Plain Jeopardy. Alison Stone

in Quail Hollow. It was one of those places where everyone knew everyone else or, at the very least, knew of everyone else. He most definitely had never met this brunette with watchful brown eyes. Yet something about her seemed vaguely familiar.

      “Grace Miller.” She blinked slowly, as if she had to think about it.

      He made a mental note of it. Miller was a common Amish name around here; however, this woman was definitely not Amish. Not with her long brown hair flowing out from under her knit cap. Not to mention her expensive-looking boots, albeit not snow boots.

      “Do you have ID?”

      She held up her hand toward the smashed car. “My purse is on the passenger seat.”

      “No problem. We can deal with that later. Want to tell me what happened?”

      A shadow crossed her eyes as if she were deciding how much to tell him. “I was pumping gas and some guy crashed into me. And took off.” She seemed bored with the retelling. It was odd. Most people would have been completely panicked if someone rammed into their car while they pumped gas.

      “Do you know the guy? Did you see him or get a license plate?”

      “Of course I don’t know him. And no, I didn’t get a license plate. I was too busy diving out of the way.” She twisted to get a better look at the slushy, black snow on her pants. She winced and her hand moved to her midsection. “I only saw a profile. Male. It was too hard to make out his face.”

      “Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”

      “I’ll be fine. I had my appendix out a few weeks ago. Landing on my side didn’t do much for my recovery.” Apparently sensing he was going to push the doctor thing again, she held up her hand. “I’m fine, really. I want to go home and change my clothes. I’m soaking wet.”

      “All right.” Conner glanced around. The beeping sound of a tow truck backing up to her damaged car filled the night air. “Do you have someone you can call for a ride?”

      “Um, no?” Her answer came out as a question. “I don’t suppose Quail Hollow has Uber.”

      He suppressed a chuckle. “Let me take a few photos of the scene, talk to the tow truck driver, then I’ll see that you get home.”

      A fraught expression tightened her pretty features. “That would be great.”

      “Wait here where it’s warm.”

      Grace hugged the blanket closer around her and shuddered. “That’s a matter of opinion.” Her lips tilted into a weary smile, but he didn’t miss the daggers shooting from her eyes.

      * * *

      For all the investigative journalism Grace had done over the years, she had never sat in the front seat of a patrol car. She had never sat in the backseat, either, for that matter. She’d come close a few times, but she had a knack for knowing when pushing law enforcement for answers had drifted from merely annoying to “let’s lock her up.”

      The officer had started the engine, then climbed back out of the vehicle. She felt a little guilty about being coy regarding what happened tonight. She hadn’t just been filling her gas tank. She had come here because she had received a tip on the story she was working on. However, the sheriff’s department had been less than forthcoming with information when it came to the underage drinking party and subsequent fatal car accident.

      Two could play at that game.

      Besides, she didn’t want to become part of the story. If she kept her mouth shut, the hit-and-run would be a little blurb on the back page of a local paper and not part of a larger story, one that she was trying to cover. That was, if Quail Hollow had a newspaper.

      Grace hadn’t dealt with this officer from the sheriff’s department before. Maybe she could pry some information out of him before he realized she was a journalist.

      Just maybe...

      Just maybe that would be unethical, a little voice whispered in her head.

      Stifling a shiver, Grace adjusted the vent on the dash, glad the officer had turned on the heat before getting back out of his patrol car to talk to the tow truck driver and retrieve her purse from the passenger seat of her car. She plucked at the fabric of her wet pants, eager to get home and change.

      When the officer finally climbed behind the steering wheel, he handed her the purse. “Warming up?”

      “Thanks. Yeah.”

      “Before we go, I want to see if you recall anything else from the accident. Anything else important you haven’t told me?” His intense brown eyes searched her face. She wasn’t ready to talk. Not yet.

      Twisting her lips, she shrugged. “Not really.” She pulled on the blanket she was sitting on to smooth out the crease cutting into her thigh. “I’d love to get home and change out of these wet clothes.”

      He hesitated a moment then asked, “Where are you staying? Do you have friends or family in Quail Hollow?”

      Grace couldn’t resist smiling. This was small-town life. Since he hadn’t met her before, she couldn’t possibly belong in Quail Hollow. And he wasn’t wrong. Grace doubted she’d ever fit in here, regardless of her background. “I’m staying at the bed & breakfast.”

      The fluorescent lighting from the gas station overhang lit on the handsome angles of his face. A look of confusion flickered in his eyes. “The Quail Hollow Bed & Breakfast? It’s closed for the season. The owners...” He stopped himself, perhaps realizing it wasn’t prudent for law enforcement to reveal when the residents of their fine town were away on an extended vacation.

      “Yes, I know. My sister and Zach are on their honeymoon.”

      The officer’s eyes widened, and he pointed at her with a crooked smile. “I knew you looked familiar. It was bugging me. Of course, your last name’s Miller. A lot of Millers live around here.” He put the patrol car in Drive. “Let me get you home.”

      “I’d appreciate that.” She turned and watched the driver tow her sister’s smashed-up car away on the back of the flatbed truck. So much for successfully taking care of things while her sister was away. Her stomach bottomed out, and a new worry took hold: it would require writing a lot of articles to pay for the damage. Her sister most likely had insurance, yet repairs still meant an inconvenience to everyone involved.

      She pushed the thought aside. The occasional voice crackled over the police radio, interrupting the silence that stretched between her and the officer. Something about a deputy taking their dinner break and something else about Paul King’s cows blocking the road and that someone was sure to have a wreck if the animals weren’t cleared from the road right away. At that, she cut a sideways glance at the officer, who seemed unfazed. “Bet you’re glad you got taxi duty and don’t have to deal with the cows.”

      He laughed, a weary sound, as if he had heard it all before. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll be dealing with the cows once I get you home.”

      “Are cows blocking the road a regular occurrence around here?” Maybe she could somehow work that into her article about the dark side of Amish life.

      “We’ve been after Paul to get his fence repaired. These things take time, I suppose. It’s all part of a slower-paced life.”

      Grace snagged her opening. “I heard there was some excitement in town about a month and a half ago.”

      The officer seemed to stiffen. He kept his eyes straight ahead on the country road. “That’s the kind of excitement we don’t need or want.”

      “I heard there was a big drinking party.” She ran her hand down the strap of her seat belt, choosing her words carefully. “Is it unusual for the Amish and the townies to party together?” She had a hard time imagining her quiet father, who’d grown up Amish, drinking a Budweiser with his buddies out in some field.

      The officer