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drove away.
    Molly waited a few moments, then slipped out of Lucas’s room and into her own. Her cell phone was on the dresser, charging.
    She unplugged it, punched in a number.
    â€œIt’s about time you called,” her assistant, Joanie Barnes, said. “Where are you?”
    â€œIndian Rock, Arizona,” Molly answered, suddenly weary, sagging onto the side of her bed. She’d told Joanie, and everyone else who inquired, that she was attending a writers’ conference in Sedona, trolling for promising new authors. Only one person in L.A. knew the truth, and that was her dad.
    â€œYou didn’t make plane or hotel reservations,” Joanie accused. “I know, because I checked. And Fred Ettington said he drove you to the bus station. ”
    Molly sighed, pushed back her hair. Fred ran a car service, and she kept him on retainer to ferry important clients and editors to and fro when they were in L.A. on business. Desperate to get to Arizona and see Lucas, she’d called Fred out of habit, never thinking that he might blab.
    Given a do-over, she’d take a taxi.
    â€œAtmosphere,” she said brightly.
    â€œWhat?” Joanie asked.
    â€œThe bus. I rode it for atmosphere.”
    â€œYou can’t beat a bus for that,” Joanie remarked sarcastically. “And what the hell are you talking about?”
    â€œI’m writing a book,” Molly lied.
    â€œOh,” Joanie said, patently unconvinced and making no effort to disguise the fact. “Right.”
    â€œHow are things going at the office? Any messages?”
    â€œOnly about a thousand,” Joanie retorted. “Godridge didn’t make the bestseller lists, and he’s threatening to sign with some New York agent. And then there’s Davis. He’s called about fifty times, frantic because he keeps getting your voice mail.”
    Molly closed her eyes. Denby Godridge—“God” for short, at least around the office—was a grizzled old Pulitzer Prize winner with a major attitude and steadily declining book sales. She could handle him, though she didn’t relish the prospect. Davis Jerritt was another client—and another matter. His horror-suspense novels were runaway bestsellers, and the work in progress featured a psychotic stalker. A former actor, Dave liked to get into character when he was writing, and Molly had been selected to play the stalkee.
    â€œTell him I’m dead,” she said.
    â€œDavis or God?” Joanie quipped.
    Molly sighed again. “Look—I can’t explain right now, but there are some things I have to handle, so I’m going to be out of the loop for a while.” Like, forever. She paused, searching for words, and finally settled on a partial truth, strictly as a last resort. “I think I might need a lawyer.”

CHAPTER
3
    U NTIL HE DROVE INTO TOWN the next morning and saw the carnival setting up in the vacant lot behind the supermarket, Keegan had forgotten, first, that it was Saturday and, second, that it was the Fourth of July. Later there would be a community picnic and barbecue at the park, and when it got dark enough, the fireworks would begin.
    Muttering, he reached for his cell phone and speed-dialed Shelley’s number in Flagstaff. He’d promised to call Devon the night before, so they could make plans to spend the weekend together in the Triple M, but because of the situation with Psyche and Molly Shields, he’d neglected to do it.
    â€œHi, Dad,” Devon said eagerly.
    â€œHi, babe,” Keegan replied, pulling over to the side of the road, across from Echo’s Books and Gifts and the Curl and Twirl, so he could concentrate on the conversation with his daughter. “Got your bags packed? I can be there in forty-five minutes.”
    There was short, pulsing silence. Then, “Mom said you forgot me. That’s why you didn’t call.”
    Keegan grasped the steering wheel tightly with his