She pulled on a running bra, shorts and a shirt, and sat on the edge of the mattress while she laced up her shoes. After a quick stop in the bathroom, she bounced down the steps, grabbed a bottle of water on her way past the refrigerator and was out the door. The sun had not yet crested the horizon but night had faded, leaving the quiet countryside bathed in a soft blue-gray.
She jogged for the first quarter of a mile, then picked up the pace. With each step, she felt stronger, sturdier, more confident. She hadn’t been a runner when she’d lived in D.C. She’d rarely exercised, choosing to spend what little free time she had with Michael. But shortly after settling in Wyattville, she’d started jogging and lifting weights. She hadn’t been worried about her jeans zipping. She’d simply been focused on getting strong.
If Michael ever got lucky enough to find her, she needed to be both physically and mentally ready. The head stuff was harder. But she was making progress. It had been months since she’d had one of the nightmares that had plagued her when she’d first come to Wyattville. She knew she’d turned the corner when she’d dreamed that he’d found her and she—dressed like Catwoman, but hey, it was a dream—had kicked his butt.
She tried to get in three miles several times a week, generally before work. If she kept her pace steady, she could get to Wyattville, turn around and be home in time to jump in the shower and still make it to work with ten minutes to spare.
Normally when she ran, her mind emptied out. There was no room to worry about leaky water pipes or a temperamental fryer that had a touchy on-off switch. She was consumed with the cadence of her steps, the harshness of her breath, the pure thrill of pushing herself to the limit. Absolute freedom from thought. It was all good.
But not today. She was tired and edgy and felt stupid because she’d lost sleep over a broken window. It wasn’t as if she’d been robbed at gunpoint. She was getting soft. There’d been a time when crime was part of her everyday life. She’d talked about it, wondered about it and even joked about it. Most every reporter at the paper had.
Not that many would have admitted to the last. After all, everyone knew it wasn’t a joke. But in a city where even murder seemed routine, laughter was the coping mechanism of choice.
That was life B.W. Before Wyattville. Now she talked about the weather, wondered about the price of lettuce and laughed at dumb jokes that her customers told her. It still hardly seemed possible. Nel’s Main Street Café had gone on the market the week before Tara had come through Wyattville on her way to nowhere. She took one look at the cozy little diner and paid cash for it two days later. It had eaten up every bit of her savings. But somehow she’d known it was the right thing to do.
And every day for the past fourteen months, she’d been thankful. She’d had a reason to get up, to get dressed, to work hard. A reason to forget.
Although some memories were harder to shake than others. She extended her arms straight from her shoulders, automatically noting the slight difference in the length. Her arms were covered, like always. No matter how sweaty she got running or how steamy the kitchen became, she didn’t dare let people see the damage. There’d be too many questions, too much speculation. She didn’t need the constant reminder, either. Didn’t need to look at the two scars on her right arm that ran seven inches long and a sixteenth of an inch wide, crossing over each other at the bend in her elbow, to remember the pain, the absolute terror. The orthopedic surgeons had told her the pink, slightly puckered skin would continue to fade until it turned completely white some day.
She supposed that was true. Her arm looked better than it had fourteen months ago, although it was still hideous. And as crazy as it sounded, she was almost grateful for it. The injury had made her realize that ultimately Michael would kill her. It was the push she’d needed to leave her fiancé behind, to leave her life behind.
Otherwise, she’d have been one of the crime stories they reported in the early edition. Maybe one of the ones they laughed about, or shook their heads about.
She’d made a life here in Wyattville. It was a different life than the one she’d left behind, but still, a good life. And most important, she’d felt safe here.
And she still did. She wasn’t going to let a busted window change that.
The summer air was already thick with humidity, and sweat trickled down her front and back. There was barely a breeze on her bare legs. She sipped on her water bottle and pushed herself harder.
She was less than a mile from town when she saw a car crest the hill. Without breaking stride, she edged farther to the side of the road, onto the hard-packed gravel that bordered the blacktop. She’d just lifted her hand in a neighborly wave when the car swerved, gunning straight for her.
* * *
JAKE DESPERATELY NEEDED COFFEE. On his best days, he didn’t generally participate in any real conversation until he’d had his first cup followed by two or three quick refills. And he wasn’t at his best today. He hadn’t slept well. Wanted to believe it was because he’d been in a strange bed in a strange house with six weeks of duty facing him. But he suspected it had less to do with that and more to do with a strawberry-blonde with freckles on her nose and pretty green eyes.
Chase had left a brief note, wishing him well, along with keys to a cruiser that matched the car Andy Hooper had been driving the previous night. There were also a couple sets of uniforms. After waking up, he’d showered, pulled on a pair of khaki pants, a shirt that fit well enough, and buckled the standard-issue duty belt that Chase had left hanging over the door.
Now, fifteen minutes after his feet had hit the floor, he was in the car, headed toward Nel’s Café. The night before, he’d seen the sign on the door, indicating that business hours started at six and ended at three. He parked, got out, and could see that someone had turned the blinds enough that he could see inside.
The dining area was still dark. Through the service window, he could see light in the kitchen and somebody moving around. Female. But definitely shorter and heavier than Tara.
Not that he was looking for her.
He debated returning to his car to wait, but liking the stillness of the early morning, he merely leaned his back against the building. He’d barely taken three deep breaths when an old man walked around the corner.
“Morning,” the man said. He stuck out a weathered, arthritic hand. “Nicholi Bochero.”
Jake returned the shake. “Jake Vernelli.”
“Figured as much. I live upstairs, above the restaurant. Got the lowdown on you last night from my grandson, Andy Hooper. The boy should be along shortly. He meets me for breakfast most mornings.”
The door to the restaurant opened. The woman from the kitchen, wearing a white apron over her navy shirt and slacks, motioned them in. Her coarse gray hair was cut military-short and her face was lined with years of experience.
“Uh…morning, Janet. How…uh…are you?” Nicholi asked. The old man suddenly sounded out of breath.
“I’m all right, I guess,” the woman answered. She turned away, but not before Jake saw a flush start at her neckline and spread its way north, filling in cracks and crevices. And like most cops who’d been cops for any length of time, he was pretty good at knowing when the energy in the air changed. In the past few seconds, it had skyrocketed upward.
Janet had Nicholi’s coffee poured before the old man carefully lowered himself down on the second-to-last stool at the counter. He nodded his thanks and followed her
