Page 55 of High Velocity

“Your buddy Vallard slashed my damn tires,” I snap, walking in.

Stephanie looks surprised. “What?”

She darts passed me outside, where I find her crouched beside my truck.

“Stay back,” she orders.

I observe as she pulls her phone from her pocket and starts taking pictures of the tires and the dirt around my truck.

“What are you doing?”

“Shoe prints.” She points to the ground. “These smaller ones are mine. I believe those belong to you; see how your right shoe leaves a flatter imprint than your left? That’s because your weight distribution is different on the prosthetic side. But these…”

She indicates a full print next to a partial one right beside the rear passenger side wheel.

“Someone crouched down here. I’d say a men’s size twelve. See the deep treads? Looks like a hiking boot to me.”

She’s right; the shape and pattern of ridges and grooves suggests the prints were made by hiking boots.

“Vallard was wearing dress shoes,” she volunteers. “Plus, this isn’t his style.”

I visualize the smug bastard standing in Stephanie’s living room in his suit and tie, wearing brown leather lace-up shoes.

“Maybe he changed and came back,” I suggest, though it sounds lame even to my ears.

It would be so much easier to blame it on that jealous piece of shit. The alternative is much more ominous. Who would go to the effort of slicing all four of my damn tires? Why?

“Do you want to call triple A?” Stephanie asks.

“Nah. Sully’s wife, Pippa, owns an auto shop just up the road. I can get it towed tomorrow after the funeral.”

I watch her walk toward me, her blond hair glowing gold in the setting sun and her features cast in shadows.

“That is,” I add when she stops in front of me. “If you don’t mind me staying the night.”

Her brown eyes blink up at me, a soft smile on her lips. “I don’t.”

“And if you could maybe give me a ride to the ranch tomorrow?”

She lays her hand on the middle of my chest.

“I can.”

“And if you’d come with me to the funeral?” I ask.

“You bet,” she returns before steering me back inside.

Stephanie

I’m at the sink, staring out of the window as I quickly wash the last of the dishes.

The trailer has a small dishwasher, but I prefer washing by hand. It’s therapeutic in that it’s mindless and allows my thoughts to flow freely. Historically, those thoughts would be associated with one or another case I was working, often leading me into new and unexplored directions. I’ve even solved cases with my hands in warm water.

But not tonight. Tonight, my mind is preoccupied with Jackson, who is sitting on the couch, watching the end of a newscast on the small TV. After eating the lukewarm brisket sandwiches he brought over, we took Ash for a walk, and settled in for an episode of Landman, which we discovered we both enjoyed.

I glance over my shoulder at Jackson, who catches me looking.

If I wasn’t half in love with the guy already, I would be now.

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