Jessica hooked up her portable printer to the laptop and printed off the photo of the three men, with the caption identifying each of them, and snatched the page as soon as it fed through the machine. She slammed the laptop shut, stuffed the gun into her waistband, threw open the door, and marched out into the blinding morning sunshine.

Holliday’s Ford pickup was parked in front of room 6. The curtains were still drawn. Jessica banged her fist hard on the door. Holliday opened the door wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. A goofy grin spread across his face when he saw who his visitor was. Jessica stood with her hands on her hips, not returning the smile.

Then she punched him as hard as she could square on the jaw.

Holliday blinked and staggered backward. “What the hell was that for?” He stared at her in astonishment. “Is it because I kissed you?”

“No, it’s because you lied to me.”

“You’re going to have to help me out here, Jessica. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

“What? You know who I am. Are you okay? What’s happened?”

“Oh, I know what you told me. Jack Holliday, superstar journalist, huh?”

“I wouldn’t say superstar . . .” Holliday laughed, but it sounded forced. Suddenly he didn’t look so sure of himself anymore.

Jessica threw the printout at him, and it landed faceup on his bare feet. He glanced down at the photo. The craggy, ancient face of Jack Holliday smiled back at him. He closed his eyes and ran his hand through his hair.

“Look, Jessica, I can explain.”

“Damn straight you can.”

He leaned out of the doorway and looked up and down the row of motel rooms.

“Can we have this conversation inside, please? I’m not even dressed yet.”

“I’m not setting foot inside that room until you tell me who you really are.”

He sighed. “My name is Matt Connor. I’m a private investigator. Same as you.”

Jessica stared at him for a long moment. Then she looked past his shoulder to the desk and the items sitting on top of it. Slim, sleek laptop. Tiny white earbuds. Digital camera. No Dictaphone or shorthand-filled notepad or any other tools of the trade you would associate with a journalist.

The camera was small and compact, nowhere near as expensive or effective as the Nikon Jessica used for her own surveillance work, but it would still do the job. She pushed past him and ripped open the top drawer of the desk. The papers he had swiftly swept inside the night she had broken into his room were still there. She rifled through them.

“Jessica . . .”

She remembered how she had caught a glimpse of something black and shiny. She found the photograph and felt another surge of anger hit her like a steam train when she saw what it contained.

Her truck.