Blood of Eden by Tami Dane Page B

hiking five miles in pumps with man-made uppers and absolutely no arch support. But there was no way I was going to drive JT’s car. I’d tried driving a stick once. It had been a car I’d found on a used-car lot. A fierce little beast, a Mazda something-or-other, red. I wanted to buy that car so bad. It took me at least ten minutes to get it off the lot when I’d tried taking it for a test drive. Then I stalled it in the middle of an intersection as I was trying to make a left turn. There was a Frito-Lay truck barreling at me at about a hundred, or so it seemed. The ending was pretty predictable. The truck won. The Mazda wasn’t so fierce after that.
    I vowed never again to attempt to drive a car with a standard transmission.
    â€œAre you sure?” he asked.
    â€œPositive.” I sighed and wiggled my toes in my shoes, enjoying them while they could still move without causing agony. All too soon, we rolled up to what I assumed was Laura Miller’s house. It was nothing special, a carbon copy of the other Colonials on the street. Vinyl siding. Faux-brick facing. Along the front of the house was a weedy flower garden. The petunias were looking a little neglected.
    â€œI’m hoping the victim’s husband will know the exact route his wife took.” JT switched off the car and climbed out.
    I followed him up the front walk.
    I glanced at my cell phone. “It’s after nine. What if Mr. Miller left for work already?”
    â€œI called him this morning. He said he’d wait for us.” On the porch now, JT rapped on the off-white–painted front door.
    â€œSmart move.”
    The door swung open and a pleasant-looking man greeted us with a weak smile.
    â€œGood morning, Mr. Miller. I’m Agent Thomas.” JT flashed his badge. “This is Miss Skye.”
    I offered the man my hand. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
    He shook it. “Thank you.”
    â€œThank you for agreeing to speak with us.” When Miller stepped to the side to let us in, JT headed inside. As usual, I followed. We entered into a living room with beige carpet and walls. The house’s interior wasn’t any different from the exterior. Relatively neat, while at the same time showing a few signs of neglect, including a pretty hefty coat of dust on the bookshelves lining one wall of the living room.
    â€œHow can I help you, Agent Thomas?” Miller asked.
    â€œWe’d like to confirm the information you gave to Agent Fischer, regarding your wife’s activities the day she died.”
    â€œSure. Like I told the other agent, my wife took her morning jog and then went to work. She liked to stop at Einstein Brothers for a bagel and coffee on her way into work. That was probably her last stop before ... before ...” He scrubbed his face with his palm, glanced at a family portrait sitting on the fireplace mantel, and sighed.
    â€œI’m sorry, sir,” I said after glancing at the photo. “I realize this must be hard for you. We’d like to try to find some answers for you ... and your daughter. Can you tell me if your wife ran the same route every morning?”
    â€œYes, she did. She took Trotter up to Clarksville Pike, then came back down to Great Star Drive and back home. It’s about six miles, round-trip.”
    Six miles was worse than five. I wasn’t looking forward to this. Maybe JT would can that silly notion of walking it. Really, if we drove, we’d still get some idea of what our victim saw. And I’d avoid getting blisters.
    â€œDid she ever mention someone was following her? Was she uneasy about jogging in the last week or so?” I asked.
    Miller didn’t hesitate to answer. “No. Not at all. She would’ve told me if there’d been anything like that going on.”
    â€œWhat about unexplained injuries? Bruises? Scrapes?” JT asked.
    This time, Miller took a moment before responding. “No, I