Page 8 of Turning Back

“He’s former FBI. But he’s in private security and investigations now. He can get info other people can’t. And it’s almost legal.”

I give her the stink eye at that comment.

“Practically legal,” she assures me. “He has connections in the Bureau. He can find things most people can’t.”

“I’m pretty sure you need a warrant for that kind of stuff. I’m not gonna be involved.”

“Fine with me,” she says sweetly. “But it’s a risk if I do it. Smith will be at risk—”

“Chella,” I growl.

“Elias,” she counters. “Just meet with the guy, OK? Please.”

We both turn to look at Margaret when she approaches the table. “Mr. Bricman,” she says. “Darrel Jameson is here for your meeting.”

“Who?” I ask, peeking around her to see a tall guy, late thirties, maybe. Dark suit and sunglasses. I roll my eyes and then look at Chella.

She smiles and stands, reaching for Mr. Jameson, just like she did to me. “Thanks so much for taking this case, Darrel. I so, so, so appreciate it.”

“My pleasure, Chella. You know I’d do anything for you.”

Chella kisses him on the cheek and then gathers her computer. “You guys have fun,” she says, stuffing her things into her tote bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch, Elias?”

I nod, resigned to her tricks, and then pan my hand at the chair Chella just vacated. “Have a seat, Mr. Jameson.”

“Thanks, Mr. Bricman.” He takes a phone out of his suit coat pocket and tabs the screen. “Rochelle Bastille, age twenty-eight—”

Twenty-eight. How did that happen? We met her when she was twenty-four. I always think of her as so young in my head.

“Presently living in Pagosa Springs—”

“Wait,” I interrupt. “Presently? You mean you found her?”

Jameson stares at me for a moment. “Of course I found her. Chella asked me to, told me to report to you. Did you… not want her found?”

“Of course I did.” I laugh. Uneasily. “Yes, of course. But I’ve been looking—”

“So Chella tells me.” He gives me a look that says, Liar. “Chella’s great, by the way. I love her to death. She was my very first assignment in the Bureau when she left home at eighteen. Well”—Jameson chuckles—“she ran away a few times when she was seventeen. But I was always there with her. Always watching to make sure she was OK.” He shakes his head in a way that says he found her rebellion cute. Something to appreciate about her.

Which makes me warm to him. A little.

“Pagosa Springs?” I ask.

“It’s a five-hour drive southwest of here. Near the Four Corners. Just east of Durango. Ever been there?”

“No,” I say. “Never even heard of it.”

“Still kinda small-towny. Hard to find places like that in Colorado anymore. But they have a hot springs resort there and Miss Bastille has been living at the resort since last…” Jameson checks his phone. “Last November. One year.”

“A resort?” I ask.

“Mmm-hmm. Fancy one too. Her and her daughter are renting a pretty nice suite. Five thousand dollars a month. Not doing badly at all.”

“Daughter?” I feel sick.

Another glance down at the phone from Jameson. “Adley Bastille. Age six months. Do you want the address? And here’s my bill.”

“Did you tell Chella any of this?” I ask, panicked.