“I got a tip. Someone created a Twitter account just to tweet at me that they had a big story. I privately messaged them, and after hearing what they had to say, I decided it was worth a look.”

“What was in the tip?”

“That the notorious robbery case was about to blow open and reveal all the characters involved. He told me about the money bags and remains that had been found.”

“How could he have known that?”

“He wouldn’t tell me, but I had nothing to lose by poking around. I saw a chance at breaking a huge story. He said he wasn’t sharing it with any other media.”

Ollie frowned. “Why not? I’d go to the big-gun reporters, not a tabloid.”

She lifted one shoulder. “Anyway, I’ve been following you since early this morning.” She leaned forward, a sneaky gleam in her eye. “Are you following the woman in the silver truck?”

Dry bun stuck in Ollie’s throat, and he coughed. Crap. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He struggled to clear his throat, wishing he’d ordered a soda.

Tabitha rolled her eyes. “Do you have some sort of weird obsession with her? She’s old enough to be your mom.”

He snorted. “That’s sick. She’s a nice lady . . .”

Tabitha raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him as she waited for the rest of his explanation.

How did she turn the tables back on me?

“There’s been some weird vandalism at her place. I’m keeping an eye out for anything odd around her.”

Tabitha stared. “You’re pretending to be a secret protector? That’s still twisted.”

“It’s not like that.” Ollie fumbled for the right words to explain. “I’m good at watching people and blending into the background . . . I used to do it when I lived—well, where I lived before.”

“You don’t blend. I noticed right away.”

“Well, it was easier in the woods.” Truth. It was difficult to be discreet in his red truck. “I know the police can’t always watch out for her, so I help out when I have some time.”

“The police asked you to help?” Skepticism filled her tone.

“No . . . I’m just doing it.”

“Still creepy.” Tabitha pushed away her half-eaten parfait, leaned back in the booth, and crossed her arms.

“How old are you?” Ollie asked, curiosity taking over his tongue.

“Twenty-two. Why?”

“I’m only eighteen. Did you really think I’d fall for your lonely-single-woman routine?”

“You’re eating with me, aren’t you?” She raised one brow.

“What are you going to do next?” he asked, ignoring that she was correct. “I don’t think anyone in Eagle’s Nest will give you information for your story.”

A slow, wide smile answered him. “People always talk. I’ll figure out the right way to approach them.”

“You’ve struck out twice now.”

“Then I’ll have to keep swinging, won’t I? Don’t worry about me.” She batted the eyelashes again. “I always come out on top. By tomorrow, that FBI agent will wish she’d answered my questions.”

Ollie set down his last bite of burger, bile burning in his stomach. “Are you threatening Mercy?”

Her laugh was forced. “Of course not. I meant she’ll wish she’d been my source.”

Ollie took a long look at Tabitha. Under his stare, she blinked several times and tried unsuccessfully to smile. “That’s my family you’re talking about,” he stated quietly.

“I happen to know you’re not related,” she snapped.

“Family is more than bloodlines. It’s also the people you choose to be in your life. I chose them.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“All you need to understand is that if you do something to embarrass Mercy or Truman, you’ll be answering to me.”

Boredom crossed her face as she turned away. “Okay, little boy.”

But a moment of uncertainty had flickered in her eyes.

Ollie stood and moved his uneaten fries and parfait back to his serving tray, his hunger long gone. “Nice meeting you.” He dumped the contents of the tray in the garbage bin behind their booth and headed for the door. He briefly regretted the loss of the parfait but realized he’d never taste one again without remembering this meal. Nausea swirled at the thought of fudge and peanuts.

No more parfaits for me.

He glanced back and saw her tapping on her cell phone.

What’s she planning to do?

ELEVEN

The guard from the armored car company had agreed to talk to the FBI but insisted that Art accompany Mercy. Mercy didn’t mind, and Art seemed pleased he was wanted. During the two-and-a-half-hour sunny drive from Bend to The Dalles, they caught up on each other’s lives.

“You look good, Mercy,” he said during a break in the conversation. “This rural part of the state must agree with you.”

“You know I grew up here, right?”

“I don’t think I did. Getting you to talk about yourself was nearly impossible.” He shot her a serious look.

“Yeah. I still don’t. Well . . . I’m a little better than I used to be. I tried to keep a thick wall between work and my personal life.”

“You didn’t have a personal life,” he stated. “Shocked the hell out of me that you agreed to have dinner that one time.”

Mercy chuckled. “Shocked me too. But it was impossible to say no to you.” She took a deep breath. “You were very kind to me back then, Art, and I appreciate it. I know I avoided interactions with most people.”

“You were a challenge,” he admitted. “Rumors flew around about you, you know.”

“What?” Mercy clenched the steering wheel in surprise. “What rumors? Who spread rumors about me?” Her heart sped up.

“Calm down. Nothing earth-shattering. Private people always drive other people crazy with curiosity. They don’t understand why private people don’t share every crumb of their lives.”

“You still haven’t told me what they said.”

He turned his attention out the windshield of her Tahoe. “That you had a secret boyfriend . . . that you left town on the weekends . . . Some people were convinced you had a whole other life.”

“Trust me, I had no life. I spent my weekends . . . working on my home. I just didn’t like socializing.”

“I enjoyed our dinner,” he added, a question in his tone.

Here it is. “I did too.”

“Remind me why there wasn’t there a second?”

“I told you . . . friendship fitted us better.” She gave him a quick glance. “I wasn’t in a mental or emotional place to start something,” she said. “I can’t explain it better than that.”

“It appears you’re in a better place now. Congratulations.”

His sincerity was unmistakable. “Thank you. I’m very happy. I’ve changed a lot since I moved here—and all of it is for the better.” She pulled the Tahoe to the curb in front of a house. “Would you believe that my teenage niece lives with me?”

“A teenager?” His response was appropriately aghast, and his eyes crinkled with humor.

“I’ll fill you in after we talk to Gary Chandler.”

Gary Chandler lived in a tiny house. Mercy and Art carefully followed the broken concrete walkway to the front door. Tiny was a generous description of Gary’s home; it was a dollhouse. The lush green grass was in dire need of a mow, and the warped siding needed paint. More than likely the siding needed full replacement. The glorious day showed every sagging detail of the neglected home. An old minivan was parked under the carport, a faded JOHN KERRY FOR PRESIDENT 2004 bumper sticker peeling from its rear window.

“That might be a collector’s item,” stated Art, pointing at the bumper sticker.

Mercy doubted it. “Gary’s wife will be here, right?” she asked.

“He said she would be. Naomi.” Art knocked firmly on the door. Paint flaked off and fluttered down to the welcome mat that read GO AWAY.

“Not very welcoming,” Mercy commented.

“Gary’s not a fan of guests, but I think it’s supposed to be funny.”

The joke fell flat for Mercy.

The door opened inward, and a large woman blocked the entrance as she sized them up. She wore a shapeless housedress, and her graying hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. Her penetrating stare rivaled that of a starchy schoolteacher, and Mercy couldn’t pull her gaze away from the small turtle tucked under one arm.

“Evening, Naomi,” said Art. “This is Special Agent Kilpatrick. She’s in charge of the Gamble-Helmet Heist case these days.” He didn’t mention the turtle.

Mercy held out a hand, and the woman paused a rude two seconds before shaking it. “Keep it short. Gary’s not feeling great today, and talking about this only makes it worse.” Her expression indicated she’d hold Mercy personally responsible for giving her husband any grief.

“Not a problem,” answered Mercy.

Naomi stepped back and let them in. Embroidered cat faces decorated her slippers.

Pet lover?

It was dark inside. All the small windows were covered with heavy curtains, and the light from the lamp was too dim. Mercy wanted to fling open the curtains. Gary Chandler sat in a battered easy chair in one corner, a calico cat on his lap. The cat’s glare rivaled Naomi’s.

“Hey, Gary.” Art immediately stepped forward to shake his hand.

Gary was thin—skeletally thin—and he had a faded comb-over. The pictures in Mercy’s file showed a slender man with a full head of hair and a kind smile. He didn’t get out of his chair as he greeted the retired FBI agent. Art introduced Mercy, and the odor of marijuana reached her as she shook his bony hand. His pupils were larger than they needed to be, even for the darkened room.