He let her go, and she took off like a rocket, her blond hair flowing out behind her as she raced down the stairs.

Going back to that window over the sink, he watched her head around the house and go out to the street.

She was going to be so very useful in this situation, he thought.

On a number of levels.

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 21

As Grier walked up to her Audi, she had the key remote in her hand and her heart in her throat. She’d seen that man before; there was some kind of flicker in the back of her mind, some memory of him. He hadn’t had the eye patch or the cane—she would have remembered those. But she had definitely seen him.

Approaching the car, she stood beside it, every muscle in her body braced as if at any moment the thing was going to go Sopranos on her and blow sky-high. And just as she finally raised her key to unlock it, a black sedan with darkened windows eased by her on Tremont. Looking into the glass . . . she got nothing. All of it was impenetrable, and the sunlight glinted off the windshield so she couldn’t see who was driving.

She knew damn well who was inside, however. And she’d bet that he was lifting a hand in a little wave.

The sedan didn’t even have a license plate.

As the thing took off, all kinds of smart ideas went through her head, including the ever-present 911 call or doing a dial to her friends at the Boston Police Department or getting her father to come over. But she didn’t think whatever was in the trunk was going to kill her. That man had already had his shot at her, so to speak: He could have easily drugged her and dragged her out the back or killed her outright with a silencer.

Letting her fingers do the walking would only lead to complications—and although the first thing she was going to do when she got home was get in touch with her father about this card, she wasn’t sure she needed him to come screaming over here in a panic.

Shit, her cell phone might be tapped, too.

Hitting the remote, she released the trunk latch and slowly lifted. . . .

Frowning, she bent down and wondered if she was seeing things right. Sitting on the dark gray felt of the trunk’s interior was . . . well, it appeared to be one of those Life Alert buttons that old people used, nothing but a cream-colored plastic transmitter in the shape of a triangle with the logo across the front in red. The chain it was on was silver, and long enough so that if you put it around your neck it would dangle below your heart.