“Yeah,” he said slowly, the word like air leaking out of a balloon, the fantasy losing its shape almost as soon as it was spoken. They both knew this would never happen. He was a Texas Ranger who’d solved the murder of her husband. What did that make them? Friends? Certainly no more than that. “Thought you hated Texas,” he said, pushing away even the thought of seeing her again, reminding himself there was no reason for it. He’d done his job, and that was the end of it.

The hotel-room phone was ringing now. He tried to ignore it at first, but it kept going and eventually Randie said, “Darren…do you need to get that?”

“Yeah, just give me one sec.”

“Actually, it’s kind of getting late here. I have a seven o’clock call time.”

“Right,” Darren said, feeling a squeeze in his chest. He wanted to keep talking, but the moment had passed and the hotel phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

“It was good to talk to you, Darren,” Randie said. “Really.”

He nodded and smiled, though she couldn’t see him. “For me too.”

Then she said softly, “Darren.”

Hearing his name on her tongue broke through their shared pretense that this conversation was harmless. It was nearly inexplicable to him, but no less real, how utterly safe he felt talking to this woman. And he could no longer ignore the desire that was tangled in that fact.

“You should forgive her, whatever it is,” Randie said. “I wish I’d had the chance to do the same with Michael. I wish I hadn’t held it over him like I did.”

He hung up one phone and answered the other.

The woman on the hotel line started talking before he could say hello. “I know this isn’t room two-oh-seven, I know that. But I’m not getting anything out of anyone at the front desk, even though I’ve been calling for two days.”

At the mention of room 207, Darren immediately stood from the bed. That was the room right above his, the one from which he’d heard those startling noises the other night, the room about which Sandler Gaines had told him a bald-faced lie. “Slow down,” he said. “You called before, didn’t you? This afternoon?”

“That’s right. I was wondering if I had the wrong room number or something or if there’s some other explanation for why I can’t find her.”

“Who?”

“Monica Maldonado.”

“What do you mean, you can’t find her?”

“We had an appointment and she never showed. Isn’t answering her phone either.”

“What’s your name?” Darren said, reaching for a pen and the pad of hotel stationery on the nightstand. It was embossed with a vine of roses across the top.

The woman hesitated. “I’m not looking to cause trouble, I just—”