Clandestine Cover-Up

No one answered.

Taking out his key—the one Lydia had given him to use only in case of an emergency—he let himself in while calling Tamara’s name.

Still, no one answered.

The dust in the room wasn’t quite as bad as the last time he’d been inside. Already much of the loose paper and junk had been carted from the main room. All that remained were the broken pews and some shattered glass in a corner.

He cleaned it up; he didn’t want her to cut herself.

Afterward he continued looking for her, but she wasn’t anywhere inside the church. Dread, tangible and spreading, washed down the back of Vince’s neck. Opening his wallet, he found Tamara’s cell phone number and dialed.

She answered on the first ring. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Where are you?”

“I’m eating lunch at Yano’s.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Good, the ravioli’s wonderful.”

It sounded as if she was chewing while she was talking. Good. Last year, when they’d walked down the aisle during Lisa’s wedding, she’d been curves and power. Now, since her ordeal with the stalker, she was thin, too thin. Maybe with a bit of meat on her bones, she’d get some of the power back.

He missed it.

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