Arizona Heat. Linda Miller Lael

to do with Tucker.”

      “I don’t believe you,” Allison said.

      “Back off,” I replied, after reassembling my backbone vertebra by vertebra. “I have as much right to be here as you do.”

      Tucker appeared in the corner of my eye, handsome and anxious in his dark suit. His hair was butternut-blond and a little too long, like before, but he didn’t look like the undercover DEA agent I knew him to be. His normal uniform was jeans, a muscle shirt and biker boots.

      “Get in the car, Allison,” he said.

      She stiffened, gave me one more poisonous glare and walked away. Got into the big SUV parked at the curb.

      For a long moment Tucker and I just stared at each other.

      I figured it was his place to speak first, because he’d been the one to stumble into the hornet’s nest. On the other hand, there was a lot I wanted to tell him, because he was, after all, the only person in the world who knew I could see Gillian Pellway.

      I bit my lower lip and stood my ground.

      Tucker shoved a hand through his hair. Sighed. His green eyes were haunted, and I wondered how long it had been since he’d slept through a night. Certainly not since Gillian’s body had been found, if appearances were anything to go by.

      “Allison’s pretty torn up,” he said. “So are the kids.”

      I merely nodded.

      “She asked me to move back in. Just for a while.”

      Tucker had a condo in Scottsdale, but he wasn’t there much; when he was working, he tended to disappear into some mysterious underworld, one I knew little about.

      My stomach pitched, and bile scalded the back of my throat. I swallowed and nodded again.

      He moved as though he might take a gentle hold on my shoulders, or even pull me into his arms. Then, after glancing toward the SUV with its tinted windows, he looked at me again, his eyes begging me to understand. I figured his Harley, his usual favorite mode of transportation, was probably gathering dust in some garage.

      “You’re going to do it,” I said.

      Tucker thrust out a breath. “Moje, this isn’t a reconciliation. Nothing like that. It’s temporary—just until Allison gets over this. Daisy’s having bad dreams, and Danny freaks if every light in the house isn’t on all night long.”

      I thought of Gillian’s silent insistence that Vince Erland wasn’t her killer, and gulped back another throatful of bile. I believed her, and that meant the real murderer was still out there, perhaps already stalking another child. I shivered.

      “Do you think the twins are in danger?” I asked when I could summon up enough breath. I cared about Tucker Darroch big-time, and I wasn’t planning on sharing a bed with him as long as he was bunking in with the wife and kids, but Daisy attended the same dance school Gillian had, wore the same tiny-ballerina getup. Just thinking of that made me cold to the core.

      “I don’t know,” Tucker said.

      I took a step toward him, touched his hand. “See you,” I told him.

      He caught hold of my arm when I would have gone past him, climbed into my car and motored for Greer’s place, on the chic fringes of Scottsdale. Until a week before, I’d lived in an apartment over Bad-Ass Bert’s Biker Saloon, but following an unfortunate incident with a psychotic killer, I’d moved into my sister’s guesthouse.

      “What do you mean, ‘see you’?” Tucker demanded.

      I pulled my arm free, though I didn’t make a show of it. I knew Allison was watching from the SUV, and I didn’t want to spike her drama meter, which was already bobbing in the red zone. “I mean,” I said evenly, “that while I certainly understand that you have to be there for your family, I don’t intend to sleep with you in the meantime.”

      A muscle bunched in Tucker’s fine, square jaw, and he nodded once, sharply. I thought he’d turn and walk away, but he didn’t. His eyes searched mine, probing and solemn. “Have you seen Gillian again—since the day we talked on the phone?”

      She’d been haunting me pretty much nonstop, but that was neither the time nor place to go into details. The way things were going, there might never be a time or place. “Yes” was all I said.

      He absorbed that. Nodded again. “We have to talk.”

      “Not today,” I answered.

      “You’re still living at your sister’s place?”

      The SUV’s horn sounded an impatient, wifely little toot.

      “Until further notice,” I said, and this time when I started for my car, Tucker didn’t try to stop me.

      * * *

      I WOULD HAVE liked nothing better than to go back to Greer’s, strip to the skin and swim off some of my angst in her backyard pool, but I knew with my light, redhead’s skin, I’d freckle and fry if I did. So I settled myself in the front seat of my Volvo, switched on the ignition and turned the air-conditioning up as high as it would go.

      I sat, watching other people drive off in their cars.

      The young woman with the video camera passed by, accompanied by another teenage girl with a mascara-streaked face.

      The crowd consisted mostly of couples, though, going home to commiserate together.

      Tucker and Allison among them.

      I closed my eyes for a moment. They had each other. I had two distracted sisters and a very small ghost. Not much comfort there.

      I rallied.

      Told myself to get a grip.

      Okay, so Tucker and I were on hiatus. Maybe we were even over, as I’d thought earlier. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have a life, after all. I’d recently started my own one-woman, kitchen-table detective agency, which I’d dubbed Sheepshanks, Sheepshanks and Sheepshanks, to give it some substance, and I’d inherited a biker bar. I had friends—so what if they were in Witness Protection and I was never going to see them again?

      I sighed. My palms felt damp where I gripped the steering wheel.

      Was there a Damn Fool’s Guide to Making New Friends? I made a mental note to scour the bookstores and the internet for a copy.

      I shifted into Drive and pulled away from the curb, made a wide U-turn and headed for Bad-Ass Bert’s.

      Cave Creek isn’t exactly a metropolis, so I was braking in the gravel parking lot the next thing I knew. Staring at the weathered walls of my saloon, cluttered with rusted-out beer signs. My old apartment was upstairs, and the last time I’d been in residence, I’d nearly been murdered myself.

      Still, I missed the place, and it bugged me that I was afraid to stay there. I wasn’t comfortable at Greer’s, luxurious as it was. For one thing, I was worried that her husband, Alex Pennington, M.D., not exactly my greatest fan, might turn up beside my bed in a ski mask some dark night, and for another, Greer was really getting on my nerves. She had plenty of problems, including a cast on her left arm—some guy had tried to wrestle her into the back of a van in broad daylight just a few days back, and if Jolie hadn’t been there to scald the perp with hot coffee, Greer would have been toast.

      It wasn’t as if she was out of danger, either.

      One thing at a time, I thought. As if there was some universal crisis monitor out there someplace with a clipboard, making sure I didn’t get overloaded.

      Yeah. Right.

      On an impulse, I pulled the keys from the ignition and got out of the car. Locked up and headed for the outside stairway leading to my second-floor apartment. Okay, I definitely wasn’t ready to move back in, but I was up for a little immersion therapy. I was a grown woman, twenty-eight years old and self-supporting, and I’d survived some pretty