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Chapter Twenty-one

J
ohn was trying to unwrap a greasy taco one-handed when his cell rang. He cursed and grabbed for the phone on his belt. The
Crown Victoria swerved and the taco spewed ground meat, shredded cheese, lettuce, and taco sauce down the front of his jacket
and white shirt. Served him right for trying to eat and drive at the same time.

John sighed and punched the
Answer
button on his cell. “MacKinnon.”

On the other end a woman gasped.

He smiled. “Turner?” He’d talked to her only a couple of hours ago, but maybe she’d worked up the courage—

“John MacKinnon?”

The smile died on his face. It’d been three years and her voice had matured, but he’d recognize it for the rest of his life.
No matter how many years had passed.

“Rachel.”

There was silence from the other end.

He frowned as the implication of her call sunk in. The last time he’d talked to his daughter, she’d said she never wanted
to see him again, and he figured she’d meant it. “What’s going on? Are you okay? Is your mother okay?”

She sighed with adolescent exasperation. “Of course everything is okay, John.”

He winced at the pointed use of his first name. If their relationship was better, he’d insist on Dad, or at least Father.
But he’d given up the right to be called Dad when he’d let Amy’s second husband adopt Rachel. “Why did you call?”

“Can’t I call just to talk?”

“Yes. Yes, of course you can call me just to talk.” John signaled to pull over to the side of the road. He needed all his
attention for this conversation.

“Well, so . . .” She paused.

He grabbed a paper napkin from the bag of tacos and tried to repair his shirt and jacket. “So. How’s school?”

“It hasn’t started yet.”

Oh, yeah. John winced again. “Ah.”

“We moved.” Her voice had lowered. “Did you know that?”

“Yes.” His tie had a big grease stain on it. He gave up, wadded the napkin into a ball, and threw it back in the bag. “Your
mom gave me your new address.”

“You still talk to her?”

“Now and then.” Actually, he was the one who did most of the communicating. If it were up to Amy, the contact would’ve died
a long time ago. “Mostly about you.”
Only about you.

“Oh.”

“Do you like your new house?” He stared out at the dry grass beside the road. Further up the shoulder the trees started, dry,
as well. The whole area was ripe for a forest fire.

“Yeah.” She cleared her throat.

He pulled out his wallet and flipped to the photo of Rachel. It was a school photo Amy had mailed him over a year ago after
much pressure. Rachel smiled widely at the camera, her straw-blond hair hanging over her shoulders. Her cheeks had thinned
since childhood, but they were still full. Three years ago she’d called them
chipmunk cheeks
and hated them. He’d thought them cute. But then, he was biased. He was her father.

“I want to ask you about Mom,” she said in his ear.

That brought his attention back to the conversation. “What?”

“I want to know why you guys broke up.”

“Hasn’t your mom told you?” he asked cautiously. Surely Amy hadn’t missed the opportunity to defame him.

“She says it was all your fault. That you were never home.”

“That’s about right.” More or less.

“So you just got tired of Mom? Of us?”

“Divorce is never that simple. You know that, Rachel.”

She was silent for a moment. Then she burst out, “Did you have an affair?”

“No.” Where had she gotten that idea?

“There wasn’t another woman? Some chick? You never cheated on Mom?” Her voice was high with suspicion.

“No,” John said. “Look, I don’t know what Amy has been telling you—”

“She doesn’t tell me anything. That’s the problem.”

He stared at the photo a moment, rubbing his thumb over the corner. He hadn’t seen her in the flesh in three years. “What
do you want from me, sweetheart?”

“I want the truth. I want to know why you and Mom divorced.”

“Rachel, look. There’s never any one reason for a divorce. Bottom line, your mother and I felt that we’d be better apart.”

“So you just got rid of me?”

“No!” He grimaced. He noticed that she’d dropped the
and Mom
in her equation. She must have been feeling abandoned somehow. He glanced at the highway. Turner was out there somewhere
in her light blue Chevy, and he needed to find her. Rachel couldn’t have picked a worse time to call if she’d tried. “No.
I wanted to stay in your life. It was you who—”

“If you wanted to stay in my life, you would’ve stayed married to Mom.”

“That didn’t happen.” Good Lord, she was stubborn. He took a deep breath. “I like talking to you, Rachel. Can’t we find another
subject to—”

“No. I want to know about the divorce. There’s no other reason for me to talk to you.”

Well, she certainly knew where to hit him to hurt the most. “Don’t you think we should have this discussion with your mother
present?”

“She’d just stonewall.”

With good reason. John ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to—”

“I’ll hang up.”

Christ. “Look, I’d love to see you. I’m working on a case right now, but why don’t I fly out to see you when—”

“I told you, we don’t have anything else to talk about.”

“Rachel—”

But a click in his ear told him she’d hung up.

“Shit!” Something close to panic flooded his chest. Rachel had finally—finally!—reached out to him. He couldn’t let her go
like that. John fumbled with the buttons on the cell phone, trying to bring up the last number called, when suddenly the phone
went off in his hand. Wild relief swept through him.

“Hello!”

“We’ve got a lead on Hastings,” Torelli said.

John blinked and brought his focus back to the job even as his hope drained away.

Torelli paused on the other end of the phone. “Mac?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” He’d have to call Rachel back later. He started the Crown Vic. “Where is she?”

“A service-station attendant reported a pale blue ’68 Chevy at the Kwik Trip in Rice Lake.”

He’d passed Rice Lake about three miles back. Damn. He thought she’d be ahead of him by now. “East or west of the exit?” He
glanced over his shoulder to check the traffic. A line of semis was coming up, but there was a sizable break after that.

“East.”

“Okay, I’m on it.” John swung into the highway, cutting across both lanes and doing a wide U-turn.

“Should I call in state troopers?”

“No!” The speedometer needle climbed to seventy and kept going. “I don’t want anyone else there.”

“Your call.” Torelli’s voice was disapproving.

“Damn right it’s my call,” John snapped. “No one else. That’s an order.”

“Fine.” Torelli hung up.

John glanced at the cell long enough to find out that Rachel had called from Amy’s home phone, and then he flung the cell
on the passenger seat. His daughter might think that she had the final word, but she was wrong. She’d given him an opening
after three long years, and he’d be damned if he’d let it go. As soon as he could, he was reestablishing the connection.

Right now, though, he had to pay attention to his driving.

John glanced at the dash. He was doing over ninety now. He needed to get to Turner and stop this nonsense before she was hurt.
And he couldn’t trust Torelli not to go over his head again and call in outside law enforcement. Cops who didn’t know Turner
and might think she was dangerous. Cops who might shoot first and ask questions later. That was a recipe for disaster if ever
there was one.

The Rice Lake exit came up fast on his right. John hit it, barely slowing as the Crown Vic barreled up the off-ramp. He glanced
to his left at the top, didn’t see anyone coming, and turned right without stopping.

The Kwik Trip was on the left up ahead, two lines of gas pumps with a red-roofed convenience store behind. Two cars were at
the pumps: a maroon sedan and a navy minivan. He could see the light blue Chevy parked to the side of the convenience store.
But a line of cars streamed past in the opposite lane; he couldn’t turn.

John waited, stopped dead, the turn signal clicking, and swore steadily under his breath.

A break came in the traffic. The Crown Vic’s tires squealed as he accelerated into the gas station just as the Chevy reversed.
Shit. She was going in the opposite direction. If he could drive in front of her, block the pickup from exiting the gas station—

At that moment, the maroon sedan pulled in front of him.

John hit the brakes hard. The Crown Vic shuddered as it stopped inches from the other car’s bumper. The maroon sedan’s driver
flipped him off and began backing up. And Turner Hastings drove past, green eyes stark in a white face. As she passed him,
John had one thought.

She’d cut her hair.

Chapter Twenty-two

O
h, Lord.
Turner’s heart felt like it was going to pound right through her chest. She swung the Chevy out of the Kwik Trip and onto
the overpass road, tires squealing on asphalt. Squeaky grunted as his body was flung against the passenger door. His paws
scrabbled to keep his seat.

Her breath was coming short and quick, and her hands shook on the steering wheel. Turner shifted through the gears as fast
as she could and pressed down hard on the accelerator. Was John following her? She glanced at the rearview mirror, but the
truck bounced over a bump in the road and she couldn’t see clearly. She flung the truck into a turn and then into another,
speeding down a residential street.

It’d been John. She was sure even though she’d caught only a glimpse of him as she fled the gas station. He’d been driving
a plain dark blue sedan, not the sheriff’s car she’d seen at Tommy’s. If she’d hesitated even one moment more, if she’d not
been suspicious of the mullet-haired attendant staring at her and decided to leave the gas station, John would’ve caught her.
As it was, she’d had to hang up on Victoria while the other woman was still talking. She’d call her later and apologize.

But she couldn’t think about that now. Now she had to get away from John.

And what was worse, a small part of her, a tiny bit hiding in a corner of her heart, had wanted to be caught. To at last have
the opportunity to see John up close. To inhale his male scent and look into his eyes when he was talking to her. To watch
the expression on his face. And to finally have this whole mess over with. No more running, no more fear, a chance to rest.
If he caught her, she’d no longer be in control. It wouldn’t be her fault if she didn’t find the evidence against Calvin.
It’d be an honorable failure.

But she wouldn’t give in to that seductive lure—the honorable failure. She would not fail. She must not. She must keep on,
no matter how hard it got. Now was not the time to rest. Not yet. She still owed Rusty, still had to clear his name and put
Calvin in jail.

Beside her, Squeaky whined. He had a hind leg braced on the floor, and his rear end was half off the seat. The poor animal
didn’t look at all comfortable. Turner glanced in the rearview mirror again. Nothing. Had John set up a roadblock outside
of town? Were there other agents after her?

She was on an odd little lane now, near the outskirts of town. Up ahead she could see a decrepit old house with several sheds
and a collection of rusting cars huddled around it. She made a quick decision and swung in the drive, bumping over ruts and
maneuvering behind the house. She put the truck in neutral and looked around. She couldn’t see the road from back here; the
house and old cars hid it. And as far as she could tell, the Chevy wouldn’t be visible to someone searching from the road,
either.

Turner killed the engine just as her cell began to ring. It’d slid to the floor under her feet during the wild drive. She
picked up the palm-sized piece of plastic and stared at it. She knew he couldn’t pinpoint where she was just by talking to
her. Even so, some superstitious part of her wanted to fling the phone as far away as possible.

Instead, she answered it. “What?”

“Slow down. I’m not chasing you.” His voice was angry and his breathing rough, as if he’d been running.

She laughed, the sound coming out like a bark. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m not going to cause an accident by chasing you through a small town, Turner. Just slow down, dammit. Don’t kill yourself
running away from me. I’m not following you.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that after—”

“It’s my job, goddamnit!” He sounded like he was at the end of his rope.

Well, so was she. “I hate your stupid job!” Squeaky laid his ears back and looked worried at the tone of her voice.

“We’ve been over this before—”

“I didn’t rob the bank,” she burst out. “Can’t you leave me alone?”

“No.” She heard him take a breath. “No, I can’t.”

“Please.”

“Don’t.” His voice was low. “Don’t beg me to do something I can’t.”

Turner stared out the window at the dingy backyard. Nearby, the frame of some kind of car was rusted a uniform clay-brown.
It sat in a bed of tall grass like the fossilized skeleton of a dinosaur. Tears blurred her vision.

John spoke again in her ear, his deep voice slow and intimate in the afternoon sunshine. “I can’t leave you alone, and I can’t
let you get away. From me or the law. I can’t sit back and make the exception for you, no matter how I feel personally. I
can’t change what I do or who I am.”

“Then stop calling me.” The tears trailed down her cheeks now, and she swallowed in order to talk clearly. “Stop following
me. Stop talking to me about your daughter and Mexican food and the daily crossword puzzle. Stop whispering in my ear at night
in the dark—”

“You’re under a lot of stress—”

“Stop making me feel!”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” she said shakily. “Get another agent assigned to my case.”

He sighed. “I can’t do that, either.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t, and I wouldn’t even if I could. You’re mine, honey.”

“Oh, Lord.” She rolled her head back on the seat, staring at the old ceiling of the truck, letting the tears run down her
face and into the neckline of her T-shirt. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Why not?”

“This isn’t going to work.”

“You’ve been alone too long.” His voice was soothing. “You need to come in.”

A sob burst from her. “No. You’re hurting me. You—”

“Don’t cry,” he whispered. “It kills me.”

“I can’t stop.” She was still shaking from the adrenaline that had surged through her arteries when she’d fled him. It was
too much. Finally, too much. It seemed she could no longer dam all the emotions she’d held back for four long years. Squeaky
whined and put his mammoth head on her lap.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” John said.

“But you are.” She stroked Squeaky’s velvet ears and tried to think of a solution. There wasn’t one. There wasn’t any good
outcome to this. “We can’t continue like this. I’m jumping at shadows as it is. I can’t live like this—”

“Then stop. Tell me where you are.”

She half laughed, half hiccupped.

“I’ll come get you,” he said.

She licked the salt tears from her lips and stared out at the dinosaur car. A red squirrel had climbed the top and was sitting
there, tail swishing back and forth.

“Oh, John.”

He sighed in her ear. “Is it really worth it?”

She closed her eyes and thought about Rusty. How could she explain? She took a shuddering breath, trying to still the tears
so she could somehow tell him. “My mom died when I was seventeen, did you know that?”

“Yes.”

Of course. He must have a file on her by now. He probably knew her bra size and her grades from high school biology. She thrust
that thought from her mind.

“Mom had cancer. It took a while—about a year—for her to go. A long year. She was in and out of the hospital, getting the
chemo.” She swallowed again, remembering. “Dad had left when I was a toddler. I already told you that. So it was just us,
Mom and me. And Uncle Rusty.”

John was silent.

“Anyway.” Her throat felt swollen from the crying. She cleared it. “It was pretty bad, her cancer. The whole hospital thing.
Rusty had this big old Victorian house on the edge of town, and he let us move in with him because Mom . . .” She inhaled
sharply. “Mom wasn’t able to do much, for me or her. She felt too sick most days. Rusty and I split the cooking and chores.”
She laughed a little, her voice scratchy. “Uncle Rusty had been a bachelor all his life. Most of the time we had Swanson’s
frozen dinners on his nights to cook. Swedish meatballs or lasagna. Or bratwurst sandwiches when he hadn’t planned ahead—they
were his favorite. He did his best. He did the best he was able.”

“Turner—”

“And when Mom died . . .” Her voice trailed away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Squeaky nuzzled his jaw into her palm. She forced herself to continue while she stroked his long nose. “Most of our money
was already spent by that time. Hospital bills. Uncle Rusty paid for the funeral and the plot and headstone.”

“Baby.” John sounded pained.

She shook her head and gulped even though he couldn’t see. “Brad was already gone. Away at school and then starting his first
job, so it was just Uncle Rusty and me. He was in his late fifties, and yet he never made me feel unwelcome. He never said
anything about having his life turned around, virtually adopting a teenager at his age. He was so . . . kind. I wish you could’ve
met him, then you’d understand.”

“I wish I’d known him, too,” John said gently.

“He didn’t do it. He didn’t steal from the bank.” She steadied her voice, making it sure. “And he didn’t deserve what happened
to him. Rusty worked all his life at that bank. He was only two years away from retirement. He was planning on getting a cabin
at the lake, maybe a new boat. He was going to go fishing every day.”

“Turner—”

She closed her eyes. She had to get this out. “When Calvin accused Rusty and then fired him, he killed something in Uncle
Rusty, long before he actually died. Rusty was humiliated that anyone would think he’d done the things he was accused of.
He stopped smiling. Stopped laughing.”

“I’m sorry.” She could hear him blow out a breath. “I’m sorry. I understand your uncle meant a lot to you.”

“He did.”

“Have you thought what Rusty would say about what you’re doing?” John asked. “Would he want you to live your life this way?”

She half smiled. John was so good at this. So good at presenting the sane alternative, so good at listening without condemning.
He must’ve brought in scores of fugitives with that slow, deep voice and sympathetic manner. And she was almost—
almost
—tempted by him. “No, of course not. Rusty wouldn’t have wanted this for me. He was a gentle, kind man and he loved me.”

“Then—”

“But that’s not the point,” Turner said softly. Firmly. “I’m the one who chooses my actions, and I choose to make sure his
name is cleared. Because he was the way he was. Because he loved me.”

“Christ,” he muttered, like he was frustrated. And angry.

Her own anger welled, even though he was only doing his job. She wanted to cut through all the pretense, all of his motives
and her motives to the core feelings beneath. To the man beneath the FBI agent. The man she’d been talking to in the last
few days.

She inhaled slowly. “You tell me not to try to change you, and in the same breath you ask me to change who I am.”

“Turner—”

“No, John. Listen. I believe in righting wrongs. I believe in standing by the people I love. And I believe that evil people
shouldn’t be allowed to get away with their crimes. That’s who I am.”

“I believe all those things, too,” he answered. “The difference is that I’m a professional. Leave Hyman to the FBI.”

“I did,” she said softly. “They had four years to bring Calvin to justice, and no one lifted a finger to investigate him.”

“Okay, what if I promise to investigate the embezzling at the bank?”

It was so tempting to give in. But . . . “You’ll still need evidence. You would’ve needed just cause and a warrant to search
Calvin’s safe deposit box, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.” He said it tightly.

She smiled. John didn’t lie, even when it meant losing the argument. “And you wouldn’t have got the warrant just on my suspicions,
would you?”

He swore under his breath.

“I’m going to find that evidence.” She didn’t have to add that she wouldn’t be waiting around for a warrant. “And I’m going
to make sure Calvin Hyman goes to jail for what he did to Rusty.”

“What about when you go to jail?” he asked softly, his deep voice rumbling. “I’m not going to stop, you know. Not until I
arrest you.”

She glanced out the window of the Chevy half expecting him to be standing there, her own personal nemesis. “I have to go.”

“No, you don’t.” He sounded tender. And frustrated. “You’re running away again. For such a fearless woman, you sure can be
chickenshit sometimes.”

A surprised laugh burst from her. “I am n—”

“But that’s okay for now,” he continued over her, his voice sure. “Because sooner or later I’ll catch up.”

Oh, Lord.
“Good-bye, John.”

“Good-bye. Like the hair.” And he hung up.

She sat staring at the cell in her hand for a moment. Hair? Then she remembered that she’d cut her hair. Hacked it, really.
John had seen her for maybe a half-second, and in that miniscule moment of time, he’d noticed she’d changed her hair.

Turner shivered. She didn’t know whether to feel flattered or frightened.