Nancy Bush's Nowhere Bundle: Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide & Nowhere Safe. Nancy Bush

      “Um . . . oh, golly . . . I don’t want to be mean or anything, but she was kind of a man hater.”

      “No!” Nadine lifted her tear-stained face to glare at her coworker. “She was just a loner. Her parents live on Sycamore Street,” she said to September. “Not far from here. Street ends in one of those circles and they’re the yellow house at the end.” Her face screwed up, more tears forming. “They kicked her out when she was a junior. They probably won’t even care!”

      “Don’t believe it,” Gretchen said, and they left for Sycamore Street

      There was no one home, so Gretchen took down the address and phoned the station, asking for someone to get her a number. It took a few minutes, but Gretchen got the cell number of Mrs. Decatur, who fell apart like Nadine when she was asked to come and identify the body.

      “Now, we know who the vic is,” Gretchen said. “We just don’t know who killed her. Jesus, at this rate we’re gonna need some more detectives. Where the hell is your brother?”

      Good question, September thought. Hurry up, Auggie. Bring Dugan in and get back here.

      “Huh,” Auggie said, seated at the table, his gaze on the screen of his cell phone. “Dr. Frank Navarone was last employed at Halo Valley Security Hospital. Google. Who knew?” Liv was staring at him, wide-eyed. “You okay?” he asked.

      She seemed to shake herself out of a reverie. “Remains to be seen.”

      Auggie scrolled through his numbers. “You ready to call LeBlanc?”

      Her answer was a short bark of humorless laughter. She held out her hand for the phone and he held up a finger.

      Finding the number he’d entered earlier, he pushed CALL and handed her the cell. She put the phone to her ear slowly, as if it weighed a ton.

      He leaned close to her and she cocked the phone so he could hear. The line rang four times before a man answered, “Hello?”

      “Mr. LeBlanc?” Liv asked.

      “Yes?”

      She drew a breath. “My name’s Olivia Dugan and I was adopted by Deborah and Albert Dugan from Rock Springs.” The strangled sound he made said he knew where this was going. “I guess you know why I’m calling. . . .” she trailed off.

      “You’re looking for your father. Well, you found him.” He didn’t sound pleased.

      “I don’t want to bother you, but I got this package from my mother, my adoptive mother, Deborah Dugan . . .” She went on to explain how it had arrived after she turned twenty-five and that her birth certificate was inside. “I’m trying to figure out why she sent it to me. Could I meet with you? Just for a few minutes?”

      “You could,” he said reluctantly.

      “Is Patricia around?” she asked.

      “Nah. Patsy and me, we were married but we were so young and it was over before you were even born. We had to give you up. Neither of us knew anything about anything. We couldn’t raise a kid.”

      Auggie pulled back and mouthed for her to find out where he lived. Liv asked LeBlanc for his address and he grudgingly gave it to her, a condo on Portland’s eastside. Liv told him she could be there in a half hour, and LeBlanc grunted an assent.

      The LeBlanc condo was in a large complex with units facing outdoor balconies, much like Liv’s apartment complex. Liv’s legs were leaden even while her insides were thrumming, a kind of anxiety building with the thought of meeting her biological father. She’d never really cared, or wondered about her birth parents. In point of fact, ever since her mother’s death she’d felt disconnected from her family except for Hague. But Hague’s problems had prevented her from any kind of closeness with him, so she’d basically always been on her own.

      Everett LeBlanc’s condo was on the third floor. They took an elevator up that let them out on a gallery that faced west, toward a common area the condominium complex enclosed. They walked to the door together and Liv hitched her backpack on her shoulder, feeling a brief moment of wonder that she had Auggie as an ally. She’d given up questioning his motives. She didn’t really care. He was with her now and she was grateful.

      Drawing a breath, she rapped on the door with her knuckles. Momentarily, she thought about what she looked like: jeans and a dark blue T-shirt and sneakers. The baseball cap had smashed her hair and belatedly she fluffed it with her fingers, then dropped her arms. What did it matter now?

      LeBlanc opened the door, a man in his late forties with brown hair and a pair of hazel eyes that caused Liv’s throat to close briefly. She could see a resemblance, the genetics obvious. It was slightly eerie and for a moment she and Everett just looked each other up and down.

      “Well, come in,” he said gruffly, and she and Auggie walked inside.

      He gestured them to a well-worn couch and sat down in a chair opposite them, moving some magazines to the floor. “I don’t know what you’re lookin’ for or how I can help ya, but fire away.”

      Liv hardly knew where to start. It was Auggie who asked, “You watch the news, Mr. LeBlanc?”

      “If ya mean, did I see Olivia’s face, yes I did.”

      “I didn’t have anything to do with what happened at Zuma,” Liv said quickly. “But I think . . . I don’t know . . . maybe it happened because of me. We won’t stay long. I just . . . would you look at these pictures?” She yanked the package from her bag and slipped out the photos, handing them to him. “You lived around Rock Springs, too, right? I was born in the hospital in Malone.”

      “That’s right.” His head was bent to the photos. He looked each one over carefully, then set them down.

      “The man walking toward the camera, reaching for it. He’s a doctor, we believe. Dr. Frank Navarone.”

      “I don’t know. My memory for that time’s not so good. You should really check with Patsy. Your—er—mother.”

      “Can you give us her address or phone number?” Auggie asked as Liv absorbed his words.

      “Sure thing.” He went into the kitchen, yanked out a drawer, and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. “Want me to write it down?” he asked, but he was already dragging out a tablet and pen from the same drawer and scribbling it down. He ripped off the top sheet of paper and handed it to Liv. “You think this doctor’s behind the shootings?” he asked.

      “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I’m wrong, but I feel like it has something to do with me. Like he’s after me.”

      Everett picked up the photo of the stalking man grabbing for the camera. “He sure doesn’t want his picture taken.”

      Auggie glanced at the address on the paper Everett had given Liv. “Patsy Owens? She’s remarried.”

      “Uh-huh. To Barkley Owens.” Everett made a face. “We don’t keep in close contact anymore, but if you see her, say hi for me, okay?”

      “I will,” Liv said. An awkward moment passed and Liv looked at Auggie, who got to his feet. She followed suit and so did Everett. They gazed at each other and then he nodded and gestured toward the door.

      “Be seein’ ya,” he said as he showed them out.

      In the elevator on the way down, Auggie said, “Do you want to call Patsy?”

      Liv nodded. “Yep.”

      “Still think we’re on the right trail?”

      “You think I’m wrong?” She gave him a long look. His T-shirt was starting to stick to him in the afternoon heat and she had to drag her eyes away, her mind thinking about how she would like to rip his shirt off and press her own overheated flesh against his.

      “I think we’re running out of time,” was all he said.