“Boy like you, with an expensive college degree I paid for.” She shook her head, fretful. “And here you are. No wife or kids and not much of a job, if you ask me. ‘Idle hands are the devil’s playthings.’”
He felt his face heat. “I do work, Mother. I’m self-employed. And I take care of you now, too. That’s a job in itself. I’ll be back at five to make you dinner. We’ll have spaghetti with meat sauce—how does that sound?”
Gladys remained sullenly silent. The Chihuahua growled again as Allan left through the kitchen’s screened door. He slunk across the backyard and onto the beaten path through the copse of trees. The skeletal remains of a car went unnoticed. He had much to think about.
It had been two days of uncertainty, but he’d finally begun to relax. No one was coming. According to her own newspaper, she remembered nothing at all. The potent drugs used to make her manageable and compliant had provided the very fortunate ancillary effect of erasing her mind. Allan ran again through his mental checklist, trying to figure out where he had been remiss. What careless blunder he’d made that allowed her to escape.
She had been so special to him, too.
Reaching the cinder-block building, he unlocked the door with his key, flipping on the overhead light as he went inside. Unoccupied. The redhead was rightfully gone, but she should still be here.
He’d first noticed her name bylining the articles on the missing women. His girls. Then a column had run that included her photo. He took a clipped copy from a drawer in his workbench and studied it. The window-box air conditioner behind him hummed. Here, he kept things as cool as he liked.
She was older now, of course. But even after all these years he had still recognized her. What were the chances he’d found her? And that she was a reporter, covering his…work. He didn’t believe in coincidence. It was almost as if it were meant to be.
Allan’s inner voice—the voice of reason—spoke.
She got away and you got lucky. It’s too dangerous. You have to forget about her now.
Pick someone else.
He’d gotten rusty, that was all. Too much time spent trying to keep a low profile, until his darker urges had finally won out. No more Mr. Sloppy, he admonished himself.
The morning’s paper had said the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit was being called in. That couldn’t be helped now and truth be told, it made Allan feel important.
His lips formed a thin smile as he thought of Special Agent Eric Macfarlane and the bond they had shared.
3
For the first time in days, Mia felt somewhat at ease. Will had been right—the trip out had done her a world of good. Returning home, she sat in the passenger side of his Porsche convertible, feeling the warm breeze whipping her new, shorter hair. It was a blunt cut, just off her shoulders and about eight inches shorter than her usual style.
“A good haircut is better than Xanax,” Will proclaimed, briefly studying her through the dark tint of his sunglasses as he drove.
“Thanks for lunch…and for everything else.”
He shrugged. “I’m just using you to assist in my procrastination.”
“The new book?”
“I missed my deadline. Again.” He smiled, his dimples deepening. He and Justin had kept Mia entertained at lunch with their hilarious and at times ribald stories, and afterward the three of them had strolled along the scenic Riverwalk among the tourists and joggers until Justin had to leave for a meeting. It had been a distraction technique, she knew, but she deeply appreciated the effort.
“What happened to you this week, Mia…a lot of people wouldn’t be able to get past it.” He sounded serious for the first time since they’d headed out.
She sighed. “I just need things to get back to normal, that’s all.”
“What you need is a break from what you consider normal—writing about people inflicting violence on one another.” He shook his head, his fingers loosely gripping the steering wheel. “Why don’t you take some time off from all that? And I mean more than a few days—a real sabbatical. You’ve got Grayson Miller wrapped around your finger. He’d break his neck giving it to you, and with a paycheck, probably. I don’t care what kind of shape the newspaper industry’s in.”
When Mia looked at him, he added, “You do know he’s in love with you, right?”
She watched the scenery pass by, not wanting to think about Grayson in that way.
They entered San Marco Square with its endless supply of art galleries and cafés. Everywhere, people were milling about on the narrow, tree-shaded sidewalks. Traveling past the renowned giant statue of the three lions at the square’s main intersection, they took a right and headed onto one of the side streets. San Marco was a diverse community, with multifamily apartment buildings and quaint, two-bedroom bungalows interspersed with enormous riverside mansions. Will and Justin had renovated a large, Tuscan-style manor on Alhambra Avenue accented by a terra-cotta, barrel-tile roof and graceful stucco staircases on the exterior. The former single-family residence now consisted of separate units on the main, second and third floors. Mia rented the midlevel unit and there was another tenant on top.
Parking in front of the building, they had just climbed from the convertible when a dark sedan pulled into the circular driveway behind them. A man in suit pants, a dress shirt and tie emerged. He was tall, even-featured and clean cut, somewhere in his mid-thirties, and Mia immediately summed him up as law enforcement. Her impression of him was confirmed when she saw the gun holstered at his waist.
Walking toward them, he presented his shield. “Ms. Hale?”
She felt a lump form in her throat. “Yes?”
“I’m Special Agent Eric Macfarlane. I’m with the FBI.”
Self-consciously, she smoothed her windblown hair, her instincts speaking to her. “You’re part of the VCU the paper mentioned this morning.”
“Yes, ma’am.” As he neared, he removed his sunglasses. His eyes were an unusual, moss-green color and reflected intelligence. “I was wondering if we could talk.”
The ease she’d felt during the afternoon began to ebb. With a faint nod, she made the necessary introduction. “Agent Macfarlane, this is Will Dvorak, my neighbor and landlord.”
“And friend,” he emphasized, a measure of protection in his voice. The men shook hands.
“Will Dvorak? The writer?”
“I’m surprised, Agent.” Will was often recognized for his humorous and sometimes poignant essays on his awkward childhood and adolescence. His last book had been on the bestseller lists. “I wouldn’t peg you for the type who’d read me. You’re a little too butch.”
Agent Macfarlane revealed straight, white teeth and a perfect smile. “My reading list is pretty diverse.”
After another few moments of small talk, Will seemed satisfied she was in good hands. “Well, I’ve put it off long enough. I’m going inside to face the last twenty pages of my draft. Mia, sweetheart, if you need anything…”
“Thanks, Will.” She waited as he retreated through the courtyard to his apartment on the ground level before returning her attention to Agent Macfarlane. “I’ve already spoken with one of the local agents, as well as detectives from the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office. I’m afraid there’s not a lot more I can tell you.”
“I’ve been briefed on the situation. And I’m aware of your memory loss.” His eyes fell briefly to her bandaged fingers. “How are you, Ms. Hale?”
“I’m…fine.”
His gaze was discerning. “You’re a very