Reckless

“Yes,” the woman said, a tiny handgun emerging miraculously from the inside of her cardigan sleeve. “You can tell me the truth, Mr. Walton. The whole truth. Or I will kill you.”

Greg’s eyes widened. He stifled a gasp. “Tracy?”

The white hair wasn’t a wig. It was real, just like the weight loss. Tracy Whitney must have aged twenty years in the two weeks since he saw her last.

“Inside,” she commanded. “Slowly.”

“YOU CAN PUT THAT down, you know,” Greg Walton said, closing the door behind them and walking calmly back into his living room. “We both know you’re not a killer, Miss Whitney. I’m so sorry about your son.”

“You wrote me that note,” Tracy said, still pointing her pistol firmly at Walton’s head.

Greg sat down on the couch. “Yes.”

“Why? You can’t possibly know anything about Nick’s death.”

“Can’t I?”

“No. Nick’s death was an accident.”

Greg Walton thought, Is she trying to convince me, or herself?

“It may have been. It may not have been. Either way, Miss Whitney, I’m not sure what you think is to be gained by shooting the messenger.”

Tracy hesitated. Her head throbbed and her body ached. She hadn’t slept properly in two weeks and she’d barely eaten either. She’d come to Walton’s house in a fit of anger, convinced he was the enemy. In her grief-addled state, that had made sense. Walton and Buck had come to the ranch. Blake and Nick had been killed. Now Walton was trying to lure Tracy to Langley. In Tracy’s mind, those three events had merged into a sinister chain. But now that she was standing here, looking at Greg, doubts overwhelmed her. To her embarrassment, and intense surprise, she found herself starting to shake uncontrollably.

“It’s OK.” Greg walked over and gently relieved her of the gun. Wrapping an arm around her shoulder to help her to the couch, he was horrified by how thin she was. He could feel every bone. “You’ve had a huge shock.” Tracy sat beside him, still shaking. “I’ll make you some tea.”

A few minutes later, wrapped in a heavy blanket like a shipwreck survivor and sipping hot, very sweet tea, Tracy apologized.

“I needed someone to lash out at. I needed to do something,” she told Greg.

“I understand, really. No need to apologize. To be frank with you, Tracy, I’m just glad you’re here.”

“What do you know about my son?” Tracy asked.

“We don’t know anything,” Greg admitted. “But there are suspicious circumstances surrounding the accident.”

“What circumstances?”

“The FBI took a look at Blake Carter’s truck. It appeared that the steering may have been tampered with.”

Tracy’s hand flew to her mouth. “No! That’s not possible. Who would want to hurt Blake? He didn’t have an enemy in the world.”

“I agree,” Greg Walton said. “He didn’t.”

He paused a few moments for the import of his words to sink in.

“We’ve had reports of a woman at the diner Blake and Nick went to that night. Tall, dark-haired, attractive. None of the locals knew her. She left the restaurant right after Mr. Carter did. She was driving a black Impala.”

Tracy’s mind flashed back to her last conversation with Nick.

“Blake thought someone was following us. A woman. He was kind of distracted.”

“Nick said something,” she murmured, as much to herself as to Walton. “In the hospital. Before he . . . He said a woman was following them.”

Greg Walton leaned forward earnestly. “Her physical description tallies with what we believe Althea looks like.”

Tracy shook her head, disbelieving.