Without Malice (The Without Series Book 1) by Jo Robertson Page A

precinct. She had no evidence, just a shadowy, creepy, gut instinct that someone was following her.
    Had been following her since her visit to the parole officer earlier today. What was his name, something-or-other Cruz? She’d driven circuitously around the city, trying to determine if someone was actually tailing her.
    Her first clue to being stalked was the car, distinctive because of its non-monochromatic paint job. As if someone had begun the task with a bright metallic red and finished up with a dull gray – or stopped painting altogether. The car’s muffler was noisy and distinctive.
    She’d caught a good look at the two men inside the car. She’d been around felons long enough to recognize them easily. From their look, they were gang bangers, which explained the noisy muffler and incomplete paint job.
    After a few more twists and turns, she’d pulled into a Walmart parking lot and idled her Toyota’s engine. She didn’t see the car. Ten minutes later, she pulled out of the lot and into a McDonald’s drive through. When she arrived at her motel, however, she spied the same car driving past on Vernon Street.
    Damn! She unsuccessfully tried to convince herself she was being paranoid, but her practical mind wasn’t buying it.
    Instead of returning to the motel, she’d gathered her things and checked out by phone. She’d driven to the police station, eating her dinner while sitting indecisively behind the wheel. She could think of only one sensible, safe thing to do if she didn’t go into the precinct and file a claim.
    “Walt,” she said when he picked up his phone. “It’s Frankie.”
    “Hey, why a no-show on the lunch date?” he joked, his voice sounding tinny over the connection.
    She paused and took a sip of soda. “I had a problem. Sorry, but I had to go to – ”
    “What’s wrong?” He interrupted her, hearing the fear and uncertainty in her voice.
    She blew out a heavy breath of frustration. “Nothing. I just couldn’t make lunch.”
    “What’s wrong?” Walt repeated, harsher this time. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
    Frankie looked around at the police parking lot, nearly empty of cars. “Maybe,” she ventured. “I had to drive to – ”
    “Not on the phone,” Walt interrupted again. “Get to a safe house. You know what I mean,” he emphasized assuredly. His voice sounded calm and steady, and her nerves settled. “A safe house. I’ll come to you,” he promised.
    The connection went dead.
    Twenty minutes later Frankie pulled into the driveway of her old house on Bridgeford Avenue in Rosedale. The security pad code on the garage door still worked and she drove inside, parking her Toyota beside the old family car, a 1983 Impala, a classic now, she supposed. The door from the garage into the laundry room was unlocked, same as always.
    The house had the musty scent of unused linen and stale air. Even though she had a cleaning service come twice a month, and a lawn service weekly, she couldn’t believe vandals or teenagers hadn’t broken in to camp out or party in the abandoned house. Or that her aunt hadn’t tried to sell it for the equity. But, no, it looked much like it had the fateful night of her Homecoming Dance over a dozen years ago.
    Rummaging through her bag, she found sweats and a tee shirt to change into. She made up a bed on the couch. She couldn’t stand sleeping in either her old bedroom or her parents’ room. Opening a package of Top Ramen she’d brought with her, she settled into a family room arm chair, worrying what to do next.
    She wouldn’t sit helplessly and wait for Walt to swoop in and save her. Again. She would stay here tonight and tomorrow she’d go back to see that parole officer – the Cruz guy. Insist that he give her information about Cole Hansen. Or help her find him.
    That was his job, wasn’t it?
    Cole had answers to her questions. All the trouble had started with him.
    Going back to Crescent City without knowing what the note