Lost but not Forgotten. Roz Fox Denny

He’d thrown up his hands and instead of continuing to explain, he wrote down instructions telling her the location of a hidden car.

      If he hadn’t stormed out then with the cases and gone straight to place them in the trunk of the hidden vehicle, she wouldn’t have a stitch to her name. Scarcely two hours later, one of his next-door neighbors had phoned to say he was dead. Without the written instructions, she might not have run. It wasn’t hard to imagine how she’d have ended up then.

      Another memory appeared. Gillian realized she hadn’t destroyed Daryl’s message. No wonder the thugs were on her trail so fast. She’d left them an engraved invitation. The note gave the location, color, model and make of her getaway car.

      Daryl had finally demonstrated that he did care about the baby they’d lost, and Gillian had failed him. Or felt she had. She hadn’t asked the right questions, and worse, she’d lost all that was dear. Tonight, after work, no matter how tired she was, she would search that lane. The worst of the devil’s disciples. That was how she thought of the men who’d killed Daryl and Pat Malone. Surely not even they would be so heartless as to destroy the contents of that suitcase. Those men only wanted a key, and there was no key. Of that Gillian was sure. So what in heaven’s name had Daryl—meticulous, methodical Daryl—done with the blasted thing?

      Too exhausted after ending her shift to do more than drag up the stairs to her apartment, Gillian escaped from the issues plaguing her into the pain caused by aching feet.

      She’d rented a third-floor apartment for security reasons. Now, having trudged up three flights of stairs leading from the parking garage, she might have considered trading safety for the convenience of living quarters on the first floor. Or an elevator, she thought, falling fully clothed across her bed. There was an ancient elevator at the front entrance, but because the building sat between two streets, it would have taken more energy to walk a block to go in through the front door than it did to climb the back stairs.

      A shower turned out to have amazing recuperative powers. Afterward Gillian felt rejuvenated enough to eat one of the three pieces of chicken Flo had insisted she take home along with her leftover taco salad. The chicken looked good. Not a bit greasy, and yet she must not be hungry, after all, she decided, rewrapping it.

      In the hour between when she’d left work and when she returned the food to her refrigerator, the sun had almost finished setting. It was merely a glow on the horizon, now. Calculating the distance to the side road where she’d had the flat tire, she figured darkness would arrive before she could drive out there. A perfect time to search the area without being seen.

      Well, the owners of the ranch might see her light. But even if they were home, they might not investigate. Gillian remembered entering an S curve to reach the point where the lane dead-ended in front of the house.

      Donning black jeans and a charcoal, long-sleeved knit top, Gillian slid her driver’s license into her back pocket. Bless Daryl for packing a pair of sturdy, ankle-high boots. She dug them out of her closet and slipped them on. Next, she purposely left everything but her keys behind. The last concession she made to a disguise was to stuff her short curls under a dark-blue baseball cap.

      The trip took just under thirty minutes.

      “Darn.” In the gathering darkness, she missed the lane on the first drive by. She had to go an extra mile before she found a spot where she could turn around.

      On her second approach, moments before she touched her left-turn blinker, a big blue sedan shot out of a road on her right side. The car careered across the highway, nearly clipping Gillian’s front fender. She slammed on her brakes and watched in horror as the heavier car swayed and almost lost control. The driver gunned his motor, straightened the lumbering vehicle and entered the lane that had been Gillian’s destination.

      Her headlights illuminated the reckless driver’s back license plate. Louisiana. “My God, it’s them,” she sobbed aloud. It had to be the thugs who wanted to kill her. They were obviously still hoping to locate her in this area, where they’d lost her three weeks ago.

      Her mouth went dry and her muscles tightened. They wouldn’t know this car.

      Or would they? Had they tracked her to the border? Was it only a matter of time before they caught her?

      Gillian was aware of the exact moment determination edged out her fear. Time was now her enemy. If she had to disappear again, she didn’t intend to run and leave Katie’s ashes to the likes of them.

      Coldly she reasoned that if they were still searching these side roads, they probably hadn’t found her suitcase. Shaking, she pulled onto a fire road and parked behind an outcrop of boulders, dousing her lights. If the men were inspecting each byway intersecting the perimeter road, they’d have already searched this one.

      Leaving her car, Gillian crouched low and zigzagged across the main road. She counted on blending with the underbrush. It was quite a hike on legs already weary from hustling food orders all day, and now spongy from fear. She stumbled frequently, but dared not risk using her flashlight. Once her eyes adjusted, a bright three-quarter moon allowed her to distinguish solid form from shadows.

      Creeping along the fence row, Gillian expected at any minute to come upon the men rifling her suitcase. At each bend, when the lane remained vacant, she released a little more of the breath she’d been holding. Where were they? Somehow, she hadn’t thought she’d driven this far before her tire blew out.

      Of course, it would seem longer on foot.

      As she inched along the fence, taking care to keep out of sight, a cloud of dust rolled across her brush cover, obscuring her view of the starry sky. She dived toward a thicket and flattened herself against the rough bark of a squat desert tree. Forced to eat grit, Gillian spat it out as quietly as possible. She needn’t have worried about being seen. The heavy sedan thundered by, traveling at far too great a speed.

      Gillian, who’d shut her eyes to avoid the dust, almost left her hideaway too early. Thinking it’d be easier to walk in the lane, she was about to vault the fence. Bobbing headlights from a second car sent her scurrying back into hiding. Auto number two also moved toward the highway, although compared to the first, it crawled like a snail.

      During its approach, Gillian noticed that the driver had some type of searchlight he or she was shining into the brush flanking the fence.

      Her heart slammed inside her chest. As before, she molded herself to the tree. Just before the light could flash over her face, she dropped to the ground. What she saw from that vantage point, through a tangle of weeds and grass, shocked her. Not the car itself, which was a well-preserved baby-blue Corvette, but the driver. He was someone she recognized. New fear spiraled through her veins. The Vette’s driver was none other than the cowboy ex-cop she’d flirted with at Flo’s Café.

      “Mitch Valetti.” Her lips formed his name, letting it spill happily from her lips before she had an opportunity to add things up. When she did, and the pieces fell into place—like the fact that he was combing the underbrush for something or someone—she clambered to her feet, then ran away as fast as her quaking legs would carry her.

      Gillian didn’t look back. Throughout her mad retreat, her brain shut down. Her throat constricted, making breathing next to impossible. Still, she didn’t stop until she fumbled open her door, started her engine and roared out of the fire road onto the main highway.

      She’d wrongly assumed the men who were chasing her had discovered the lane by chance. Instead, they were obviously in cahoots with Valetti. “Think,” she ordered herself. Did the thugs have enough of a head start to make a meeting with Valetti possible? During lucid moments, she’d have said probably not. Sergeant Malone had warned her the men might have local contacts. It was the only thing that made sense. In the café Valetti had admitted to Christy Jones that he needed money. Gillian had heard Christy allude to a case that—how did she put it? It had dropped in his lap. Why else would Valetti have made a concerted effort to get to know her—a total stranger? If he wasn’t working with the bastards doing their level best to find her, why would he be spotlighting a country lane at this hour?

      Her