“We’ll stop at the liquor store,” Kai announced, then she hit the gas and they were off, roaring down the street. Angie didn’t know if it was the idea of more alcohol or the way Kai was driving, but she was just about to lose the little bit she had eaten when they pulled, screeching, into the parking lot of the liquor store, which was called Dewey’s Package for reasons Angie hadn’t been able to pinpoint.

Kai was kind enough to park in the shade, and the breeze was cool. The smart thing to do, Angie decided, was to spend a few minutes lying right where she was. She propped her head on a book called Complex Algebraic Surfaces, put an arm over her eyes, and tried to remember how to breathe while she contemplated the evils of alcohol.

“Pardon me, miss?” The voice was deepest Georgia, baritone and hesitant. She moved her arm and opened one eye, squinting into the bright.

From this angle the guy looked to be seven feet tall and built like a refrigerator. Blond hair, green eyes, deeply tanned; Angie decided he could have been the model for every prince Disney had ever drawn, right down to his smile, which made him look like a sweet if somewhat dim ten-year-old. And he was a cop, by his uniform.

Either he was after Kai for her driving, or Angie was violating some local law, sleeping in the backseat of a car. In any case she could hardly work up any real worry, because the cop was smiling at her in a way cops in New Jersey never smiled unless you were related to them.

“Yes?” She couldn’t quite make herself sit up, but she did manage what she hoped would be taken for a smile.

“Are you Angeline Mangiamele?”

She sat up after all while he kept talking. “I thought you must be, I’ve heard you described so often. I’m Winfield Walker? Win to my friends. I called and left a message with your coworker—”

“Rivera,” Angie finished for him. She reminded herself not to stare at the man they had been calling Reverend Win behind his back.

“I just wanted to introduce myself,” he said. He stuck his hand through the open window, and Angie shook it. Firm, warm, but not sweaty, big. And Patty-Cake’s nephew.

“I think I had you confused with somebody else. I thought you were a preacher.”

He ducked his head. “You’re thinking of my cousin Walker. I might go for a deacon one day, but I don’t think I’ll ever be as hard-shell as he is.”

Angie thought, Is that good or bad? and What a waste, which made her a little ashamed of herself, which didn’t sit well on an already uneasy stomach.