the car, stared blankly at her face. Taylor didnât bother checking. She could feel the stiffening of her skin where the blood from the cuts had dried. If her face looked anything like her arm, she was a mess.
Across the parking lot, she could see people strolling in the sun and loading groceries into their cars. Seconds later, the sound of a siren cut the air. The medics took a little longer, which was a crying shame.
It was weird, but in contrast to being shot in the chest, the shallow crease across her forearm hurt like hell.
Eleven
Cold Peak, Vermont
Two months later
C old Peak was a long way from Wilmington, North Carolina, both geographically and psychologically. The town was small to middling, with a population of twelve thousand that included the outlying farming district. It was cool, despite the fact that it was still technically summer, and the whole beach-resort thing that Wilmington had had going on just didnât exist in landlocked Cold Peak.
The peak for which the town was named hung suspended in the distance, almost blotted out by the bony line of the Green Mountains, its main distinguishing feature a broad, steep face popular with rock climbers. A few miles north, a ski resort attracted a steady stream of tourists in winter and provided Cold Peak with its main source of revenue.
Taylor depressed the button on the garage remote and parked the secondhand SUV sheâd bought the day after she had moved in. The SUV was both sleek and serviceable, with multipurpose tires for off-road use and four-wheel driveâsomething she was going to need, because before the end of the summer, she intended to climb Cold Peak. Right after that she was going to get a ski rack fitted to the roof of the SUV.
Easing tired shoulder muscles that had stiffened up after a strenuous session at the gym, she unlocked her front door and stepped inside.
This time, instead of an apartment, she had opted for a houseâthe first house she had ever rented. The fifties bungalow had three bedrooms and a sunroom and was a regular piece of suburban paradise, complete with its neatly cared for front yard, and a barbecue area out the back. To go with the respectable facade of the house and SUV, she even had a job as a personal trainer at the Cold Peak gym.
It was a job Taylor had never envisioned having but which, weirdly enough, she was qualified to do. Over her years in the Bureau, she had accumulated all of the required medical passes. She also had a degree in physical education, which sheâd gained at college while sheâd been studying criminology. At the time, she hadnât ever thought of becoming a personal trainer; she had done the papers purely out of interest.
Dropping her purse on her bed, she changed into jogging clothesâdark blue track pants and a white tankâlocked the house, zipped the key into her track-pants pocket and started out slowly, enjoying the warmth spreading through her muscles and the calmness that came when her body settled into a steady rhythm. She still struggled with the distances she had used to run, and her lung still threw some phantom pains at her but, combined with her regular exercise routine, she was getting there.
She reached the end of the block, crossed the road and, out of habit, began studying houses and vehicles, checking out who was around her and what made them tick. One of the best indicators of personality she had found was the vehicles people drove.
A car nailed three key areas: socioeconomic class, what the person liked to do in their spare time and personality. Houses did also, to a degree, but sometimes people rented, so that didnât express their true socioeconomic status or personality.
Her neighbor, Letitia Clayton, dressed like a sixties flower fresh out of Woodstock, but the Buick she drove told another storyâold money and a solid portfolio of shares cushioning her retirement. Mr. Scanlon across the road was the complete opposite. Early
Across the parking lot, she could see people strolling in the sun and loading groceries into their cars. Seconds later, the sound of a siren cut the air. The medics took a little longer, which was a crying shame.
It was weird, but in contrast to being shot in the chest, the shallow crease across her forearm hurt like hell.
Eleven
Cold Peak, Vermont
Two months later
C old Peak was a long way from Wilmington, North Carolina, both geographically and psychologically. The town was small to middling, with a population of twelve thousand that included the outlying farming district. It was cool, despite the fact that it was still technically summer, and the whole beach-resort thing that Wilmington had had going on just didnât exist in landlocked Cold Peak.
The peak for which the town was named hung suspended in the distance, almost blotted out by the bony line of the Green Mountains, its main distinguishing feature a broad, steep face popular with rock climbers. A few miles north, a ski resort attracted a steady stream of tourists in winter and provided Cold Peak with its main source of revenue.
Taylor depressed the button on the garage remote and parked the secondhand SUV sheâd bought the day after she had moved in. The SUV was both sleek and serviceable, with multipurpose tires for off-road use and four-wheel driveâsomething she was going to need, because before the end of the summer, she intended to climb Cold Peak. Right after that she was going to get a ski rack fitted to the roof of the SUV.
Easing tired shoulder muscles that had stiffened up after a strenuous session at the gym, she unlocked her front door and stepped inside.
This time, instead of an apartment, she had opted for a houseâthe first house she had ever rented. The fifties bungalow had three bedrooms and a sunroom and was a regular piece of suburban paradise, complete with its neatly cared for front yard, and a barbecue area out the back. To go with the respectable facade of the house and SUV, she even had a job as a personal trainer at the Cold Peak gym.
It was a job Taylor had never envisioned having but which, weirdly enough, she was qualified to do. Over her years in the Bureau, she had accumulated all of the required medical passes. She also had a degree in physical education, which sheâd gained at college while sheâd been studying criminology. At the time, she hadnât ever thought of becoming a personal trainer; she had done the papers purely out of interest.
Dropping her purse on her bed, she changed into jogging clothesâdark blue track pants and a white tankâlocked the house, zipped the key into her track-pants pocket and started out slowly, enjoying the warmth spreading through her muscles and the calmness that came when her body settled into a steady rhythm. She still struggled with the distances she had used to run, and her lung still threw some phantom pains at her but, combined with her regular exercise routine, she was getting there.
She reached the end of the block, crossed the road and, out of habit, began studying houses and vehicles, checking out who was around her and what made them tick. One of the best indicators of personality she had found was the vehicles people drove.
A car nailed three key areas: socioeconomic class, what the person liked to do in their spare time and personality. Houses did also, to a degree, but sometimes people rented, so that didnât express their true socioeconomic status or personality.
Her neighbor, Letitia Clayton, dressed like a sixties flower fresh out of Woodstock, but the Buick she drove told another storyâold money and a solid portfolio of shares cushioning her retirement. Mr. Scanlon across the road was the complete opposite. Early
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