Shiver

through the small town of Pocatello, Idaho. That’s where they were currently holed up, in a three-bedroom town house in a quiet middle-class neighborhood near the Portneuf River. Upstairs, which was where she, Tyler, and Marco presently were, there were two fullbathrooms—one connected to the master bedroom—along with the three bedrooms. She had the master, Tyler had the bedroom next to hers, and Marco had the third, on the opposite side of the hall. Downstairs, there was a half bath, plus a great room with a huge fireplace, a kitchen with an eating area, a den, and a screened porch. O’Brien was at that moment standing guard—or, rather, watching TV—in the great room. Having apparently drawn the night’s short straw, Groves was stationed in the SUV, parked strategically in the driveway next door, keeping watch through its tinted windows. Sanders and Abramowitz, meanwhile, were in the town house that belonged to the driveway, one assigned to watch the security cameras that monitored all entrances to the town house where she, Tyler, and Marco were holed up, and the other presumably getting some sleep.
    These security arrangements had been explained to Marco when they had first arrived at the town house, while she had listened in. None of the men had bothered to explain anything to her. At the time, with Tyler plopped down beside her on the couch, nibbling on a slice of pizza while watching TV and apparently paying no attention to what was going on around them while she knew perfectly well that he was actually absorbing everything like a little sponge with ears, she hadn’t asked any questions, not wanting to let on to Tyler how worried she was about the situation they were in.
    Which didn’t mean, then and now, that she wasn’t bursting with them.
    How long would they be there? She had no idea. What were they supposed to do now that they were there? She had no ideaabout that, either. What was happening at home? Same answer. She had no idea about anything, and anxiety about it was driving her around the bend. The icing on her particular cake was that she had a splitting headache: the blow she’d taken to the head before she was dumped into the Beemer’s trunk was definitely making itself felt. Or maybe it was a tension headache, because she definitely was experiencing tension. Whatever, she was feeling decidedly subpar. Plus she wouldn’t be surprised if Tyler woke up with screaming nightmares.
    Actually, given all that he had just been through, she would be surprised if he didn’t wake up with screaming nightmares.
    And the cause of all her problems was standing right in front of her, in a robe, barefoot, with a deep vee of tanned and muscular bare chest exposed, giving not the smallest indication that he was concerned with anything except downing way too many pills.
    “You’re not supposed to take more than eight of those pills in twenty-four hours, you know,” she snapped, pausing just outside the bathroom door to glare at him because she just couldn’t help herself. Not that she’d been keeping track, but this was the fourth time she’d watched him gulp down pain pills, and every time she’d counted he’d swallowed at least four pills at a time. She was too tired to do the math, but that brought the count to way over eight pills in way less than twenty-four hours. That she knew of. And who knew how many she’d missed? “What, are you a druggie along with everything else?”
    Groves and O’Brien had taken what had seemed like a great deal of pleasure in filling her in on exactly what “everythingelse” was while Marco had been having his leg operated on. Learning that he was a corrupt federal agent—“used to be one of us” was how Groves had put it—who had turned against his own side and secretly collaborated with the drug traffickers he had supposedly been targeting as part of an ongoing investigation wasn’t a total surprise, because he was fit and smart and she could totally picture him as a former federal agent and clearly he’d been in the custody of U.S. Marshals for a reason. But the knowledge bothered her, much as she hated to admit it. Until then, she’d almost felt like he was someone she could trust. Now she knew better. He was someone nobody could trust, and she meant to keep that in the forefront of her mind.
    “I’m not a druggie. My leg hurts.” His tone was mild as he set the pill bottle down. Cupping his hand, he took a couple of gulps of water from the