Ann processed his payment and returned with the receipt. He added a tip that was nearly half the cost of the meal itself, signed with a confident flourish.
"I'll be seeing you again," he said as he stood. It wasn't phrased as a question.
Ann watched him leave, the strange flutter in her stomach persisting long after the door closed behind him. She picked up his empty plate and noticed he'd eaten every bite, leaving it nearly clean. Something about the thoroughness unsettled her. As she cleared the table, she found herself picturing his face, replaying their interactions, and wondering exactly when he would return.
Chapter 8
Three days earlier,I'd been driving down Morrison Avenue with the windows cracked, letting in the warm Tampa air that carried hints of exhaust and flowering jasmine. The late afternoon sun glinted off my rearview mirror, momentarily blinding me just before the flash of red and blue lights appeared behind me. I checked my speed—five over the limit, nothing that usually warranted a stop—and pulled to the curb with the practiced calm of someone who'd spent two decades on the other side of law enforcement. Just a routine traffic stop. The last normal moment before my entire life imploded.
I watched in my side mirror as the officer approached, noting his unhurried gait and the casual way his hand rested near his holster—relaxed, not anticipating trouble—a routine stop for him, too. The heat rising from the asphalt created wavering distortions around his figure as he drew closer. I rolled down my window, the electric motor whirring in protest.
"License and registration, ma'am." His voice carried the flat affect of someone who'd repeated the same phrase thousands of times. Young guy, maybe early thirties, with a neatly trimmedmustache and the beginning of sweat stains darkening his uniform collar.
"Officer." I nodded, reaching slowly for my purse. Twenty years with the FBI had taught me how to interact with law enforcement—deliberate movements, respectful tone, nothing that could be misinterpreted as a threat. "May I ask why I was pulled over?"
"Taillight's out." He leaned slightly to glance at the back of my car. "Driver's side."
I frowned. I'd checked all my lights before we left a week earlier. It was actually Matt’s old car. We had decided to take this instead of my minivan so my daughter Christine could use that back home for her and the baby.
I kept my confusion to myself as I handed over my license and the registration I'd retrieved from the glove compartment. His eyes flickered with recognition as he read my name.
"FBI?" he asked, looking at me with new interest.
"Twenty years," I confirmed. "Though I'm more of a consultant these days."
“You’re the one who wrote that book on the profiler’s code,” he said.
“That would be me. That’s actually why I’m in town. I live over in Cocoa Beach, but was invited to a book signing event here in Tampa this week. My boyfriend and I are leaving town today. Going home to the children.”
He nodded, that subtle shift in posture that comes when one law enforcement officer recognizes another. His shoulders relaxed a fraction. "I'll just run this and have you on your way, Agent Thomas."
I watched him walk back to his patrol car, my fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. Matt was at the mall waiting for me to pick him up. He had been buying presents to take home to the kids, as we usually did when going places. They had been staying with my mom while we were gone. I guess we kind of felt guilty for being away. I was a grandmother now, and it was hard to be away from that little munchkin. Ellie was the most adorable little thing in the world, and everyone loved her. Even my youngest, Angel, Matt’s and my mutual child, who, up until now, had been the adorable onein the family. She hadn’t seemed to mind leaving her position to Ellie.
Through my open window came the steady hum of passing traffic, the distant wail of an ambulance, the chirping of birds in the trees lining the boulevard. Ordinary sounds on an ordinary day.
The officer returned faster than I expected, his expression now carefully neutral—the professional mask I recognized from my own days of delivering bad news. Something had changed. My fingers stilled on the steering wheel.
"Ma'am, I'm going to need you to step out of the vehicle."
I felt the first flutter of unease in my stomach. "Is there a problem, Officer?"
"Please step out of the vehicle." His hand had moved closer to his weapon, and his stance widened slightly—preparing for trouble.
I complied, moving slowly, my mind racing through possibilities. Outstanding warrant? Some database error? "What seems to be the issue?" I asked as my feet hit the pavement. The heat rose through the thin soles of my shoes.
He didn't answer immediately; instead, he gestured toward the rear of my car. "Ma'am, is there any particular reason why your trunk might smell the way it does?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. "I don't understand."
"When I walked past your vehicle, I detected a strong odor consistent with decomposition." His words were careful and precise—the language of a report being mentally drafted. "Do you mind if I take a look in your trunk?"
Cold dread pooled in my stomach. "Officer, I assure you?—"
"Ma'am, I need you to open the trunk." His hand now rested directly on his holster.
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. "I don't know what you're talking about. There shouldn't be any smell." But even as I spoke, I became aware of it—faint but unmistakable in the heat. That sweet, sickly odor that every experienced investigator knows.
The smell of death.
