I pulled the phone toward me and punched in the number of the sheriff's office in Flat Mesa. The deputy at the desk put me straight through. The phone made a couple of clicks, and then the sheriff's voice sounded in my ear.

"Jones," he said. Dark, biting, laconic.

"Hey, Nash. It's Janet."

There was a long silence.

"Fuck," Nash Jones said clearly, and he hung up on me.

Autore: Allyson James