Page 1 of Play Book

ONE

Saylor

I grab my coat and sling it over my arm as I head for the exit.

Locking up the art gallery I own is a whole process, and I pause to make sure I have everything. Purse and keys are in my hand, phone in my purse, and I’m ready to go. I take one last look around to make sure everything is closed, and then punch the code into the keypad for the alarm system. It begins to beep, reminding me I only have thirty seconds to get out and lock the door, so I go out the back and quickly engage the deadbolt.

I park in the alley out the back. It doesn’t feel like the safest place to be walking by myself after dark, but it’s better than driving around endlessly every morning looking for a spot. And it’s close.

A sound startles me, and I freeze, threading my keys through my fingers as I look around.

“Is anyone there?” I call out.

There’s no reply, and everything is quiet.

Fuck.

I practically throw myself at my car, get inside and immediately lock the doors, letting out a shaky breath.

Now I feel stupid.

I’ve been parking here six nights a week since I’d opened my gallery four months ago and have never had a problem. There’s no reason to think there will be tonight, though it never hurts to be cautious.

I put my SUV into gear and begin to pull forward when I feel the odd thumping.

Oh, no.

My heart sinks because I know what this means.

It’s almost definitely a flat tire, and I silently groan.

I have a roadside assistance plan, but it sometimes takes hours for someone to arrive.

It’s already after seven, and I’m both tired and hungry.

I also have a date.

A blind date I should never have agreed to, but canceling at the last minute would be rude.

I park the SUV and get out.

Sure enough, the rear driver’s side tire is flat as a board.

Now what?

I don’t want to sit here for an hour or two waiting for someone to come tow it, and then I’ll be without a car anyway.

“Miss Saylor? Everything okay?

The elderly man who owns the cigar shop a few doors down from my gallery strides over to me.

“Flat tire,” I say glumly.

“I’m happy to change it for you,” he offers.

“I’d love that, Rudy, but this is one of those new cars that doesn’t provide a donut or anything. Just a can of stuff that’s supposed to seal the leak until you can drive to a repair shop.”

He shakes his head. “All these newfangled things don’t make sense to me. What’s a young woman like you supposed to do?”

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