LITMIR.BIZ

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air. Torrey breathed deeply.

      “Haven’t had a smoke in eight years and, man, the smell still makes me pat my pockets looking for a cigarette.”

      “Addiction is powerful,” Dan said.

      “Yeah. That’s what I was telling you about Tank. You were meeting him here, right?”

      Angela wondered how he had figured that out. Though she’d decided to do her best to help Tank, she wasn’t going to start lying to the police to do it. “We talked for a minute. He’s scared someone is trying to kill him.”

      Torrey stayed still, but Angela had spent a career deciphering emotions. Torrey’s face went curiously blank, his upper body stiffened so slightly she might have imagined it.

      “Who?”

      “He didn’t get a chance to tell us.”

      Torrey wrapped a hand around the mug. “He gonna contact you again?”

      “I don’t know.” Angela watched the steam from the tea drift upward. “I’ll talk to him if he does, try and convince him again to go to the police.” She paused. “But he doesn’t seem to trust you.”

      “That’s ’cause he’s a criminal,” Torrey said. “Most of ’em don’t trust cops.”

      “Does he have a reason?” she asked softly.

      His gaze locked on hers, eyes narrowing. “Maybe you should be careful about which side to pick here.”

      Dan cocked his head. “Lieutenant, that almost sounded like a threat.”

      Torrey drank a mouthful of tea. “No threat, just good advice.” He pushed the tea away. “You know what Tank Guzman did before he came to Coronado?”

      “No.”

      “He worked for a demolitions company.”

      Demolitions. The word kicked up the nerves along the back of her neck.

      “Yeah,” Torrey continued. “Demolitions. You know, the guys who knock down buildings?”

      Angela nodded.

      “Used to use those big wrecking balls but now, you know, things are high tech.”

      “High tech as in—” Dan started.

      “Now they use explosives,” Torrey finished. He got up. “Think carefully before you get into something you can’t get out of.” He flicked a card across the table at them. “Call me next time he arranges a meeting.”

      Torrey left. They sat in silence for a moment. Angela’s mind spun. Whom to believe? Which one to trust? Before she would have followed her instincts, but now she didn’t even trust herself not to bolt from the sound of a car backfiring. Several hours ago she’d been worrying that the man with the sport coat was stalking her. Paranoia. Fear. Whom to trust?

      Dan reached out and took her hand. “Hey,” he said softly. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

      His tone was so gentle, at odds with the raging torrent inside her. She realized she was clinging tightly to his fingers. Blushing, she let go.

      “I’m going to call Marco at the office. He’ll help me sort it out.”

      Dan sat back. She realized she’d been rude. “I appreciate your help, Dr. Blackwater.”

      “Dan.”

      “Dan. I’ll call home.” Saying it again made her feel more sure. Though his eyes lingered on her face, she could not look at him without seeing him, exhausted, scrubs stained with blood, clinging to her hand as she collapsed to the hospital floor. He was the embodiment of a time she was trying without success to forget.

      “Thank you again.” She forced a smile, tone formal.

      He gazed at her for another moment, before he got up and waited for her to slide out of the booth. “I’ll walk you back to your hotel.”

      They strolled in silence, and this time he did not put his arm around her. It was better that way. Since Afghanistan, she found she did not like to be touched, not even by her family. She found her key card and slid it into the lock. He held the door for her as she entered, reaching to take his phone out of his pocket.

      “Got a text.” He looked closer. “It’s from Tank. The message is, ‘This is the guy who’s gonna kill me.’” He frowned and held the screen for her to see.

      She took it from him, stared at the picture. Her body went suddenly cold.

      “You know him?”

      “Oh, yes,” she said in a whisper. “I know him.”

      * * *

      Dan saw her bite her lip so hard he was sure it would bleed. Her body went stone stiff, as if she would crack if he touched her.

      He put a hand on her shoulder. For a moment, they did nothing but breathe. Sometimes, he thought, that was enough. Then she cleared her throat.

      “I saw him for the first time this morning.” She told him about her fall and how he’d offered help, retrieved the contents of her purse. “I thought he was too interested, but I chalked it up to paranoia.” A flush of color painted her cheeks. “I’ve been unsure... It’s a hard adjustment, coming home, you know?”

      “I do.”

      “He knew my name.” She stared at the picture. “I’m beginning to think he knew my identity before I dropped my purse. Who is he?”

      “His name is Harry Gruber. He owns a trucking company.”

      Angela cocked her head. “You know him?”

      “Sure do. Gruber is a respected guy in this town. Actually, his donations fund the clinic where I volunteer.”

      “Is he a friend?”

      “Acquaintance,” Dan said. “We’ve done some charity events together, fun kid days at the clinic and such.”

      “So why would a man like that have any interest in killing Tank Guzman?”

      “Could be Tank is completely wrong. His integrity is still in doubt.” He shook his head. “What is Lieutenant Torrey going to have to say about this development?”

      She sighed. “I’ll call the office. They’re better at this than I am.” The dim light shadowed her face, adding to the fatigue.

      “It can wait until tomorrow.” He flipped on the rest of the lights and made sure the sliding glass door was secure, the curtains drawn.

      As he turned to go there was a wondrous smile on her face. It stopped him in his progress to the door.

      She caught his surprise. “I was just thinking that my gut told me Harry Gruber was up to something. Maybe my instincts do work, at least a little.” She sighed. “Something works, even if it’s just a small thing.”

      She looked so delicate standing there, her slender silhouette framed by the lamplight, arms wrapped around her waist as if offering herself a hug. He wanted to do the same.

      “It’s not a small thing. That’s a little window into yourself,” he found himself saying. “God’s telling you you’re still in there—you aren’t lost. I had those little windows, too, after I came back. We can talk about it, if you want to.”

      She looked away, cheeks flushed, and he knew he’d overstepped. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

      It was a dismissal, and there was nothing he could do to erase the distance between them. Pushy, Blackwater, as usual. “Okay. Call me if you need anything. Good night, Angela.”

      “Thank you,” she said, “for your help.”

      Had he helped? He considered as he returned to the truck, ruefully plucking the ticket he’d received off the windshield for

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