Part 24 (1/2)

”Are you?”

”You know what? I came out here to apologize, but f.u.c.k it, I'm not sorry.”

”I can see that. I get it, Ted. Trust me, I do.”

”I'm a guy, Sarah. A guy doesn't like having a girlfriend who-” He stopped.

”What? What were you going to say?” she asked. ”Apparently, I can take it.”

”How do you think it makes me feel to know that my FBI-trained girlfriend can kick my a.s.s?” he blurted out.

Sarah shook her head. ”First of all, it's ex-girlfriend, if that's what I was to you. And second, as for how it feels...I don't know,” she said. ”But maybe it feels something like this.”

She balled her fist and decked him with a roundhouse punch so hard that he crashed back against the wall, knocking a framed photo of him on his Harley-Davidson to the floor, the gla.s.s shattering into pieces.

Calmly, and without another word, Sarah turned and started to walk out of the apartment. Her work here was done.

But then Sarah couldn't resist. She turned back to Ted, who was still sitting on the floor, holding his jaw.

”So? How does it feel to have your a.s.s kicked by a girl? I'm not even that big, Ted.”

Chapter 37

MAYBE IT WAS just a coincidence or maybe it was karma, but the song streaming through Sarah's iPod headphones the next afternoon as the plane began its descent into Salt Lake City was Sheryl Crow's ”A Change Would Do You Good.”

She could only hope. Fingers crossed. Toes, too. But you know what else? She hated the way it had ended with Ted. She just hated it. It was embarra.s.sing, just awful. And sad, too. She thought that she'd loved him.

The drive from the airport out to Park City was a good start. With nothing but wide-open road in front of her and soaring mountains on the horizon, it was like a forty-minute deep breath. Convertibles never looked good on expense reports, so Sarah made the most of the sunroof on her rented Chevy Camaro 2SS.

Sometimes it just feels d.a.m.n good to stick a hand up toward the sky at sixty-five miles an hour and feel the cool air whip past your fingertips.

Sooner than she thought possible, she was in Park City at the police department.

”Agent Brubaker, I'm Steven Hummel. Good to meet you,” said the local chief of police.

He greeted her personally at the front entrance of the station instead of sending out his secretary or some a.s.sistant. That was always a good sign. A good rapport usually followed.

Sure enough, Chief Hummel was the down-to-earth sort, which made sense for a town that could have doubled as the western field office of L.L.Bean. Park City was a hiker's paradise in the summer and-the two-week invasion by soulless Hollywood types for the Sundance Film Festival every January notwithstanding-a skier's paradise in winter.

Hummel may have been b.u.t.toned up in his uniform, but as she looked at his tan, weathered face and tousled salt-and-pepper hair, Sarah could easily picture his off-duty look. Jeans, a plaid s.h.i.+rt, and probably a cold, locally brewed beer in his hand.

”Come,” he said. ”Let's head back to my office. We're ready for you.”

Halfway there they were intercepted by a gum-chewing young buck of an officer who ”just happened” to be in their path. Clearly, he was angling for an introduction.