LITMIR.BIZ

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to look at, too.

      Warning! Sleep alert!

      She was not one to ogle a stranger, but she was tired, hungry and confused. A man had broken into her house and garage. Looking for what? And wait a second, why was a federal agent at her house?

      She turned to him. “Hey, you never told me why you’re here.”

      “First things first. Let’s get ice for your cheek.”

      She touched her face. “It looks bad?”

      “Not yet, but it will if you don’t ice it.” He took a kitchen towel from the rack, opened the freezer and dropped a handful of cubes in it. He reached out to place it on the bruise and she took it from him.

      “Thanks,” she said, holding it in place and leaning against the counter. “You’re an expert at first aid?”

      “I’ve been knocked down a few times.”

      Yeah, she could see that. He was tough, the kind of man who stayed focused and didn’t back down from a fight.

      “Ready to give a statement?” he said.

      “Sure.”

      Chief Cunningham stepped into the kitchen from the back door. “I gave the Bender kid a lecture about firearms. Took away the rifle for the time being, until his dad gets back from his business trip.”

      “I was about to question Miss Yates,” Agent McIntyre said.

      “Please call me Krista. Miss Yates makes me feel like an old maid.”

      “Okay, Krista.” Agent McIntyre sat at the kitchen table and opened a small notebook.

      Good, he looked less intimidating sitting instead of towering over her. The man had to be over six feet tall, dwarfing her five-foot-three-inch frame. His good looks and hard-edged demeanor made her uncomfortable. He was different than the few men she’d dated in Wentworth.

      Not just different. He was a cynical man who’d chosen a violent career.

      She sighed and found a bag of chamomile tea. She’d lost her dad to violence and saw what violence did to innocent children on her mission trips. Krista believed in discussing problems, praying about them. She wondered if a man like Luke McIntyre ever prayed. She doubted it.

      “Can you describe the man in your garage?”

      “No, I’m sorry. He was wearing a skeleton mask.”

      The agent hesitated in his note taking. Why?

      “Did anything unusual happen at the airport in Mexico before you boarded?” he continued, focusing his blue-green eyes on his notepad. She’d noticed their brilliant color when he’d helped her trap Anastasia.

      “Nothing unusual other than missing my first flight, which meant missing my connection in Chicago, and then losing my luggage.”

      “Did anyone talk to you at the airport?”

      “Not really.”

      “Anyone at all. The slightest, seemingly insignificant conversation could help us.”

      “I chatted with a young mother. She had the cutest little newborn.”

      “Any men?”

      “I don’t like talking to men.”

      The agent snapped his eyes to meet hers. “You don’t talk to men?”

      “Strangers. I don’t trust them.”

      “Smart girl.”

      Irked, she turned her back to him and poured hot water into the cup. “Thank you, Agent McIntyre, but I stopped being a girl ten years ago.”

      Silence filled the room. She’d overreacted. She couldn’t help it. Being called a “girl” hit a nerve.

      It reminded her of when she was a little girl, innocent and trusting. When she made the mistake of talking to a stranger.

      “Anyway, no talking with strangers,” she said, turning to Agent McIntyre.

      Chief Cunningham stood quietly in the corner, arms crossed over his chest. He knew the story, the loss and devastation to the Yates family. The chief was the only one who knew the truth, knew that Mom and Krista had fled to Wentworth from California because the little girl had been so close to a killer, looked him in the eye, even shook his hand.

      Krista had been only five when she’d told the stranger that Father was still at work in the Lincoln building. No one could have anticipated how that bit of information would change everyone’s lives. It led the disheartened investor to Dad’s office where an argument turned violent and Dad was killed.

      After Dad’s death, Mom fretted that the killer would come back for Krista since she’d seen him, so Mom packed up their belongings and moved to Gran’s house in Michigan. A year later they got word that Dad’s killer had been caught and sentenced to life in prison.

      Krista was safe, but Mom and Gran couldn’t drop the overprotective parenting style. Mom probably would have objected to Krista going on the mission trip if she’d still been living in Wentworth.

      “And when you landed in Grand Rapids?” the agent asked, interrupting her thoughts.

      “I got paged.”

      “For what?”

      “Someone found my license, but I had my license so it was a mix-up. By the time I got to baggage claim, I discovered they’d lost my luggage.”

      “Did you get there as luggage was coming out on the conveyor belt?”

      “No.”

      “So someone could have taken your luggage?”

      “I guess, by accident, sure.”

      The agent and police chief exchanged glances.

      “I don’t have anything worth stealing, if that’s where you’re going with this.”

      “You might have had something you didn’t know you had,” Agent McIntyre said.

      Then again his job was to see conspiracy around every corner.

      “Why are you here again?” she asked and sipped her tea with one hand, while holding the ice to her cheek with the other.

      “I’m investigating drug trafficking from Mexico into the Midwest.”

      “You think they used my suitcase to smuggle drugs?” she said, her voice pitched with disbelief.

      “It’s not that simple,” Agent McIntyre said.

      “What, then?”

      “We got a tip that the leader of the drug cartel sent men to Michigan to tie up some loose ends with a church group. The tip came shortly after your group left Mexicali.”

      “So, you think someone in the mission group was smuggling drugs?”

      “It’s a possibility, yes,” McIntyre said.

      “No. It’s not. I know you’re used to dealing with criminals, Agent McIntyre, but people like us don’t break the law.”

      “Luke.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “My name is Luke. You don’t have to call me Agent McIntyre.”

      “Oh, okay.” But it wasn’t okay. She didn’t want to call him by his first name, didn’t like the fact he was accusing someone in her church of smuggling and she didn’t like that he was still here at nearly one in the morning.

      “Is that all?” she said.

      “You didn’t recognize anything about the assailant?”

      “The man in the garage? No. He could have been some teenager fooling around for all I know.”

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