Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

and longitude. If I were a hiker, I wouldn’t go into the wilds without it. It’s as essential as a first-aid kit.”
    “Wow.” She gave him an appropriately impressed smile. “I just don’t know if I’m ready to shell out the money for one of these things.”
    “Why don’t you borrow it for a day? Play with it. You’ll see how easy it is.”
    “Are you sure? That would be great.”
    “Like I said, I have two others. Let me know how you like it.”
    “I’ll take good care of it, I promise.”
    “You want me to come with you? Give you some operating tips?”
    “No, I’ll figure it out.” She gave him a wave and stepped out of his apartment. “I’m just going to take it on a little hike tomorrow.”

TEN
    Josephine pulled into the trailhead parking area and turned off the engine. She sat for a moment, studying the entrance to the trail, which was merely a narrow passage carved into the gloom of thick forest. According to Google Earth, this was the closest point she could reach by car to the coordinates written on the map. It was time to get out and walk.
    Though the heaviest of the rain had ended last night, gray clouds still hung low in the sky this morning, and the air itself seemed to drip with lingering moisture. She stood at the edge of the woods, staring at a narrow footpath that faded from view into deep shadows. She felt a chill, like a breath of frost on her neck. Suddenly she wanted to climb back into her car and lock the doors. To drive home and forget she’d ever received that map. Apprehensive as she was about venturing into the woods, though, she was even more fearful of the consequences should she ignore the note. Whoever had sent it could turn out to be her best friend.
    Or her worst enemy.
    She glanced up at the cold kiss of water dripping from the tree branches overhead. Pulling up the hood of her jacket, she started down the trail.
    The dirt path was studded with brightly colored toadstools, their caps glistening with rainwater. The fungi were no doubt poisonous; the pretty ones usually were. As the saying went:
There are bold mushroom hunters and old mushroom hunters, but there are no old, bold mushroom hunters.
The coordinates on the handheld GPS began to change, the numbers readjusting as she hiked deeper into the woods. The device would not be able to give her pinpoint accuracy. The best she could hope for was to be led to within a few dozen yards of what she was supposed to find. If the item she sought was small, how would she locate it among these dense trees?
    Thunder crackled in the distance; another storm was coming. Nothing to worry about yet, she thought. If the lightning got closer, she’d stay away from the tallest tree and crouch down in a ditch. That was the theory, anyway. The drip of rain from the leaves became steady, drops clattering onto her jacket. The nylon hood trapped noise, magnifying the sound of her own breathing, her own heartbeat. In tiny fractions of degrees, the GPS coordinates inched slowly toward her goal.
    Though it was midmorning, the woods seemed to be falling swiftly darker. Or maybe it was just the thickening rain clouds, threatening to turn this slow and steady drip into a torrent. She quickened her pace, moving at a brisk walk now, her boots splashing through mud and wet leaves. Suddenly she halted, frowning at the GPS.
    She’d overshot. She needed to go back.
    Retracing her steps, she returned to a bend in the path and stared into the trees. The GPS was telling her to leave the trail. Beyond the tangle of branches, the trees seemed to open up, revealing a tantalizing peek of a clearing.
    She clambered off the footway and toward the clearing, twigs snapping beneath her boots, her progress as loud and clumsy as an elephant’s. Branches hit her face in wet slaps. She climbed onto a fallen log and was about to drop down on the other side when her gaze froze on the soil, and on the large shoe print stamped into the earth. Rain had worried away the edges, melted the tread marks. Someone else had climbed over this log. Someone else had scrambled through this underbrush. But he had been moving in the other direction, toward the trail, not away from it. The print did not look fresh. Nevertheless, she paused to scan her surroundings. She saw only drooping branches and tree trunks scabby with lichen. Who in his right mind would hang out here all night and all day in the woods, waiting to ambush a woman who might not ever come? A woman who might