Page 55 of High Frequency

“To top it off, she hasn’t had a whole lot of sleep.”

Isobel snorts.

“Because Aspen is teething,” I clarify, setting straight whatever assumption she made.

“So, it sounds like you two have reconnected.”

“We have.”

She’s quiet for a while, and I’m good with the silence. It lasts until we’re coming up on Happys Inn, a small hamlet maybe twenty miles from the ranch.

“I still don’t get why she left in the first place,” Isobel muses. “She loved it here. I really thought she was getting her shit together. She had a thing for you, you know?”

“Had a thing for her too,” I admit.

I glance over and catch her eye.

“Still do.”

Sloane

Jillian Lederman is not at all what I expected.

I guess I had a picture in my mind of someone more seasoned, a bit more rugged, and definitely bigger than the petite redhead. I swear, she can’t be more than five foot two at most, and with a bit of effort, I could probably lift her right off her feet. She’s tiny and I feel like a freaking Amazon standing next to her.

“Nice place.”

She swirls around, checking out the ranch house and the grounds.

I met up with her at the office for a short briefing with Sheriff Ewing. He’d already told me he’s been in touch with the FBI and law enforcement agencies in Flathead County and Lake County, and has their cooperation in this investigation. But in the actual briefing there wasn’t a whole lot to discuss, since we don’t really know what—if anything—we might encounter. We will try to stay in constant communication.

The meeting here at the ranch will be more important, which is why we drove here in tandem.

“Are there dogs around?” she asks. “Emo was cooped up in the back of the vehicle all day yesterday, and then all night in the motel room. She needs to stretch her legs.”

“No, no dogs at the moment. Just horses.”

“She won’t pay them any mind.”

I can hear the dog whine and whimper as Jillian opens the gate of her SUV.

“Come on, girl, go do your business.”

“That’s an unusual color,” I observe as the gray dog jumps down and immediately starts sniffing for a patch of grass to do her business.

“She’s called a silver/gray sable.”

She’s gorgeous, the dark face and paws contrasting with the gray coat. I watch as the sleek animal explores the grounds, not straying very far as she continuously turns her head to check in with her handler.

“Beautiful.”

“I know. I got her from the shelter, believe it or not. The people who owned her gave her up, claiming she was too hard to handle, but they wanted a family dog. They should’ve gotten a golden retriever, not a Malinois,” she derides, clearly with strong feelings on the subject. “These dogs are active; they are happiest when they have a job to do.”

“Was she trained already?”

“No. I trained her. She’s not my only dog, I actually have five. A couple of search-and-rescue dogs, and two more I trained as therapy dogs. In an ideal world where I would have the space, I’d love to be training shelter dogs exclusively. It’s true certain breeds make for good working dogs, but I believe most dogs can be given a purpose.”

She darts me a glance, a bit of a blush on her face.

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