many people have been injured and/or died in those accidents. Your running articles on that in the Sentinel could prevent more deaths.”
Yost made a note on his pad, remet her gaze. “An exposé on Wipeout Curve won’t appease the curiosity of my readers, Regan. They want to know about you—where you’re from. How you wound up tending bar in Sundown. Why you’re doing that instead of working in the medical field.”
In a finger snap of time her thoughts shot back to Josh. Don’t you know that the less you tell someone, the more they want to know?
Until this moment, she hadn’t realized, not fully, the repercussions of what she’d done today. Having the attention of both a cop and a reporter focused on her was the last thing she needed. Both had the potential to discover she was using a fake identity. If that happened, the next logical step would be to try to find out her real name. Armed with that, the murder warrant would pop up on some computer run.
She took a slow, deep breath to try to control the adrenaline spewing through her system. She could almost feel Payne Creath’s hot breath on the back of her neck.
“You’ve got my comment.” She tightened her unsteady fingers on the rag in her hand and wiped it across the bar’s scarred, polished wood. “It’ll have to do.”
Yost tossed a couple of bucks beside his mug, flipped his pad closed and slid off the stool. “We’ll talk again soon, Regan.”
At closing time Regan dealt with her duties, then said good-night to Howie. If the cook wondered why this was the first night she’d declined to help with his janitorial chores, he didn’t comment on it. He just kept sweeping up peanut shells while assuring her he would lock up when he left.
Upstairs, she went through the motion of checking the doors and windows, then booted up her computer to see if she had an e-mail from Langley. There was nothing in her inbox from the P.I., which told her Creath was still in New Orleans.
For a year that had been enough to assure her, to afford her breathing room. Over the past twenty-four hours, she’d lost even that small comfort. She had McCall and Yost curious about her. Watching her. She could maybe get by with one or the other, but not both.
She flipped off the lamp beside the couch. The weak light from the fixture on the balcony seeped in through the French doors and her bedroom window, guiding her way into the bedroom.
There, she changed into a camisole and silky boxers. The way she’d exposed her background at the accident scene—topped by Yost’s visit to the tavern—convinced her she had to leave Sundown. Had to turn her back on the small apartment that had begun to feel like home. Say goodbye to the people she’d come to care about.
Etta, she thought, her throat tightening. She couldn’t just pack her meager belongings tonight and leave without saying goodbye to Etta.
First thing in the morning, Regan resolved. By this time tomorrow night, Sundown would be just a memory for her.
With exhaustion and despair overwhelming her, she didn’t bother to pull down the pink chenille spread, just toppled onto her bed.
Seconds later, she dropped off the edge of fatigue into sleep.
With a scream stuck at her throat, Regan shot up in bed. She sat unmoving in the inky darkness, her heart hammering.
Her trembling fingers clenched into fists, she gulped in air. Thinking she must have clawed her way up through the slippery slope of a nightmare, she tried to pull back some memory of it.
Nothing. She remembered nothing.
If she hadn’t had a nightmare, what had woken her? She shoved her hair away from her face, then glanced down. Her watch didn’t have a luminous dial, but she should be able to see the hands.
The realization hit her that she was shrouded in total darkness. When she’d fallen asleep, there’d been light seeping in the window from the fixture out on the balcony. There was no light now, just darkness.
From somewhere came a creaking sound.
Her pulse rate shot into the red zone. Downstairs, she thought, straining to hear past the roar of blood in her head. Had someone broken into the tavern? Creath?
No, she countered instantly, shoving back a wave of paranoia. Langley was watching him. If the homicide cop had left New Orleans, Langley would have sent her an e-mail.
Another creak had her swallowing a lump of fear. She slid out of bed, her knees almost giving out as she groped her way into the pitch-black living room. She felt her way to the couch, grabbed the phone on the end table. The dial wasn’t lighted; she didn’t want to waste time fumbling for buttons, so she stabbed redial.
After three rings, Etta answered, her voice thick with sleep.
“Etta, it’s Regan,” she said, keeping her voice whisper soft. “Someone’s broken into the tavern. I need you to call the police.”
“Lord, child, where are you?”
“Upstairs. If I try to leave, I might run into whoever it is.”
“You stay where you are and keep the doors locked. I’ll get the police there.”
In less than ten minutes, a car pulled to a stop at the rear of the tavern where Etta’s car and Regan’s Mustang sat parked. Inching back the sheer curtain that covered one of the French doors, Regan narrowed her eyes when she realized the vehicle wasn’t the Sundown police car she’d expected.
In the bright headlights that reflected off the tavern’s rear wall, she made out the sleek lines of a convertible. And the tall, lanky form of the driver who climbed out without bothering to open the driver’s door.
“McCall,” she murmured as the headlights went out, plunging the building’s exterior back into darkness. Her hand moved up to rub at her throat where her nerves had shifted into over-drive. Great. Just great. If she’d
