Page 117 of Trace of Doubt
“Who is he?”
“He’s hosting the party.”
“I’m not sleeping with this guy,” I said.
Marissa laughed. “If I intended for you to earn a little cash, you’d be dressed for it.” She shoved the phone into my face. “Make the call. His name is Lance.”
I pressed in the numbers, and a man answered. “Hey, this is Shelby Pearce.”
“We need to talk tonight.”
“I prefer a private meetup. You have a report?”
“An urgent one.”
“Okay. Near the gazebo on the south side of the park where you sat this morning. Say, an hour?”
“I’ll be there.” I gave Marissa her phone and repeated the man’s words. “Eli followed me today and observed this guy watching me. I noted a man tailing me too.”
“Exactly. I want to know what he’s up to. But your job is to confirm it—easy. You go alone, and I’ll be watching. Got to keep my sister safe.”
Who walked into a trap? The guy named Lance or me?
Shortly afterward, I retraced my steps, minus the coffee shop. Soft lights bathed the perimeter of the park, but darkness clothed the bench from earlier today. I sat and waited, not sure if I wanted Lance to show up.
A tall, shadowed form appeared. When he joined me, I recognized him from earlier in the day.
“Tell me, Shelby. Who told you about me?”
“I have my ways. You followed me this morning, and I want to know why and who you are.”
“There’s a BOLO out on you. I’m FBI.”
Clarity hit me. “Get out of here,” I whispered. “You’ve walked into a trap.”
He jerked and blood spurted from his chest before I heard a faint sound. I grabbed his shoulders and helped him stagger backward to the ground. Another bullet whizzed past my head.
My end had come.
“I’m sorry.” I pressed my hand over his chest, liquid life oozing through my fingers. A lack of pulse repeated my fear of his death. Where was my final bullet?
“Sis, you did good.” Marissa’s voice brought anger and terror to the surface. She stood about ten feet from the bench.
I’d vowed to bring my sister and her operation to justice, but I drew the line at murder. “Really? Was this necessary?”
“Do you have blood on your party shirt?”
I shivered in the warm night and walked her way. Grief shoved me into a fury difficult to hide. Marissa had killed before. Many times. I followed her into a darker portion of the park.
“Clean off your face and hands.” She tossed me a package of wipes from a plastic bag. “Hurry. I have a clean T-shirt.”
I obeyed, swallowing the urge to vomit. She handed me a T-shirt from the same bag. I shoved my emotions into removing the bloody shirt and wiggling into the clean one. She held out the plastic bag, and I jammed both inside.
“Why shoot at me?” I whispered through clenched teeth.
“To show you who’s the boss. He followed you today, and you neglected to tell me.”
“What clued you in to his identity?”
