"Pitch Black" - читать интересную книгу автора (Parrish Leslie)

4

Wendy Cramer had a secret. A delicious, wonderful secret.

She was in love.

She had never experienced that emotion before. Not really. She couldn’t call the feelings she had for the newscaster on channel nine love. After all, she knew him only from the TV; she’d never really spoken to him, even though he spoke to her every night at five and eleven.

This was different. This was real. And not only was she in love, but she had the feeling he loved her, too.

Most miraculous of all, he was a duke or a lord. Maybe even a prince. He hadn’t said.

Bona fide royalty.

Rafe hadn’t wanted to admit it at first, so she knew he wasn’t making things up. She’d been the one who’d focused on his screen name, who’d read between the lines of his comments in the chat room where they’d met. Only after they’d e-mailed several times had he told her the truth about himself, so used to being betrayed he hadn’t trusted her immediately.

“I can be trusted,” she whispered as she lay in her narrow bed Wednesday morning. The luxury of sleeping in on a workday had come at a perfect time, since she’d had the most wonderful dreams and would have hated for them to end with the shrill shriek of an alarm. She’d taken the next three days off from her job as an answering service operator, and was free to drift in and out between those sweet dreams and sweeter reality. Thoughts of Rafe had filled her mind, swelling her imagination since their last conversation late the night before.

She flung back the covers, not trying to hide her giggles. Her roommate, Sarah, had left two hours ago and couldn’t overhear. Good thing, since Sarah was already suspicious, asking why Wendy was online all the time and whom she was instant messaging with. Her friend found it odd that Wendy had requested the rest of the week off, using valuable vacation time so soon after the holidays.

She trusted her friend, really. But even somebody as nice as Sarah could accidentally let something slip, exposing the prince-or duke or whatever-to danger. So it was best to do as he asked, keeping their online relationship a secret from everyone for the time being.

But not for much longer. Soon there would be no reason for the secrecy. They would be together, a normal couple. She had to get over her shyness and her silly fears and do what her heart had been telling her to do. There was one step to take before they could move on with what she knew would be the most important relationship of her life.

She had to meet him face-to-face.

As she looked at her reflection in the mirror, she wondered if he would notice the few strands of gray in her dark brown hair or the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes. She hadn’t lied about her age when she’d first begun to chat with InXile in a chat room a few weeks ago. She really was in her mid-thirties, as long as you considered thirty-eight to be the end of the mids.

Besides, he clearly didn’t care about things like age or looks or the fact that she was a small-town girl at heart, still half-scared of her own shadow even after ten years of living in Baltimore.

He was patient, kind, and warm. Everything she’d ever dreamed of. The perfect man. Hers for the taking. She just had to step out there and take him.

“Soon,” she told her reflection. This vacation time had been about getting herself ready, mentally and physically. Starting with a visit to the beauty salon for a color job. Maybe even some highlights. Then a trip to the mall for some new clothes.

She had to look perfect. Even if the world could never know her love was a prince, deep down, Wendy wanted to look good enough to be his princess.

And once she was ready, she’d take a deep breath and set up a meeting with her destiny.

Last night, after completing his long second day on his new job, Alec should have gone home, had a beer, thought about how much he missed the dog he no longer had, thanks to the girlfriend he no longer had-whom he did not miss-then grabbed a bite and read over his case files.

He hadn’t. Instead, he’d had something else to focus on, something to read other than dry reports and files.

Her book. Samantha Dalton’s.

“Damn, she’s good,” he told himself as he flipped through its pages again in his office Wednesday morning. The first time, he had read it in one long sitting. Today, he’d gone over it again more slowly, making notes and jotting questions.

Alec had come from the BAU, not the Cyber Division. But he had still always considered himself pretty savvy when it came to making sure no scumbag online con artist absconded with his social security number or hacked into his bank accounts.

After reading Sam the Spaminator’s book, however, he had begun to realize he knew almost nothing about the subject she was so passionate about. Phishing, sure, he’d heard of it. But SMiShing? Pharming? Spoofing? Ponzi? Keylogging? Matrix schemes? Pump-and-dumps? The list was never-ending. And even though he didn’t see himself ever getting caught up in one, it was all too easy to see John Q. Public clicking on the wrong link and inadvertently offering some thug the keys to his entire financial life.

She was good. The book was well written and informative. But it also had a snappy, ironic zing to it, at odds with the morose woman he’d met.

She interested him, the puzzle of her life confusing. Her looks had been obvious, her personality not so much. Her loud friend had made it sound as though she was single, yet Sam had insisted on being called Mrs. Unless she had just moved in, he couldn’t imagine a recent breakup, because there’d been no sign of a man in her shoebox-size apartment crammed with feminine furniture and feminine laundry.

God help him for his moment of insanity when he realized he was sitting on a pair of her skimpy cotton underwear.

“Forget her,” he told himself as he sipped his coffee-his third cup of the morning.

But he wouldn’t forget her writing. Her book had exposed the possibilities. If the Professor really was luring his victims using the latest Internet scams, there was almost no limit to what he could do. And given the statistics Samantha Dalton quoted, there was an untold number of people who fell for these things every single day.

Would all of them drive to meet a stranger in the middle of a blizzard? Probably not. But it didn’t take all. It took only one. Or two, as poor Jason Todd and Ryan Smith could attest.

Why did they do it?

Not just Jason and Ryan, but all of the Professor’s victims. Though he wasn’t a doctor, his dual major in criminal justice and psychology, and his background in profiling, had him very curious. What had made them trust a stranger they’d met only on the Internet? And how did the unsub know who would respond to which lure? Both of those things could be very important to figuring out the identity of the killer.

In her book, Sam had mentioned interviewing a number of victims of cyber crime, as well as perpetrators. Which meant she was a step up on him in understanding the motivations of these people. Which meant she could be a big help.

Knowing it might not do any good, he still found Sam Dalton’s phone number in his notes and punched it in.

She answered on the third ring, mumbling a distracted, “Hello?”

“Mrs. Dalton? This is Special Agent Alec Lambert. Do you have a moment?”

“Sure, what can I do for you?” she said, clearing her throat. Her voice sounded husky, with an I-just-woke-up note of sexiness that his whole body responded to.

“Did I wake you?” he asked, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut rather than admit he’d been thinking about her in her bed.

“Yeah, pathetic, I know. I’m a night owl. If you’d called at three a.m., you would have heard me chipper and perky.” She sighed. “Well, maybe not chipper. And definitely not perky. Haven’t had that word used in a description of me in a long time.”

Perky wasn’t nearly a good enough word to describe her. Sexy. Wounded. Intriguing. Any of those would be much better, not that he was about to say so.

“How can I help you?” she asked with an audible yawn.

He forced away thoughts of everything but the case. “I’ve been reading your book.”

“You and every other cyber crimes nerd who wants to shut me down.”

He couldn’t contain a low chuckle. “Actually, it’s just the opposite. I’m hoping you can help me.”

He quickly explained what he was looking for, still not sure she could assist him, but unable to regret making the call. That one dig, which sounded so much like the woman who’d written the entertaining book he’d read, made it entirely worthwhile.

“So you’re basically asking what kind of person allows himself to be victimized in this way. Didn’t we talk about this yesterday?”

“I mean beyond the non-cyber-savvy, vulnerable elderly or the teenager who wants to get rich quick. I’m looking for the psychological slant, of both the victims and the perpetrators.”

She didn’t respond at first. Through the phone, he heard her moving around. A quick visual of her in that nightshirt shot through his mind, but he shut it down.

“I think with the victims, it’s an it-won’t-happen-tome philosophy,” she finally said. “People always truly believe good things can happen to them-like winning a lottery jackpot despite having a better chance of contracting Ebola. Conversely, the bad things are always reserved for someone else.”

True.

“So despite the warnings all over the news, they are still convinced they are much too savvy to be taken in by a fake Rolex hawked by a guy on the corner…”

“Or a check-kiting scam for something they sold on eBay,” he said.

“Exactly. It’s the innate desire of people to believe they’re smart that gets them every time. At least, that’s what Flynt says.”

“Who?”

“James Tucker Flynt.”

“The name sounds familiar.” He tried to place the memory.

“It should. Your agency busted him several years ago. He did five years in federal prison; now he’s locked up on state convictions in Maryland. He was a pioneer in the Internet fraud movement.” Her voice dripped disgust. “One of the founding fathers, you might say.”

He thought about it. “I think I remember that case.”

“He’d be so pleased,” she said. “He’s charming, in an aw-shucks way. You can almost see how people fell for his shtick. And the ego is something to behold.”

“You know him?”

“I interviewed him, and his attorney, when I was writing my book. Who better to reveal how these scams work and what the dangers are than someone who invented and ran them, and the man who defended him?”

“He actually talked to you about his crimes?”

“Yes. Like I said, ego. Plus I guess he doesn’t get many visitors; the warden said Flynt has turned down other journalists, but he heard I was young and attractive, so he accepted.” She sighed audibly. “I think he likes me a little too much. I get letters from him just about every week.”

“You actually went to a maximum-security prison to talk to this man,” he said, dumbfounded by the idea.

“Medium-security.”

Semantics.

He stood and stared at the stained wall of his office, the phone held tightly in his grip. Something inside him rebelled at the very thought of the beautiful, intelligent woman walking into a prison to talk to a scumbag like Flynt. But he kept his reaction to himself. “And the letters? What do they say?”

“I have no idea. I stopped opening them. In fact, just a few days ago I decided to try to get the message across to him, so I put them all in a large envelope and mailed it to the warden with ‘refused by addressee’ written on the outside.”

Okay, so she was handling the situation with the same common sense he’d seen in her book. Still, the idea that she’d gone there, started a relationship with a scummy criminal, bothered him. A lot. “Are you telling me your book was worth exposing yourself to someone like that?”

“I didn’t expose myself,” she snapped. “But yes, the project meant a great deal to me. I have a background as a journalist, and I’m used to doing whatever it takes to get the story.”

Knowing he had offended her, he muttered, “I see.”

God, he had blown this. He had let his completely unexpected reaction to her mold his responses to things that were none of his business. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. Thanks for your help.”

“You’re welcome, Agent Lambert. Good luck to you.” Her voice no longer sounded sleepy and sexy, but decidedly cool.

Yeah, he’d definitely blown it.

She didn’t ask him to call back if he needed more assistance, didn’t hint in any way that she was bothered they would likely never speak again. Which should be a very good thing. But somehow, as he ended the call and hung up, Alec couldn’t help wondering if he’d just missed out on something pretty fantastic.

After a brief, restless night, and an annoying morning phone conversation with a sexy FBI agent who had passed judgment on the choices she’d made regarding her book, Sam really wasn’t in the mood for company. Especially not male company. Still, when someone knocked on her door at around noon, her first thought was of Agent Lambert, and her pulse doubled its speed.

Her second thought was that she hadn’t put the Do Not Disturb sign up. So she might instead be getting a visit from her nosy, chatty neighbor, whose “Bal’mer” accent was so thick Sam sometimes didn’t even understand what the woman was saying.

Feeling kind of like the guy who’d opened the door not knowing whether he would see the lady or the tiger, she turned the knob. And found herself face-to-face with option three. The lawyer.

“Rick?” she murmured, both surprised and wary.

“Hello, Mrs. Dalton,” he said, stepping closer to the doorjamb, shivering a little as he tried to avoid the bitter January wind.

Let him in, her polite mother’s voice whispered in her head.

But she couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t.

Most women would probably like having two different, very good-looking men show up on her doorstep two days in a row. But not Sam. No matter how much she respected Rick Young, who’d done a great job handling her divorce, she could never get past the thought of him being privy to all the painful, ugly details of the final days of her marriage.

Sure, he was nice, and successful, and he obviously liked her. But this man had read the awful things her ex had said about her. He’d seen the disgusting pictures-vivid proof of her husband’s infidelity. He’d heard her break down and weep during mediation. He’d witnessed her at her very lowest point.

Some chapters of her life just needed to remain closed, including that one. So there was no way she could ever be comfortable getting too friendly with this man, no matter how attractive he was, with his handsome face, sandy blond hair, and solid, strong body.

“I would have called, but I was driving by here on my way out to take a deposition.” He lifted a gloved hand, extending a large manila envelope. “My assistant reminded me of this a few days ago. It’s about to expire. I wasn’t sure if you were ready to take it.”

She eyed the envelope, feeling as if she were face-to-face with a poisonous snake. Because she had no doubt about what it contained. “I told you I didn’t want it.”

“I know. I just wasn’t sure if you’d change your mind. You are entitled to this money under the terms of the divorce. Actually, you were entitled to a lot more, and you could have gotten it if you’d demanded it.”

She didn’t want her ex-husband’s payoff money any more now than she had a year ago, when their divorce had been finalized. Frankly, she hadn’t expected Rick to hold on to the certified check that had shown up a few weeks after the final decree came through.

“I haven’t changed my mind.”

“I understand. Still, you do need to be the one to do something with it.”

She contemplated tearing the entire envelope in half, check included. But she suddenly hesitated, realizing that while she didn’t want any money from the Dalton family, others might.

“Wait.” Grabbing a pen from a table by the door, she yanked the envelope from him, tore it open, and scribbled on the back of the check, not even glancing at the numbers on the front. “There. Will you make sure the Red Cross gets it?”

A small, admiring smile widened his mouth and he nodded once. “Yes, I will.” He took the check from her and tucked it back in the envelope. Then, his voice lowering a little, he murmured, “Are you doing well?”

“Fine,” she replied, steeling herself for what she knew was coming next. God, she didn’t want to come right out and tell the man why she wasn’t interested.

“I was wondering, now that it’s been a year, if perhaps we might-”

Suddenly her phone rang, and she was literally saved by the bell. Sam eyed it, then offered him an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, I’m expecting an important call. Thanks so much for stopping by-I hope that money does some good for people who need it.” Meaning it, she added, “It’s nice to have it over with once and for all.”

“Mrs. Dalton… Samantha,” he said, glancing back and forth between her and the phone, speaking quickly and obviously uncomfortable at being rushed, “would you like to go to dinner with me?”

There was no easy way out of this. No simple explanation. So she had to provide a simple answer without even trying to explain. Her tone as gentle as her expression, she murmured, “I don’t think so. But thank you very much.”

Rick stared, and she hoped he saw the finality in her face. Eventually he replied, “You’re welcome.”

Without giving him a chance to say more, Sam reached for the phone. She waved good-bye to Young as she picked it up without even glancing at the caller ID.

Noting the lawyer’s broad shoulders were perhaps a bit slumped as he walked away, she felt her heart twist. Maybe she’d been a little abrupt, but getting the message across that she wasn’t interested was like pulling off a bandage: best done quickly.

The phone tucked into the curve of her neck, she shut and locked the door as she mumbled, “Hello?”

“Mrs. Dalton? This is Martin Connolly.”

She hesitated, not placing the name.

He cleared his throat, then, with a note of irritation in his voice, added, “I’m the warden at the Maryland House of Corrections. You visited here?”

“Of course,” she said, suddenly remembering the warden, whom she had met when she’d gone to interview Jimmy Flynt for her book. The older man had been a bit pompous, a bureaucrat through and through. Flynt’s defense attorney, Dale Carter, had told her Connolly had completely turned the previously troubled facility around during his tenure.

“I’m calling about your package.”

She sank into a chair, realizing he meant Jimmy’s letters. “Yes?”

“I assume you intentionally returned them? That they weren’t delivered to an incorrect address?”

“That’s right. I’m sorry, I should have written to explain. Frankly, I wanted them out of here.”

“Very well. Before I destroy them, though, I wished to assure you that no mail ever leaves this facility without thorough screening. If you were concerned you might read something inappropriate, you needn’t have been.”

“That wasn’t it. I just needed to cut the connection. I don’t want to encourage Mr. Flynt into thinking we have any sort of personal relationship.”

“Wise,” he said. “He’s not the kind of man you want for your friend or your enemy. I think you’re right in ending any contact.” He hesitated for a moment, as if debating whether to continue, then added, “Mr. Flynt may seem harmless, friendly, and cooperative now that he’s safely locked away. But I fear he does still have substantial reach. The man has contacts, friends on the outside who might do favors for him.”

She tensed. “Favors? Should I be concerned?”

Another hesitation, as if he wanted to warn her but didn’t quite know what he was warning her against; then he said, “No, no. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. I just wanted to reiterate that I think you’ve done the right thing. I’ll destroy the letters and make sure no more are forwarded.” Another brief delay; then he mumbled, “Though perhaps it’s wise not to let Jimmy know that.”

His audible concern did little to make her feel better.

Sam thanked him, hung up, then sat down to absorb all that had happened in one short morning.

She’d had a terse final conversation with an FBI agent she couldn’t stop thinking about.

She’d refused the attention of a successful, handsome attorney.

She’d given away a small fortune.

She’d been warned that a convicted felon who seemed to have a thing for her might be keeping tabs on her from his prison cell.

All before one o’clock.

Well, there was one silver lining. All those little issues had now been dealt with, and she shouldn’t have to worry about a single one of them ever again. Which was fine by her.

Mostly fine.

Because, if she was completely honest with herself, knowing she had shared her final conversation with Special Agent Alec Lambert wasn’t fine with Sam at all.

As Lily Fletcher walked through the parking garage Wednesday evening, finally having let Brandon convince her to go home after another long day, she saw a large form lurking in the shadows. She instinctively tightened her hand around her key ring, then laughed at herself. She was at the FBI headquarters building, for God’s sake, and she was armed. Why on earth was she reacting like a woman leaving a twenty-four-hour Wal-Mart, who needed to defend herself with a sharp jab of a key?

She hesitated when she realized the person standing by her car was Special Agent Tom Anspaugh. Something big must have happened for him to stake out her vehicle.

“Hello, Anspaugh,” she said as she reached him.

“Where have you been? I’ve been calling.”

“I know.” Anspaugh had tried to reach her in her office hours ago. She’d been away from her desk. He’d also tried her on her cell. Seeing his name on the caller ID, she’d ignored it.

She had promised Wyatt she would not allow her real job to come second to any side investigations. She meant to keep her word. Besides, there was no way she would bring Brandon any further into the situation. His knowledge that she was proceeding without technically having their boss’s permission was bad enough.

Anspaugh, on the other hand, didn’t seem to give a damn whether Wyatt approved of what she was up to or not. In fact, she suspected he’d like nothing better than to think Lily was less than loyal, or that her work on the other CAT could inconvenience Blackstone’s team.

“I’ve been very busy; we’re working on a case,” she explained out of courtesy, not about to let him put her on the defensive. “That came first.”

“Oh, right, hunting up phantom killers who attack through the Internet. Is Dr. Horrible sending electric shocks via DSL to strike down anyone who touches his keyboard?”

Jerk. “What is it you want?” she asked. “Has something happened?”

“Yeah. And I want you… in on it.”

She had the feeling the hesitation between his words had been intentional. Anspaugh had never made a move on her, but she’d seen the way his stare sometimes lingered, noticed how frequently he found an excuse to touch her. Like now, as he moved a bit closer.

She intentionally stepped around him. Even if she weren’t a block of solid ice beneath her warm skin, with no interest in being close to anyone ever again, she would have recoiled from that particular touch. Anspaugh might be good-looking in a big-jock-football-player way, but she truly couldn’t stand his type.

“Lil?”

God, she hated that nickname. “What happened?”

“You know we were finally able to sift through the history of Satan’s Playground and isolate a general geographic area of Lovesprettyboys.”

Her stomach knotted, as it always did when she thought of him. “You said as much earlier.”

“He’s somewhere near Richmond, which is where we’ve focused our investigation. We’ve been monitoring message boards, chat rooms, anything that would draw residents in a hundred-mile radius, particularly kids.”

“And he showed up?”

“We think so.”

“My God,” she whispered.

He stiffened. “You sure you’re okay talking about this? I mean, with everything else?”

He hadn’t been part of the team that had investigated her nephew’s case, but he knew about it. Few people working crimes against children didn’t. It wasn’t every day that kind of tragedy touched one of the bureau’s own.

“I’m fine. Tell me what happened.”

“One we were watching was a Web site with a bunch of message boards for kids involved in a community program in Williamsburg. Sports, after-school activities, stuff like that.”

Classic pedophile territory. She sucked in a breath of freezing air, then, shivering, tugged her coat tighter.

“We’re not certain. But there have been a few comments this one supposed kid has made that sound like some things our perp said in the transcripts from Satan’s Playground. He didn’t use the same handle, of course; he’s been posting as Peter Pan.”

The boy who never grew up, who wanted only to be with his lost boys. Sick bastard.

“That’s not an ID a child would choose.” The Peter Pan fantasy was one grown men enjoyed. Certainly not seven-year-olds who were much more into superheroes like Spider-Man or the Dark Knight.

“No, I guess not,” Anspaugh said. “We can’t know for sure this is the same guy, but there doesn’t seem to be much doubt he’s a pedophile. So either way, we want him.”

“How can I help?”

He smiled down at her, as if she’d offered to do him a personal favor. In truth, she would find it hard to turn on a light if he asked her for personal reasons.

“We’ve had no luck drawing him out. One of my agents has been posting as an eight-year-old boy, but he can’t get anything started with this prick.”

“He’s going to be incredibly careful, of course,” she said. “He would never engage with someone who sought him out. Every pedophile in the country knows those sites are monitored.”

“We haven’t directly engaged him,” he said, an edge of irritation in his voice. He wasn’t the type who enjoyed being questioned or corrected.

She ignored him. “So we’d need to come up with a reason for him to seek us out. Something to draw his attention to us, over all the other kids using the site.” Many of whom were probably perverts trolling for victims themselves. At least, so thought the pessimist in her.

“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. Which brings me to my point.”

“What?”

“I checked out the Peter Pan story, read the book looking for an opening.”

Probably the first book he had cracked open since his last college English class.

“Yesterday, when I heard Cole call you Tiger Lily, it all sorta clicked.”

She immediately followed. “That name might interest him enough to say hello. As long as we’re not too obvious about casting the bait. For instance, if I post on a board he has never commented on as Peter Pan, he might not immediately suspect a setup.”

“Right.”

The idea wasn’t a bad one. No, she still didn’t see a real seven- or eight-year-old boy wanting other “big” kids to think he was into Peter Pan. However, girls might still enjoy picturing themselves as fairies like Tinker Bell, or Indian princesses like Tiger Lily.

“Wait,” she said, suddenly realizing what she had overlooked. “Lovesprettyboys is into boys. Most sexual abusers are pretty discriminating in their predilections.”

“I know.” Anspaugh fidgeted. “But it might work anyway, if he’s just trying to get in with any kid right now, hoping it’ll lead to the right type.”

She wondered if he truly believed his own spiel. Or if he had already decided this Peter Pan was not Lovesprettyboys, but wanted Lily’s help and figured she’d offer it more readily if she had a personal stake in the case.

Believing he had to manipulate her into wanting to catch a scum who preyed on children, boys or girls, said a lot more about Anspaugh than it did about her. None of it good.

Still, she would help, no question about it. If by chance this Peter Pan was the same monster she’d become obsessed with finding five months ago, when she’d first entered Satan’s Playground, all the better.

“If he responds to Tiger Lily and shows serious interest in her, we’ll know we’re dealing with someone else,” she murmured, rubbing her temple as she thought it out. “If, on the other hand, he responds and shows interest in the younger brother Tiger Lily complains about…”

Anspaugh barked an approving laugh. “I like the way you think, Fletcher. What a waste, you working for Blackstone.”

Her tone frigid, she bit out, “Another crack about Wyatt Blackstone and you can find somebody else to help you. Got it?”

He fell silent, visibly shocked by her words and the way she’d said them.

She couldn’t believe the man hadn’t noticed her loyalty to her boss by now. Wyatt had given her the opportunity to do something she truly needed to do-help solve violent crimes-in the one way she was skilled to do it: via her computer expertise. Nobody else would have given her the chance, especially not fresh off her family tragedy.

She owed him. She respected him. Furthermore, she liked him. He might leave her tongue-tied half the time, and he might intimidate her with those intense good looks, but she couldn’t deny she enjoyed being around him. She almost felt safe with Wyatt. At least, as safe as she ever felt these days.

“I had a couple of friends, good agents, who got caught up in his shit.”

“If they were good agents, they wouldn’t have been tampering with evidence.”

His scowl said she’d scored a hit. She hadn’t intended to. She merely wanted him to stop blaming the one person who’d had the guts to do something about the lawlessness he’d seen inside the bureau and place the blame where it belonged: on the lawbreakers.

“You don’t know that-”

She cut him off. “I don’t want to hear about it, okay? It’s not my fight, and it’s not yours either. Just so we understand each other.” Giving him a pointed stare, she added, “It’s been a long day and I want to go home. Are we finished?”

With a tight frown, he got out of her way. “Call me tomorrow,” he said, before she could get in, “so we can set this up.”

Lily nodded. Then, without another word, she slipped into the driver’s seat and shut the door. Not even waiting for the engine to warm up, as she always did, she backed up and drove away, leaving him standing there, watching her as she departed.