return Hewitt’s call. The investigation was over, but Trace liked the guy and knew Hewitt was taking the information hard. The embezzler was his son-in-law.
Trace had a few other calls to make, but he didn’t personally handle as many cases as he used to. These days, he could pick and choose, and since the weekend was coming up, he would probably give anything new to Ben or Alex.
Trace imagined himself stretching out on the deck of the Ranger’s Lady in the warm Texas sun, hands behind his head and catching a few rays.
He smiled.
Sounded like the perfect plan.
Two
Maggie O’Connell walked out of her newly purchased town house and headed for her red Ford Escape hybrid parked in front. She loved the car, which got over thirty miles to the gallon, loved the room in the back for the cameras, tripods, meters, lights and miscellaneous equipment she used in her work.
At twenty-eight, Maggie had achieved an amazing amount of success as a photographer. What had started as a hobby while she went to college as an art major on a partial scholarship had ended up a career.
Part of it was luck, Maggie admitted. After graduation from the University of Houston, she had managed to snag a part-time job as an assistant to Roger Weller, a renowned Texas photographer—work that gave her an invaluable education in the field and also time to shoot the outdoor scenes that had become her trademark.
Weller helped her get her first gallery exhibition, which was surprisingly well received. Several more shows followed and her clientele grew. Now her photos hung in some of the most prestigious galleries in Houston, Dallas and Austin.
Her mind on her upcoming show at the Twin Oaks Gallery and the photos she intended to shoot that afternoon, Maggie had almost reached her car when she jerked to a shuddering halt. Setting her camera bag at her feet, she reached a shaking hand toward the scrap of paper pinned beneath the windshield wiper. Very carefully pulling it free, she began to read the message.
My precious Maggie,
How long before our destinies are fulfilled? When will you understand that your fate is entwined with mine and I am the only one who can give you the peace you need?
Maggie glanced frantically around. Only two other cars were parked in front of the six recently completed town house units where she lived, a Toyota Camry and a Chevy Camaro. Both vehicles were empty. The breeze ruffled the leaves on the freshly planted shrubs in the flower beds out front, and a couple of teenagers rolled by on their bicycles. No one who looked like he might have left the note.
She stared down at the torn slip of rough brown paper, which matched the two others she had already received. She had hoped, after moving into the condo two weeks ago, that whoever had been leaving the creepy messages would stop.
She hoisted her camera bag over her shoulder, holding the note with just two fingers in case the man had left prints. She scanned the lot once more for anyone who seemed out of place, but no one was there.
Maggie hurried back inside her town house, the paper fluttering in her hand, her stomach a little queasy. Easing her camera bag to the floor, she closed the front door and leaned against it. After couple of steadying breaths, she opened her purse and dug out her cell phone and pulled up her best friend’s name.
She hit the send button, and with every unanswered ring, her anxiety grew.
Roxanne finally picked up.
“Roxy? Rox, it’s Maggie. I—I got another note. It was under the wiper blade on my car.”
Her friend softly cursed. “Where are you?”
“I’m back inside my house. I looked around the parking lot. No one was there.”
“Listen to me, Maggie. You need to take that note to the police. What was the name of that police lieutenant you talked to before?”
“Bryson. But he isn’t going to help me. He doesn’t believe me. That isn’t going to change.”
“It might. You have this note and the two you got before.”
“I didn’t keep the first one. I thought it was just a prank.”
But it wasn’t really a matter of having the notes as proof. It wasn’t a matter of the police believing her. The cops were punishing her for a crime she had committed years ago.
A crime she was indeed guilty of committing.
“I won’t go back there,” she said. “I won’t be humiliated that way again.”
A long pause ensued. Roxanne was one of the few people who knew that as a teenager, Maggie had falsely accused the high school quarterback of rape.
At sixteen, she’d been stupid and irresponsible. The truth of it was she’d had sex that night with Josh Varner, though it certainly wasn’t rape. She had encouraged the handsome football player, not fought him, but she’d been frightened of her dad’s reaction when he found out.
“All right,” Roxanne finally said, “if you won’t go to the police, go see that private detective, the guy who runs Atlas Security.”
“Who, Rawlins?”
“You have to do something to protect yourself, Maggie. You don’t know how far this guy might be willing to go. Maybe Trace Rawlins can help.”
Maggie didn’t like it. The cowboy seemed cocky and far too self-assured. Worse yet, she didn’t like the jolt of attraction she’d felt when he looked at her.
But she didn’t like the snide remarks and sideways glances she had gotten at the police station, either.
Josh Varner was the son of a Houston police officer who was now a captain in the vice squad. Hoyt Varner had a score to settle for the unfair trouble she had caused his son years ago.
In a way Maggie didn’t blame him.
“If you won’t call him, I will,” Roxanne said from the other end of the phone, jarring her back to the moment.
“All right, all right, I’ll call.”
“You want me to come over?”
“No, I’ll be fine. I was just on my way to the grocery store, but I guess that can wait.”
“Yeah, I guess it can.”
Maggie ignored the sarcasm.
“Call me after you talk to him,” Roxanne said.
“I will.”
“Call him right now. Promise me.”
“I said I would, didn’t I?”
Roxanne signed off and Maggie hung up the phone. She glanced around the town house, which was still stacked with boxes she hadn’t yet unpacked. Walking over to the breakfast bar separating the living room from the kitchen, she picked up the address book lying
