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“Where’s your office?”
“A few doors down the way.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m an accountant.” He reaches into his pocket.
Maggie immediately reaches inside her purse for her gun.
“Here we go,” he says, withdrawing a handful of small white business cards and handing her the top one.Richard Atwood, certified public accountant,the card reads in bold black letters.
So,Maggie thinks,an accountant, not an assassin. The tips of her fingers brush against his as she takes the card. The touch sends a barrage of unwelcome tingles up her arm. She drops the card into her purse, gulps at her latte, then jumps to her feet, finally managing to dislodge the stubborn piece of walnut with her tongue. “I really should get going.”
He nods. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Maggie.”
“You, too.”
“Good luck.”
“Good luck?”
“Finding your daughter a job.”
“Oh, right. I’ll need it.” Maggie drops the remains of her muffin into a trash bin on her way out. She doesn’t look back.
