Speaking of which.

He put the helmet back on, snapped the clasp, then reached into his jersey pocket and pulled out the phone.

She’d be two miles in. Nothing challenging for her athletic physique, but she’d strain against the incline.

He clicked his teeth again, if only to stop them from chattering with the rush of adrenaline. The crisp pop of enamel on enamel competed with the heartbeat pounding on his eardrums.

He let out a groan, bent over at his waist, and exhaled. The window was closing. Where was she?

“Jesus, are you okay?”

He turned around, saw Paige Lauffer in running gear approaching from behind him, coming downhill. She pulled an earbud out, tapped on the phone inside the strap around her bicep.

He laughed. “You came from behind me. I didn’t hear a thing.”

The young blonde walked closer, squinting against the sunshine. “Do you need help? You’re bleeding.”

“Sorry.” He limped two steps in her direction, pointed to the remains of his bike. “I’m a little shaken. I wiped out pretty hard.”

“Looks like. Did you break anything?”

He’d loved Paige Lauffer’s voice since the first time he’d heard her speak, now over a month ago. Sweet and caring, like a TV mom.

“I think I’m okay.” He held up his phone, moved closer. “Do you have a phone? Mine’s broken.”

She nodded, reached for the Velcro of her armband.

“See, Paige,” he said, now inches away. “The stupid thing won’t even turn on.”

She raised her head. “How do you know my name?”

He moved toward her. She may have heard the snapping noise of the personal defense stun gun disguised as a mobile phone he’d gotten online for twenty bucks, or may have only reacted to his movement and tried to pull back. Either way, the gun’s contacts met the sweaty, bare skin of her chest above her sports bra before she could put distance between them.

Fourteen million volts in five seconds against the one-hundred-and-thirty-pound woman meant lights out—and twenty dollars well spent.

Chapter 10

CHAPTER

10

LAKSHMI RUSHED AHEAD of Caitlin to the front door of the three-story brick house and rang the doorbell. “Thank you for doing this.”

“Stop thanking me, Lakshmi. I haven’t done anything.”

Caitlin counted three gables, two cornices, some latticework. Different vibe from a Hollywood mansion, but the size and style of the Chapman home read Midwestern rich.

“Here she comes,” Lakshmi said.

Caitlin saw Doris Chapman approach through the window next to the doorframe. Even through the glass, she exuded power and wealth. A slight frost dusted her otherwise jet-black, straight hair. The quality of her sky-blue cardigan seemed more Manhattan boutique than the nearby mall. But when the door opened, Caitlin saw a woman in her mid-fifties who didn’t sleep.

“Lakshmi,” she said, opening her arms.

Lakshmi dove into the hug. The embrace looked like the real deal.