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“Illusionists,” he said.
Her brow quirked. “What’s the difference?”
“Magicians work on a smaller scale. Illusionists perform grand illusions like disappearing people, or in both Chris Angel’s and Houdini’s cases, their most famous—or one of their most famous acts—was Metamorphosis.”
“Which is?”
“Two magicians appeared to transform into each other.”
“Wow, that’s quite the illusion.” She narrowed her eyes. “You seem to know a lot about magicians and illusionists.” She’d never paid attention to any, but he easily recalled who they were by their names.
He shrugged. “I liked watching them as a kid.”
“Interesting. Did you ever try to pull off tricks?”
The muscle in his jaw flickered.
“I used to play ballerina,” she started, sharing first. “I had my pink leotard and bedazzled tiara.”
He smiled, and his clamped jaw loosened. “You have a tutu too?”
“Absolutely, a bright pink one.”
He chuckled.
“It’s funny what we want to be when we’re kids.”
“I suppose so.”
“What did you want to be when you were a kid? A magician?”
He shrugged. “Just a kid.”
She held his gaze a moment, and he seemed utterly sincere, but what kind of a kid didn’t have a dream? She turned her attention back to the letter. “May I?” she asked, holding out her hand, wanting to examine it more closely.
“Sure.” He handed it to her.
She held it in her gloved hands. “Why gambling riddles?”
“I think they’re still telling us it’s a game,” he said, holding the evidence bag for her to place the note in when she was finished.
“And there’ll be more?” she asked, studying the scroll.
“Double or nothing means another one is coming.”
She agreed. This wasn’t over, and with Alex missing and them run off the road, this “game,” as the thieves appeared to view it, was growing extremely dangerous. She exhaled, praying it stopped before it became deadly, but the worst feeling about Alex gripped her chest tight.
Father, please don’t let her be ...She didn’t want to even voice it, but she needed to pray what was on her heart.Please don’t let her be dead.
EIGHTEEN
CHRISTIAN SWERVEDas a tumbleweed toppled across the road, his headlights illuminating it as it danced in a flurry of blustering wind. He glanced at the GPS. Nearly there. They hadn’t wanted to wait around for the Feds to take the letter, so they’d dropped it off with the Albuquerque police detective who Tad said had been on site before the Feds showed. He could get it to them. Or they could duke out jurisdiction, for all he cared. Right now, he was focused on the task at hand. And—he sighed—growing enthralled with the beautiful woman sitting beside him. She kept him on his toes in the best possible way.
What would it be like to get to know Andi Forester better? He definitely wanted to find out. They were both tied to the case, which he prayed would end tonight. He’d alerted the local sheriff, Harold Brookes, about their plan—explained they were hoping to catch the men in the act. Harold had a pressing case and couldn’t commit to being with them but said he was only a phone call away.
Pulling up to Tad’s Taos wine gallery, Christian cut the ignition and pulled out the keys.
“Excuse me,” he said, leaning toward her. “I need to grab my gun.”
