Elusive (On The Run Book #1) Read Free Page B

the stairs, listening, but
the only sound was a crack of thunder.
    “Jack?” she called. She returned
to the kitchen, flexed a large envelope, and pulled out a stack of pictures.
“He missed these,” she said with a little frown. She and Jack communicated
mostly by message. They left notes or bills on the hall table, which was where
she’d placed the envelope, figuring he’d pick it up on his way back to the
office. She debated invading the upstairs for a moment to leave it in his room,
but dismissed the idea. She wouldn’t want him poking around in her room.
    “Oh, pictures,” Helen said, wiping
her hands on a napkin. “Let me see. You hardly ever see actual pictures
anymore. Everything’s digital now.”
    “These aren’t mine, and they
aren’t high quality. They’re on printer paper. Connor mailed them,” Zoe said,
referring to Jack’s business partner. “I have no idea why he’d mail anything snail
mail in the first place or why he’d send it here.”
    “Maybe he forgot the office
address?”
    “But remembered Jack’s home
address? No, I don’t think so. I don’t know Connor’s address off the top of my
head.”
    “Where were these taken?” Helen
asked, squinting. “They’re cute. I love the cobblestones and the sidewalk café,
but they’re so grainy they’re almost Impressionistic.”
    “I couldn’t figure it out either.
Connor’s afraid of anything made after 1995, so he probably took them with his
phone, which has a terrible camera. I heard him complaining the other day about
how he couldn’t use his regular camera because he couldn’t find a place to
develop film, if you can believe it.”
    Zoe flipped through the pictures
again, which were all street scenes, except one. She paused at a close-up of a
Madonna, the paint faded and crackled. The figures were flat, almost
one-dimensional, barely standing out from the blue background with its
sprinkling of stars. She fingered the corner of the photo, thinking it was an
odd sort of thing for Connor to photograph. He wasn’t especially religious or
interested in art, either.
    “Weird,” Helen said, handing the
pictures back. She stood and slipped her Coach bag on her shoulder. “Well, I
have to get back, too. Maybe I can beat the rain. Looks like it’s going to be a
huge storm. Think about the job,” she instructed as she left.
    “Fine. I’ll think about it,” she
said to placate Helen. As she shut the door behind Helen, she felt a twinge of
misgiving. A job at the county would be a smart move—secure and safe, but she
couldn’t do it. It might be wise, but she’d be miserable. She knew she would,
and it’s not smart to make yourself miserable, she reasoned. A prick of doubt
wiggled inside. She squashed it down and went back to work.
    Half an hour later, the storm
unleashed torrents of rain, and she spent fifteen minutes in the hall bathroom
after the tornado siren sounded. She emerged from the hall bath and noticed
that besides missing the envelope, Jack had also forgotten to lock the front
door. “That’s odd,” she said to herself. He was such a stickler for locking
doors and windows. Strange that he would forget.
    ––––––––
    Dallas
    Tuesday, 1:15 p.m.
    ––––––––
    JACK Andrews pushed the windshield
wipers to HIGH. Rain pounded his windshield in thick torrents of water that drowned
out the local news on the radio. He’d hoped to catch the latest market report,
but he could do that when he got to the office. GRS, an abbreviation for Green
Recyclable Services, was located in a business park made up of single story
stand-alone businesses designed to look more like homes than offices. The
developer hadn’t skimped on trees, sprinkling islands of oaks and cottonwood
trees along with plenty of hedges for privacy. Most of the tenants were
dentists, accountants, or small medical offices.
    He wheeled the car into the slot
directly in front of the door to GRS, still slightly amazed at the heavy