Caitlin placed the car in gear. “So sorry.”

“No worries, I feel like a dork for sneaking up on you.”

She wondered if the smile she summoned looked as unnatural as his. “Thanks for the directions and the rest stop.”

“Anytime. Stay safe.” He wheeled himself away from the car.

Caitlin pulled out and drove toward the soccer fields. After fifteen minutes of muttering to herself and staring at grass, she retreated to Mary’s guesthouse.

Chapter 41

CHAPTER

41

ALMOST NOON, CAITLIN grabbed her tennis shoes and ran from her mistake. Her app chimed at the one-mile marker. She did twenty push-ups, started mile two. A block south of the main strip, smells from nearby restaurants called to her. She dug deeper, hit the town square, did another twenty push-ups. She popped back up, headed south. Traffic was light, the sky was blue, and no one but David Amireau and her knew how close she’d come to blowing everything. Her mile three chime came earlier than expected. Apparently, rage took a minute off her usual time. More push-ups, then a turn down a residential street. She’d only planned to run three miles but didn’t stop until number five.

Forty-nine minutes. Not her best, but a solid effort.

Fifty feet from the guesthouse, she saw Jerry Greenwood leave the front porch and walk to a sedan.

She jogged closer. “What’d I do now?”

He smiled. “Thought I missed you.”

“What’s up?” She met him by the car, checked the passenger seat, no Maverick.

“Needed to blow off a little steam,” he said. “Looks like you just did.”

Caitlin wiped sweat from her nose. “I’ve got more steam, Detective. Want to come in for a cup of absolutely nothing?”

“More than anything.”

She led him to the house. Another folded piece of paper hung from the screen door.

“You can ignore the note,” he said. “I’m not as good with words as you are.”

“Are you kidding? Most men would have texted.”

She grabbed the message. Want to get together and talk about the city’s nicest park?

No fancy words this time. Maybe Greenwood hadn’t written the other note. Could have been Scott Canton. The word embower’d screamed poetry.

She opened the door, kicked off her shoes. “How’d you know where I was staying, Cyrano?”

He followed her in. “I’m a detective.”

“No one named Mary told you how to find me?”

He winked. “Called the rent-a-car place, said I found your phone and wanted to return it. They gave me the address you gave them.”

“My tire store move?”

He moved closer. “Basically.”

She stepped back. “I’m gonna rinse off. You can tell me your problems through the shower door.”

He laid his sport coat over the back of the couch, loosened his tie. “I’ll try anything once.”