He stretched out a gloved hand and reached inside his trench with the other. “Close enough.”
I stifled my movement. A chill iced my spine despite the fair April weather, and my sight locked on the breast of his coat.
For the past seven years, I dodged family, old friends, and ex-colleagues, leaving no trace to my former life.
The realization he found me left me numb.
My regimented life fell into disarray this afternoon. A man’s shoe and an envelope of undisclosed contents from Louis Fernoza—couriered by a henchman concealing his identity—who deliberately sought me instead of Sam French to receive them.
As if that didn’t already prickle my nerves, I had the Shaman pushing to know where I lived.
My four walls of Fernoza anonymity were crumbling, every brick set in mortar to separate my past from my present, my work from my home.
After I’d explained my client had been murdered, Deidre and I had padded to the hall and gotten our coats. Safety in numbers, I’d thought then hired her on the spot as my consulting investigator.
It was uncanny how much she could resemble Marjorie Gardens if I were to put a face to my online persona. And her predisposition for law was a resource I couldn’t let slip through my fingers.
Nevertheless, her involvement was a tight wire I’d have to tread carefully.
Online as Marjorie Gardens, I was quite familiar with Lee Canfield’s voraciousness for all things virtual.
Jed Briggs and Ray Lockhart had a fever for firearms. The information they provided in their posts had often come to my rescue during late night research. And Deidre Mason exhibited to me tonight she would be my voice of reason.
I was coming to accept there was so much more than meets the eye with my neighbors. Exactly what and how much, I’d expect would be revealed in good time.