Wearing an exhausted smile, the waitress placed a chicken wrap on the table for Hobbs and a salad in front of Goldberg that could have filled a wheelbarrow.

"That's more vegetation than I eat in a month," said Hobbs.

"Salad." Goldberg sighed. "I'll be hungry by three."

Hobbs checked his phone. "Turns out there's another guy who went missing from Simon's Used Cars."

"Another one?"

"A mechanic named Damon Lindsey."

"That place is like the Bermuda Triangle."

Hobbs bit into his wrap. "About the same time as Blake Gannon and Rachel Ferris disappeared, this Damon Lindsey ends up in a real bad accident. Ran a stop sign, totaled his truck, and winds up in the hospital."

"He ducked out of the hospital?"

"He was discharged. Then, a day or so later he rents a Toyota Camry and takes off. The insurance company representing the other party in the accident hasn't been able to contact him."

"Familiar pattern." Goldberg sawed a piece of chicken in his salad. "So where did he go?"

"That's where it gets interesting. His Camry ends up wrecked and abandoned in a park in South Carolina." He squinted at his phone. "Falls Park. The car got pulled over and then took off when the driver gave the officer fake IDs."

"Hmmmm."

"But the driver wasn't Damon Lindsey." He brought the wrap to his mouth. "It was a young woman who led the cops on a seven-mile chase before bailing out of the car in Falls Park."

"So what happened to Damon Lindsey?"

"That's what the insurance company wants to know."

"And the woman driving the car. Let me take a wild guess."

"A park full of people on a beautiful sunny afternoon, at least a dozen uniformed officers on scene and yet nobody gets eyes on her. It's like she got out of that car and evaporated."

########

She drove around the block of the idle dust-covered town and parked her car at the curb along the railroad tracks, brash sunlight flooding the pavement. When she got out of the car she noticed that her thin veil of a shadow seemed to vaporize, like the street was too hot to hold it in place. Despite being conspicuously dressed in an oversized hoodie on the streets of a neighborhood broiling in the midday heat, she escaped notice. The streets were empty.

On her way across the street toward a blocky stone building, she passed a mud-spattered Kia Soul, its back windows obscured by stacks of books and paperwork. The vanity plate read: ART V DEAL.

She slid the oversized sunglasses down to the end of her nose to read a faded sign inside the front door of the building.

ARTHUR BEAMISH, ATTORNEY, CERTIFIED PUBLIC ACCOUNTANT & PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR - 2ND FLOOR.

The squeaking door apparently gave her away when she entered. A man called from the top of a long flight of wooden steps in a Guidance Counselor's voice, "Up here."

She climbed the steep stairs wondering how anyone could possibly carry furniture up this narrow staircase. Maybe a set of folding chairs and a card table at most.

The man who met her at the top wasn't much taller than she was. He had narrow shoulders, wide hips, and a bit of a paunch. Not the kind of man who looked good in a suit.

"Quite a climb, isn't it?" he said with a warm smile. "Can I offer you something cold to drink?"

"I'm good, thanks, Mister Beamish," she replied, entering his office space.

"Call me 'Art.'" He gestured toward a chair and then slipped behind his desk.

His second-hand Formica desk dominated the small space framed by cheap paneled walls, sunlight cutting through the dusty blinds. An A/C window unit rattled beneath a dartboard and a framed law school diploma.

"So,.." He raised his eyebrows. "You just picked me out of the phone book. Totally random."

"I need somebody with your skillset. In a town like this, it's not a long list."

"Enough with the flattery. Anyway, I'm glad you're here."

She searched his pale face. "You're an attorney, a CPA, and a private investigator, right?"

"As a young man I was indecisive, so I figured why not go for the trifecta? And since the last turpentine plant here in Chipley Florida closed back in the 1970s, I needed to hedge my bets. A guy needs a steady paycheck."

He projected a chummy innocence like a kindergarten teacher welcoming a new student on the first day of school. If he held dark intentions behind his eyes he hid it well.

"Now, if you'll unveil yourself, Little Gray Riding Hood," he said. "I'll snap your photo and Bailey Montgomery can begin her new life."

Rachel reluctantly dropped her hood, revealing copper-colored hair. She removed her sunglasses and placed them in her lap.

He carried a black metal stand and set it down behind her chair, drawing a length of pastel blue paper from a roll mounted on the metal arm.

He returned to his position behind the desk, raised his iPhone, then slowly lowered it. "You might want to touch up your makeup and maybe comb your..."

She took a small brush from her bag then tidied her hair.

He withdrew a mirror from his desk drawer and turned it, facing her.

She applied mascara to her lashes, coated her lips with a quick smear of lip gloss, then adopted a wide, clownish grin, cocking her head. "Is this acceptable?"

In ninety seconds, the young woman had transformed her appearance from a stowaway into a flawless beauty, nearly eliciting a gasp from Beamish. He couldn't remember the last time he saw such a stunning female in real life. Maybe never.

When he considered all the work it must take to hide that beauty, to make that face blend into the fabric of dull faces with duller eyes, he marveled. The little voice in the back of his head whispered a warning. The woman sitting not three feet in front of you could teach a master class in deception.

"Allow me the indulgence." He grinned, leaning forward, patting a stray strand of her hair into place. "Bellissimo." He settled into his chair, snapped a couple of photos, then handed her the phone.

"This one," she said, returning his phone. "And of course, you're going to delete these. All of these."

"Goes without saying." He downloaded the pics to his laptop, cropped the one she'd selected, and hit "print." A machine whined in the adjoining room.

"Just be a minute." He went into the other room, returning a moment later with the new I.D.s which he placed on the desktop. "You're all set, Miss Montgomery. Your Florida driver's license, Social Security card, and your birth certificate. Says you were born in Fayette County Tennessee per your request. Excellent choice."

She studied them carefully. "How solid are these?"

"Rock solid. Impeccable. Money back guarantee."

She gave him a hard glare.

"Like several of my local associates, I could have jumped on the lucrative fake ID bandwagon. There are, after all, twenty-one colleges within one hundred miles of where we are sitting. I have no appetite for low-hanging fruit. That's no way to run a business. Hence, the five-star Google reviews."

Satisfied, Bailey withdrew a stack of cash from her leather bag.

Beamish cleared his throat. "My goodness, that's a lot of money to be carrying on your person."

He watched her peel off three thousand dollars, which she fanned out on his desk. As he gathered the money, she collected the documents, slipping them into a leather folio.

He offered his hand. They shook. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Miss Montgomery. You mentioned that you have a project under consideration?"

"I'll be in touch."

"I'm counting the hours."

On her way down the narrow staircase, Bailey Montgomery wondered how much time she had until they'd pick up her trail. Weeks? Days? Hours?

She wasn't worried about Harley. It was probably nothing but dumb luck that brought him to Pittsburgh. He was like so many others who never knew what hit them. By the time they suspected that they'd been conned, she was on to the next one.

Damon was no longer a concern, although the discovery of his body would certainly draw the scrutiny of law enforcement. They'd learn that Madison Reilly had rented the storage locker where the body was found. And, apparently a room at the Red Star Motel. And outran the police in four districts, ditching a stolen Toyota Camry in Falls Park Greenville, South Carolina. And they'd eventually discover that the real Madison Reilly had reported her wallet missing a week ago hundreds of miles away in Pennsylvania.

She wondered about Damon's mysterious contact, the guy who was supposed to bank their money in a safe account. How much had Damon told him about her? Probably a lot more than she wanted. But when they didn't pick him up at the airport, and Damon didn't answer his phone, the guy most likely jumped on the first flight back home. If he was smart.

She thought about Uncle Geo and the cold-blooded look on his face the last time she saw him across the bar at Booty's. The taste of cold metal slid down her tongue and clung to the back of her throat.

Pat and Karas had a score to settle with her. Maybe only Pat if Karas didn't make it. They were out there turning over every rock, their wide, flat noses in the air, sniffing for the slightest whiff of the girl who used to be Rachel Ferris. She'd spend the rest of her life on high alert. She couldn't afford to get careless. Not for a split second.

And then there was Blake. Her chest tightened at the thought of him as she pushed the front door open and stepped into the heat.

For the first time since she watched the men lift her lifeless mother from the kitchen floor and zip her into a rubber bag, she felt painfully alone.