“Go ahead.”

I snap a photo of the dashboard, then angle to get a photo of Ryan, or as his friends call him, Wolf. I check the screen and see my angle didn’t quite do those arms justice, and lean back to get a better profile shot. Satisfied, I send the photo off.

Me to Sabrina: Here you go.

Sabrina: Holy. Shit balls.

Dad: Checking in. Any news on Sophia?

Me to Dad: Security video shows her leaving. Of her own volition.

Dad: A crime may not have occurred, but you can approach it like a crime. Kids don’t run without someone knowing. Find the person who knows.

Pearls of wisdom from Dr. Rolfe. Gee, thanks, Dad.

Timothy: Class went well. When are you back? Want to grab a beer?

Timothy: To go over everything?

“Everything okay?” Ryan’s question bears the hint of a reprimand. Feeling rather rude, I flip the phone over so I’m not tempted to continue texting.

“Yeah. Just my TA checking in.”

“You sent your TA a picture of me?”

If there were a table in front of me, I would duck under it. But there’s no table. I forget he’s probably got great peripheral vision. Hell, he might have read my texts.

“A friend. Guys in uniform are her thing.” He’s mostly unreadable, although there is a slight crinkle of the skin near his eye on the edge of his sunglasses.

“What’s your thing?”

“Ah…” Should I tell him I like height? It’s such a shallow thing to admit. But I do. Besides, most men who are shorter don’t have an interest in me. So perhaps it’s a learned preference.

“Your ex-boyfriends. Any patterns?”

“Academics?” I shrug. Study partners who became drinking buddies and became more.

“What about you?” The desire to slap my forehead for asking that question has my right hand gripping the edge of the seat cushion to prevent the out-of-control part of my brain from taking over and doing so.

“No type.” He rubs his nose immediately. A hand-to-face gesture. What a liar.

I shift to look out of the ocean so he can’t observe my uncontrolled smirk. He so has a type, but he doesn’t feel comfortable telling me.

“So, do you need to fly all around for your clients? Is that why you own a helicopter?”

“I fly to San Diego regularly. I’m from there.”

“Oh. Was your neighborhood like Sophia’s?”

“Not at all. I’d never been to the Sullivans’ neighborhood before in my life. No, you could pack about fifteen homes on Sullivan’s property. Maybe more. That’s the San Diego I know. Postage stamp–sized yards, ridiculous prices in what we called transitional neighborhoods, meaning there’d be a shit hole next to an oversized new build. I lived about a mile from the beach. Biked it every day. Still a good life, even in a small house without a view.”

“You must have liked it if you always go back.”

“No.” His cursory response catches my attention. “Let’s just say childhood memories have nothing to do with my frequent returns to San Diego.”