“Just ask the owners. They’ll tell you they gave me permission to stay here anytime I want.”

Maggie noticed that the woman didn’t seem to be fearful, not paying attention to either Tully’s or Maggie’s weapon.

“Is that so?” a man, accompanied by Sheriff Uniss, said from down the hallway.

The man wore a suede jacket, blue jeans, and a ball cap. He stood as tall as the sheriff but was in better shape, lean, maybe in his early to mid-thirties. Black glasses framed probing black eyes but his face was friendly.

“Agent Tully, Agent O’Dell,” the sheriff said. “This here’s Howard Elliott. He’s the executor of this property. In other words, the most recent owner. Do you recognize this woman, Mr. Elliott?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Miss,” Uniss said in a polite tone, “there hasn’t been anyone living here for almost ten years. If you knew the owner, what was her name?”

The woman snorted another laugh. “If she’s been gone for ten years how the hell would I remember her name?”

The men just stared. Maggie caught herself feeling sorry for her.

“Maybe we should start with your name.”

But now she seemed to be thinking, her eyes scrunched, the lines of her forehead making her look older than Maggie’s earlier assessment.

“Helen.”

“Your name’s Helen?” Tully asked.

“No, asshole. Mine’s Lily. The woman who lived here. I stayed here when I was a girl. When I was thirteen. She fostered me. She was very kind.”

All eyes looked to Mr. Elliott for confirmation.

“Helen and her husband did take in a lot of kids,” he admitted. “In fact, I was one of them.”

“I didn’t realize. She must have died the year after I left,” Lily said.

Silence made Lily’s eyes dart from one face to another.

“She’s been gone only ten years,” Tully finally said.

“Yeah, exactly. I’m twenty-four, asshole. I know you all think I look more mature and sexy.”

She was greeted with more silence.

“Hey, back off,” she yelled, though no one had moved.

She became so agitated Maggie thought Lily might start swinging at Tully.

“I don’t like the way all you bastards are drooling over me.” She was serious and now visibly angry.

“Drooling?” Sheriff Uniss said in almost a whisper of disbelief rather than sarcasm.

Maggie tapped Tully on the shoulder for him to step out of the bathroom doorway.

“Why don’t you come with me, Lily,” she told the woman. “You can put some clothes on. You must be chilly.”

“Chilly?” She cackled and Maggie couldn’t help thinking her voice sounded like the raspy wear of someone who had abused her body for decades, not years.

“It’s hotter than hell in here,” Lily said, and she brushed at the loose strands of hair that had fallen back into her face and were sticking to her sweaty forehead.

Maggie realized the woman was probably still high. Meth runs could last up to twenty-four hours. Heavy users sometimes kept it going for days, even weeks. Judging by the sores and rotting teeth—despite being only twenty-four—Maggie knew that Lily wasn’t a novice drug user.

Lily was still agitated but seemed to welcome the opportunity to get out of the bathroom and out from under Tully’s and the other two men’s scrutiny. She edged around him and Maggie motioned for her to continue to the bedroom across the hall. Maggie followed but not before exchanging a look with Tully. She glanced at Howard Elliott and noticed just a hint of a smile, as though he found all of this quite amusing.

CHAPTER 9

PANHANDLE OF FLORIDA

Ryder Creed heard footsteps, a soft tap-tap on the hardwood floor of his loft. Someone was either sneaking up on him or didn’t want to wake him. Either way, he didn’t much care. His eyelids twitched enough to see sunlight but refused to open. He wanted to stay in bed. It was perfect sleeping weather. A cool breeze came through an open window bringing dampness along with the smell of a wood fire. He was too comfortable to move, yet he slid his hand underneath the mattress and let his fingers wrap around the Ruger .38 Special +P.

A dog’s tongue slobbered over Creed’s face. He hadn’t even heard the dog. He kept one hand under the mattress and with the other made half an attempt to brush the dog away. There was something comforting about the dog’s licking. That is until he began to whine.

Creed’s eyes opened, blinking hard against the sunlight. It felt like gravel scraped under his eyelids. He pulled the revolver out before noticing the dog’s wagging tail. Then he saw the large black woman standing on the other side of his loft apartment.

“How did you get in here?” He caught himself looking around like he wasn’t quite sure where “here” was.

“You gave me a key.”

“My bad,” Creed said and sat up, tucking the gun back under the mattress.

“One of these days you’re gonna shoot somebody.”

“That’s the idea.”

He suddenly felt dizzy, like his head was disproportionately larger than his body. His mouth was dry, his throat scratchy. It was hard to swallow. He looked for a glass of water and saw only empty beer bottles. The woman—Hannah—had already started picking them up. There were scattered paper plates, too, filled with pizza crusts and other unidentifiable leftovers.

He’d had the loft apartment custom built over the dog kennels so he could hear if any of the dogs were distressed and sometimes when he needed their company they were close by, just like Rufus alerting him with his slobber-licks. It was the one comfort he allowed himself.

The loft’s open floor plan included a gourmet kitchen, a high beamed cathedral ceiling, cherrywood floors—though you’d never know there was wood beneath the clutter he had allowed to pile up. Clothes and shoes, electronic equipment and file folders were everywhere. An assortment of maps in various sizes were spread across every major surface, anchored down with coffee mugs and dirty dishes. Truth was, he didn’t like seeing the place like this. He didn’t like Hannah seeing it like this either. And he didn’t like her seeing him like this.

She wouldn’t care. It would take much more than filth and disarray to send her packing. Or at least, he hoped so. Other than the dogs, she was all he had in this world.

She was quiet now, perhaps satisfied that she had sufficiently rattled him. She tossed the beer bottles into his metal wastebasket, letting each one bang against the side. The insides of his head exploded with each hit. She smiled when she noticed him wincing, as if she had scored a major point.

She continued to pick up a few pieces of clothing from the floor and toss them onto a pile. Something caught her attention. She gave him a hard look then bent down, pinched the item up by as little fabric as possible, and held it up for him. It was a pair of women’s panties. A pink thong.

“Do you even remember who these belong to?” she asked.

“They’re not yours?”

“Only in your dreams.”

Creed smiled.

He’d known Hannah for only seven years but it felt like a lifetime. He trusted her more than anyone else in the world. She was like a big sister, only meaner. They became business partners five years ago. Creed trained and took care of the dogs. Hannah took the assignments, managed the finances, scheduled the other trainers and handlers.

“None of the women complain,” he said, referring to the panties that she now tossed aside.

“That’s true,” she admitted. “Those I’ve seen, always leave here with a smile. I guess even as they’re leaving their panties behind.”

He thought she looked more amused than angry, but then she became serious again.

“When you drink you depreciate the business,” she said, looking him square in the eyes.

“You don’t need to worry. I have that all under control.”