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jot down her info, hoping that after doing so he could let it go. Then, forcing her image from his mind, he focused on the prison report.
    All they’d gotten from the guard before he’d lapsed into unconsciousness was that a gun was buried in the flowerbeds where the prisoners were working, and a couple of boot prints had been found that didn’t appear to match those of the inmates. CSI had taken images. They’d release any information as soon as they had it, yet it was obvious the inmates had help from outside. Someone had either picked them up or left a getaway car.
    Jake tapped his pencil’s eraser against his desk. Was Ellie Chandler’s showing up at his office yesterday a coincidence? Hell, no. He’d learned not to believe in coincidences. Like the coincidence of his ex-fiancée announcing her engagement to his brother six months after she’d broken up with him. Yeah, that was a coincidence.
    Why the hell was he thinking about that now? The answer rolled over him like a sputtering 18-wheeler. His mom expected him to attend the celebration that she was hosting in a couple of weeks for his grandfather’s hundredth birthday. He’d been a no-show last year, managed to avoid the newlyweds altogether. But this time his mom had made her feelings clear: You will be there.
    Gritting his teeth, he pushed back in his chair and focused on work. He had escaped-convicts and a different coincidence to figure out. Not that this was his case, but having ties to David Tanks, his captain would expect him to contribute. Jake prided himself on exceeding people’s expectations. He was no one’s charity case—not anymore.
    Elbows bracketing the report, he focused on reading. Had Tanks orchestrated the breakout alone, or were all the inmates involved? The bullet that killed the fourth prisoner appeared to be from the same nine millimeter that had shot the guard.
    Scanning the page, Jake digested what he’d read about the murdered inmate: Brandon Stafford, grand theft auto, five years down on a seven-year sentence.
    “Why were you killed, Brandon?”
    Thoughts about the guard, Hal Klein, raced through Jake’s mind. The last report that came in said the guard was still in surgery. Doctors weren’t optimistic, which meant that every law officer in Texas would be out to bring in the escapees. Jake stared at the guard’s name, remembered hearing that Klein was a father and a grandfather.
    Hang tough, old man.
    The next page contained the data about Tanks and the other two escaped inmates, Chase Roberts and Billy Moore. Jake’s eyes caught on the second name, and Ellie Chandler’s words echoed through his brain: I love Billy now.
    It couldn’t be, could it?
    Thumbing through the pages, he searched to see if he had the most recent visitors log of the escaped inmates. He found it. The list went back three weeks, and the names were easily legible. Faye Moore, mother. Bo Gomez, friend. Ellie Chandler—
    Crap. It was the same guy.
    But if these two criminals were in a dispute over a woman, why would they run off together? Something didn’t fit. He’d feel a lot better if he could find Miss Chandler. Where was she? Had she been part of the breakout? Before he’d gone there tonight, he’d called her home and cell phone. He’d left messages saying he wanted to help. She hadn’t called back.
    He scanned the pages again. Ellie visited Billy at least four times a week. Then Jake’s gaze caught the last name on the visitor’s log: Macy Tucker, sister.
    Pizza Girl.
    “Son of a…That little liar!”
    His gut had tried to tell him. Why the hell hadn’t he listened?
    Because you were too busy listening with your dick.
    He grabbed his gun and his handcuffs and headed for his car.
    Suddenly conscious, all Hal Klein could think about was his chest pain. Was this a heart attack? He tried to remember things, important things, like what had happened. Yes, something had gone down. But what? Or was it still happening? He tried to open his