Page 28 of High Velocity

He doesn’t even know I have a history with said suspect. That bit of information I kept to myself.

“It’s only lunch, and I’m just gathering information.”

“And you’ll be careful,” he adds.

“Of course I will,” I assure him, feeling my confidence return. “I’ll tell you all about it tonight. Looking forward to it.”

“As am I.”

I carefully scan my surroundings as I make my way up the driveway to Tracy’s place.

It’s always a good idea to get the lay of the land; knowing where a possible threat could come from, or finding alternate routes out.

I check out the trailer itself too. I can only see the front of it and note the door is off-center, with only one window to the right of it, and four windows to the left. I’m guessing maybe a bedroom on the right side, and living space and maybe a second bedroom to the left.

I’m not a fan of walking into a space when I don’t know what is behind me, but I guess that can’t be helped.

“Hey again, come in,” Tracy says, stepping out of the way to let me through.

Her trailer may look a bit worn and dated outside, but she’s clearly put effort into making the inside into a welcoming home. The style is a bit too in-your-face for me—I personally prefer natural shades and materials—but the black steel, bright colors, and bold prints suit Tracy perfectly.

“Have a seat.” She aims me at a small round dining table with four chairs. Then she dives into the stainless steel fridge and comes out with a pitcher. “Margarita?”

“I’ll have a water, if you don’t mind. The meds I’m on don’t mix well with alcohol.”

That, and I also want to make sure I keep my wits about me. Drinking in the middle of the day is not conducive to that.

While she fills me a glass of water at the sink, I give her space a scan, looking for evidence of someone else living here.

There had been no men’s shoes or boots by the door when I walked in, and I can see only one set of dishes drying in the dish rack on the counter. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

“Hope you like lasagna,” she says, sliding a glass of water in front of me while sitting down across the table with a generous serving of margarita for herself.

“Is that what I smell? Delicious.”

“Good. It needs a little more time.”

We spend the next few minutes chatting about inconsequential things when Tracy suddenly asks, “So who was the douchebag?”

It takes me a moment to clue in she is talking about the fictional boyfriend I hit over the head with a golf club.

It was only partially fiction though. I distinctly remember standing in the living room of my little apartment in Traverse City, Michigan, the Callaway Paradigm five iron I’d just bought as a birthday present clutched in my hand. The temptation to swing it at Ben Vallard’s smug face so great, I could taste it.

Most of my anger stemmed from the fact I’d been too stupid to see what was painfully obvious to the rest of the world. Ben was a known player, making it a sport to bag as many female colleagues he came in contact with as possible. That I read more into our brief relationship was entirely on me.

As was the fact I spent almost half of my hard-earned paycheck on a stupidly expensive golf club for his birthday.

Over the years, nurturing the fantasy of actually following through and whaling on him with the iron, made the cover story I’m spinning for Tracy feel almost real. The only adjustment I have to make is to our jobs. In my story I’m a paralegal and Ben is a lawyer for the same firm.

My cover doesn’t need to be airtight—this isn’t an elaborate undercover sting—I just want the story I’ve been weaving over lunch to be believable until I can get some idea of Mitchel Laine’s whereabouts.

“Men, I tell you,” Tracy commiserates. “I’ve had some losers in my day.”

Finally, she gives me an opening to explore.

I put down my fork and lean back in my chair.

“Sounds like you’ve given up on men,” I observe casually.

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