Chapter Two

      Barry had done some foolish things in his life and had paid the price. He was well aware that chasing a woman who’d told him to butt out could bring unpleasant consequences. But much as he respected Sonya’s courage, she came to all of a towering five feet four or five, and he hadn’t noticed her toting an Uzi.

      His interest had started with the spark he’d felt the first time their gazes had met, and the confrontation in the park had aroused his admiration. He’d witnessed firsthand the risk she ran by continuing to pursue the girl.

      He’d grown up shielding his sister from her occasionally zany impulses. Now, like an idiot, he was watching over a stranger. Crazy. Stupid. But the woman intrigued him. Simultaneously vulnerable and mad at the world, she reminded him of himself.

      Barry didn’t intend to stick around any longer than necessary. He had no interest in romantic entanglements until he cleared his name and righted an egregious injustice.

      He’d been railroaded. And the fallout dogged him to this day.

      At the age of eighteen, he’d been sent to prison for five years. The cut on his forehead, from attempting to break up a knife fight, was only an external sign of the scars he bore. Following his release, he’d traced a fruitless odyssey in an attempt to fulfill his lifelong dream of becoming an international reporter. Although he’d earned a journalism degree, his status as an ex-con had relegated his résumé to the bottom of every heap in a highly competitive field, and while he’d managed to sell some articles, they paid too little to live on. He’d spent years traveling and freelancing while working odd jobs, hoping for a break that never arrived.

      He supposed he’d been lucky to inherit the editorship of the Downhome, Tennessee Gazette after his father’s death and mother’s disability. Nevertheless, he chafed at the tedium of covering city council meetings and town squabbles.

      Although the residents generally accepted him, he still caught suspicious glances, and even the town’s new, fair-minded police chief had declined to reopen the case. The only people who believed in him were his mother and his sister, Karen, director of the local nursing home.

      Barry would never truly fit into his hometown. He was moody and sharp-edged in a community full of cozy characters, the scar on his forehead a visible reminder of those years in hell. And no matter how his sister urged reconciliation, he refused to forgive the man whose testimony had sent him there, the man who’d once been his best friend.

      Sonya gave the impression that, at some level, she’d undergone a devastating experience of her own. Not prison, surely. But for the first time in quite a while, he felt neither impatient nor caustic with a woman.

      Curious, rather. And a little protective.

      He stuck to her tail all the way to the fast-food hangout. From her irritated expression as she exited the car, she didn’t appreciate the interference.

      An unaccustomed impishness propelled Barry to shout, “Hey! Thanks for showing me where to eat.”

      Glaring toward his window, she snapped, “There are laws against stalking.”

      He feigned innocence. “A guy’s gotta have dinner.”

      “Use the drive-through lane. Stay away from me.” Her frown didn’t waver. “You set one foot inside that restaurant and I’m calling the cops. At a guess, that’s the kind of trouble you don’t need, right, Mr. Ex-Con?”

      The rebuke stung. “Have it your way.”

      Barry drove past, disappointed and angry that his well-intended gesture had met with such revulsion. Yet why was he so wound up about a woman he’d barely met?

      He joined the drive-through line. In addition to burgers, the menu board listed several odd entries that some California maniac must have invented, like fish tacos with guacamole. For the heck of it, he ordered one.

      While waiting, he reviewed the stories planned for next week’s Gazette. Via e-mail, he’d already filed an article about the Anaheim newspaper conference to his assistant, Brent Wichita. Today’s interview with a family who’d moved from Downhome to Fullerton remained on his tape recorder and camera. He planned to write it tonight at the hotel room.

      The car ahead departed and Barry rolled to the cashier’s window. The opening gave a clear view of the restaurant’s interior, with orange booths crowded at this dinner hour.

      “That’ll be three seventy-one,” said the cashier.

      Barry handed over a five. Inside, he spotted Sonya at the counter. The sculpted eyebrows gave character to her heart-shaped face, and her full mouth pursed with worry.

      Why did she care so much about Gina? They didn’t appear to be related, as he’d first assumed. Of course, a baby’s life might be at stake, and despite the girl’s bravado, she was young and confused.

      He of all people ought to empathize. But Sonya had made it plain this was not Barry’s concern.

      Good. He had enough problems without adding to them.

      The cashier was handing him the order when, through the window, he saw three men in gang clothing enter the restaurant. One of them was Frankie.

      Beside Sonya, Frankie leaned down and said something Barry couldn’t hear. Her face a frozen mask, Sonya shook her head.

      The men left. Relieved, Barry collected his food and moved forward.

      In the front lot, two of the men piled into a jalopy while Frankie strolled off. The vehicle backed into a slot right beside Sonya’s compact, easily identifiable by the hospital parking sticker.

      Their actions gave Barry a bad feeling. Frankie had made tracks, probably because he already faced arrest for the earlier attempted robbery, leaving his buddies to wait.

      What did they plan to do? Presumably, they’d already asked about Duke’s whereabouts. More alarmingly, they might assume Sonya had identified Frankie to the police. As he’d learned in prison, guys like this tended to exact revenge for the