computer, reaching out for a snippet of news about her family, that she felt most angry. Brad had taken her family from her, and she didn’t know when she’d ever get them back.
She logged on to Facebook under her fake name, Zoey Harris. Her sister had suggested the name Zoey because it was unusual enough that someone looking for a bland, unnoticeable name would never think of it. It was a little like the “hide in plain sight” theory.
The fictional Zoey Harris lived in Florida, and was ostensibly no more than a casual friend to her sister. Carlin never posted a private message on her sister’s page, because Facebook accounts could be hacked, which she assumed meant that private messages could be read. She didn’t know for sure, but she wasn’t willing to take the chance. Whenever she did post something on her sister’s wall, she did it right out in the open, where it wouldn’t look important.
She read all of Robin’s posts; nothing out of the ordinary was going on, just the usual family activities. Then she went to her brother’s page, and found the same thing, only Kin’s comments tended more toward sports. Back again to her sister’s page, where she posted a brief message about wishing for summer vacation to end so the kids would be back in school. That kind of innocuous message signaled her family that she was all right.
It was tempting, while she was in front of a computer, to run a check on Brad’s name to see if he’d been arrested. He’d gotten away with Jina’s murder, but maybe he’d moved on to someone else and run into trouble. No matter how tempting it might be, though, she didn’t type his name into the search bar. She didn’t dare. There were programs you could use to find out who’d searchedyour name. If Brad had one of those set up, he’d know instantly where the search had originated. Maybe right before she left town, she’d run a search and see if anything popped up.
No
. She couldn’t do that.
A shudder walked down her spine. She’d never purposely draw Brad here, to a place where people she liked lived and worked, to a place small enough that he could gather bits of information about her. Maybe on her next stop in a big city, wherever that might be, she’d do a search on him. Maybe she’d go to Chicago. Yeah, let him spend a few weeks trying to find her
there
, long after she’d moved on.
Carlin was back in The Pie Hole in plenty of time to change into her uniform—pink like Kat’s, with a curly “C” embroidered over the pocket—and get the main room set for lunch. The pies and cakes were baking, so the place smelled wonderful. It smelled like … home. Not a home Carlin had ever known, because the domestic arts hadn’t figured prominently in her life, but she didn’t know any other way to describe the scent.
Time passed fast when the place was busy, and as usual she and Kat fell into a kind of rhythm as the pace of business picked up. It was almost like a dance: serving food, talking to the customers, laughing at jokes that were sometimes funny and sometimes not, making sure no one’s drink glass or mug was ever empty, cooking up orders whenever someone didn’t choose the daily special. Maybe it could be classified as menial labor, but Carlin was enjoying herself. She liked the people here, and Kat was gradually becoming a real friend.
They were in the middle of the lunch rush—Carlin behind the counter and Kat making the rounds with a pitcher of tea in one hand and a carafe of coffee in the other, because she could handle pouring on the go better than Carlin could—when the cowboy walked in.Carlin couldn’t help but notice him. What warm-blooded woman wouldn’t? He was tall and muscular, and he moved with an iron confidence that said he knew his strength and hadn’t met much that could stop him. She had to call him handsome, though he wasn’t, not really. His face wasn’t perfect and sculpted, it was on the rough and hard side, but she was going on
She logged on to Facebook under her fake name, Zoey Harris. Her sister had suggested the name Zoey because it was unusual enough that someone looking for a bland, unnoticeable name would never think of it. It was a little like the “hide in plain sight” theory.
The fictional Zoey Harris lived in Florida, and was ostensibly no more than a casual friend to her sister. Carlin never posted a private message on her sister’s page, because Facebook accounts could be hacked, which she assumed meant that private messages could be read. She didn’t know for sure, but she wasn’t willing to take the chance. Whenever she did post something on her sister’s wall, she did it right out in the open, where it wouldn’t look important.
She read all of Robin’s posts; nothing out of the ordinary was going on, just the usual family activities. Then she went to her brother’s page, and found the same thing, only Kin’s comments tended more toward sports. Back again to her sister’s page, where she posted a brief message about wishing for summer vacation to end so the kids would be back in school. That kind of innocuous message signaled her family that she was all right.
It was tempting, while she was in front of a computer, to run a check on Brad’s name to see if he’d been arrested. He’d gotten away with Jina’s murder, but maybe he’d moved on to someone else and run into trouble. No matter how tempting it might be, though, she didn’t type his name into the search bar. She didn’t dare. There were programs you could use to find out who’d searchedyour name. If Brad had one of those set up, he’d know instantly where the search had originated. Maybe right before she left town, she’d run a search and see if anything popped up.
No
. She couldn’t do that.
A shudder walked down her spine. She’d never purposely draw Brad here, to a place where people she liked lived and worked, to a place small enough that he could gather bits of information about her. Maybe on her next stop in a big city, wherever that might be, she’d do a search on him. Maybe she’d go to Chicago. Yeah, let him spend a few weeks trying to find her
there
, long after she’d moved on.
Carlin was back in The Pie Hole in plenty of time to change into her uniform—pink like Kat’s, with a curly “C” embroidered over the pocket—and get the main room set for lunch. The pies and cakes were baking, so the place smelled wonderful. It smelled like … home. Not a home Carlin had ever known, because the domestic arts hadn’t figured prominently in her life, but she didn’t know any other way to describe the scent.
Time passed fast when the place was busy, and as usual she and Kat fell into a kind of rhythm as the pace of business picked up. It was almost like a dance: serving food, talking to the customers, laughing at jokes that were sometimes funny and sometimes not, making sure no one’s drink glass or mug was ever empty, cooking up orders whenever someone didn’t choose the daily special. Maybe it could be classified as menial labor, but Carlin was enjoying herself. She liked the people here, and Kat was gradually becoming a real friend.
They were in the middle of the lunch rush—Carlin behind the counter and Kat making the rounds with a pitcher of tea in one hand and a carafe of coffee in the other, because she could handle pouring on the go better than Carlin could—when the cowboy walked in.Carlin couldn’t help but notice him. What warm-blooded woman wouldn’t? He was tall and muscular, and he moved with an iron confidence that said he knew his strength and hadn’t met much that could stop him. She had to call him handsome, though he wasn’t, not really. His face wasn’t perfect and sculpted, it was on the rough and hard side, but she was going on
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