“No way, Marsh,” he said, using my name for the first time.

Had I told him my name?

The edge of the roof was ten feet behind him, and beyond it was another building. Lower by a floor, but with a break in between roofs. Had to be ten or twelve feet that separated the two structures.

Vankle took a handful of steps toward me and then turned the other way. Ran as fast as he could toward the edge of the roof and leapt through the air.

“Shit,” I said. Running to the edge in time to see Vankle’s shoulder land, and then his body hit too, right onto the concrete molding that encircled the edge of the next building over.

He stood up but was hurt, a gimpy gait as he moved his leg.

“C’mon, Marsh,” he said, taking a step backward. “Your turn.”

But there was no way I was making it over there.

We stared at each other. Vankle’s face was pocked with gravel and his hair was sweaty. My cuffs dangled from his left hand.

He limped over to a door and went inside.

I hustled down the ladder again, but by the time I got to the next building over, Vankle had disappeared.

Walking back to the gym, I saw that his Camaro was still there. I looked around. Didn’t realize that when Vankle had tackled me, we’d knocked over the water cooler in the waiting area.

The woman from the front was using the Mason Falls Register to blot up the water that had spilled, and she looked pissed when I stepped inside the place.

“What the hell was that?” she asked.

“Sorry,” I said. “Let me help you.”

The place reeked of sweat, mixed in with some sort of vinyl cleaner.

Crouching over, I wiped at the water. That’s when I saw my face on the front of the Metro Section of the paper.

The picture showed me with Kelly Borland, standing at the opening of the banquet room at the event last night. A candid, taken by some photographer.

I blinked, staring at the wet version of myself.

“Is this today’s paper?” I asked.

“It was,” the receptionist said.

In my gut, a strange feeling was tingling.

I stood up, staring at the wet photo. Turned and headed out to my truck without finishing the cleanup job.

On the way there, I found the number for Georgia Wild and Free. Rang up Will Jackson, who I’d met an hour ago.

“Hey,” I said. “It’s Detective Marsh.”

“What’s up?”

“You mentioned the woman with me in the paper. You meant Remy Morgan, my partner, right? Not sure which paper you saw the picture in.”

“I don’t know her name, but—”

“Twenty-eight?” I said. “Black woman. Straightened hair to the shoulders. Pretty.”

“The one I saw was pretty all right,” he said. “But she was white. No bigger than a minute. Brunette. Figured when you said that gal saved your life, you were speakin’ more like an expression, since in the picture you two were dressed up. Looked like a couple who might be—”