“Ms. Levine? This is Paula Thompson, Ginny’s mother. Kayla tells me you spoke to her yesterday.” Apause, as if she was biting her tongue to keep from blasting me. Shit. When she continued, her voice was polite, but cool. “I heard you’re investigating Ginny’s death. I’m sure you’d like to speak to me. I’m home this morning until noon. I’ll be expecting you.”

As nicely as that was worded, it wasn’t an offer—it was an appointment. A private investigator had talked to her granddaughter without her knowledge. It had been innocent enough, but it sounded bad, and I didn’t blame her for being pissed. Paula Thompson had just moved to the top of my to-do list.

I left as soon as I was ready. I’d gone about a block when an SUV pulled in behind me—right behind me, practically clipping my back tire. One problem with a motorcycle is that you’re light infantry on a battlefield of tanks. I wear all my gear, but one driver yapping on his cell phone could be the end of me. All I could see through my mirror was the grill ... and the Lexus emblem.

Cody Radu.

I turned the corner. He turned the corner. I made an unnecessary turn. He followed. Another turn, taking me back the way I’d come. He swung in behind me, rewing up again before backing off.

Is that supposed to scare me, asshole? Send the detective girl running back to Portland? Now I had a pretty good idea who’d been staking out my motel room.

I continued on at the speed limit, took the next turn, and headed up to Main Street. There was a stop sign at the intersection. I obeyed it. He stayed a respectful distance behind. I put on my signal and pulled forward.

An engine squeal. Then a bump that nearly sent me flying over my handlebars. I slammed my feet down before the bike toppled. Then I looked back to see Cody getting out of his SUV, his face the perfect mask of concern.

“God, I’m sorry,” he said as I pulled off my helmet. “I saw you start forward and I tapped the gas and bang. I have no idea what happened.”

“Could be a sticky pedal.” I swung off the bike. “Want me to take a look?”

“I hit you and you’re offering to fix my car? That’s forgiving. I’ll get it into the shop later, thanks. You’re okay?”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

I checked the back of the bike. Cody admired it, asking questions and acting like he’d know the difference between a Triumph and a Honda ... or that he’d care.

“Looks okay,” I said. “The alignment could be screwed up, though.”

He handed me his card. “Send the bill to me.”

“I will.”

I started pulling my helmet on.