Today, if she didn’t show by three, I could safely drive the miles to my B and B, make a dash for the bathroom, rest until five, and then return to town to take over my usual booth at Pizza Pleasures. For my evening’s entertainment I could spend the next two hours eating a small cheese pizza, chewing so slowly that the staff probably wondered if my jaws were wired shut.

There were three restaurants in Pronghorn, and two were closed for the month of January. Since Wendy wasn’t much of a cook, even if she didn’t pick up her mail, I hoped she might eventually show up at Pizza Pleasures. I would haunt the place all weekend and somehow try not to draw attention to myself.

At noon I ate the sandwich I’d picked up on the way into town. At twelve-thirty I walked up and down the sidewalk, keeping watch and keeping warm. Since I was clothed in a down parka past my hips, and my head was covered in a fake-fur Cossack hat—complete with earflaps—I was a walking fashion nightmare but impossible to identify.

At quarter to three, cars began pulling in and out of the lot, as if everyone in Pronghorn had just realized the time. At the last minute a pale green sedan parked in the lone spot stating Reserved Parking, with the familiar outline of a wheelchair beneath. That alone wasn’t unusual since the locals seemed to think that the reserved spot was for anyone suffering from split ends to an ingrown toenail.

The windows of my SUV were darkly tinted. That and new tires had sealed the rental deal. Now I took binoculars from the seat beside me and peered at the car, noting an Arizona license plate.

License plates meant little. My SUV had Idaho plates, even though I’d rented it in Nevada. Still, my heart beat a little faster, because supposedly Wendy had been in Arizona around the time of Calvo’s murder.

The woman who emerged was tall, like Wendy, but from what I could see she had short red hair mostly covered by a cute wool cap with a narrow brim. If her lavender ski jacket was real down, it was newer and more expensive than mine, sleek and tapered at the waist. Of course I’d bought everything I was wearing at a thrift shop in St. George. She had shopped at the other end of the winter duds spectrum, but certainly not any store my sister would normally frequent.

Although it was hard to guess accurately, I judged the woman was about Wendy’s build and weight. She carried herself like a model, walking with arms hanging freely, breasts jutting forward. Then, as I stared, she threw the post office door wide and marched in without paying attention to what or who might be behind her.

I opened my car door and started across the road.

Wendy handled doors the same way. Once when I was a teenager, a door she released nearly broke my nose. As blood trickled to my lip, I’d demanded to know if she ever looked behind her. Wendy found the question hilarious. She’d turned, hands on hips. “You think other people will watch out for you, Ryan Rosie? You’re still a little girl, aren’t you?”