Killer Focus by Fiona Brand Page B

sixties, balding, with weight issues. He drove a Corvette. In his case, the contrast between his vehicle and his house, which was badly in need of roof maintenance and a coat of paint, pointed out priorities that were markedly different from Letty’s. Scanlon might not make his mortgage payment, but that wasn’t going to worry him, because he had sunk all of his money into a car that would hold its value. If he had to make a quick getaway, he wasn’t leaving the majority of his investment behind.
    She rounded a corner and jogged into a street with a solid family feel. Some of the homes had swing sets out front, and the glint of swimming pools was visible in a number of backyards. She studied a two-story weatherboard house with a neat square of lawn out front, her attention drawn by the vehicle parked in the driveway. The gunmetal gray four-wheel-drive truck had tight suspension and off-road tires, and was as different from the mom-and-pop sedans visible in the neighboring driveways as a mountain lion from a bunch of tabby cats. A spattering of mud over the wheel arches indicated that it was used for the purpose for which it had been designed.
    A loud detonation, followed by a high-pitched shriek, sounded off to the left. A split second later, Taylor’s shoulder hit ground that was as iron hard as the sidewalk. She rolled out of bare, exposing sunlight, into the shadow of a hedge, wincing as a shaft of pain shot up one ankle. Another shriek, this time of laughter, and a second shot, made her flinch.
    A breathless giggle came from behind the hedge, followed by the sound of feet pounding on grass. Pulse still hammering, she lifted her head. Kids. Playing with cap guns.
    Since the shooting in Wilmington and another round of follow-up therapy, she had made gains. Bayard had been right about her obsession with Lopez; not having to deal with the case on a daily basis had improved her life. She was sleeping better and she had gotten past the anxiety attacks—mostly. She no longer considered that she had a phobia for needles and briefcases. The sound of gunshots, however…
    Rolling over, she pushed into a sitting position and gingerly rotated her foot.
    â€œAre you all right?”
    She hadn’t been aware of anyone behind her, but she instantly recognized the voice. Steve Fischer from the gym. He’d started a couple of weeks after her, taking care of the weights and running the training program for Cold Peak’s power-lifting team.
    He crouched down beside her. “Looks like you’ve hurt your ankle.”
    As she probed at the bone, she caught the sharp scent of fresh sweat. He was dressed in track pants and a washed-out gray tank top. If he had just been for a run, that would explain why he’d come up behind her so fast. “I’m fine, it’s just a twist.”
    This close, Fischer seemed a lot larger and edgier. His hair was dark and clipped close, his face tanned, with clean-cut cheekbones and a tough jaw. His eyes were close to black, which pointed to some kind of Hispanic or Native American heritage. He also had a couple of interesting scars, one across the bridge of his nose, one on his jaw. For the first time she noticed he had a pierced ear but no earring.
    â€œIt got ripped out at football practice. I decided it was a liability.”
    And she just bet he hadn’t needed the prop of an earring, anyway.
    She felt herself grow warm that he’d noticed her looking. Football. That figured. And it would explain the scars.
    â€œGive me your hand.”
    He pulled her to her feet. She tested her weight on the ankle, wobbling slightly. He steadied her. The touch was firm and impersonal, but with the heat of his palm burning through the damp cotton of her tank at the small of her back, suddenly it was hard to reestablish that original low-key impression. Fischer might be a businessman who had recently moved to Cold Peak for the climbing, but he smelled like a man and,