Trace (TraceWorld Book 1) Read Online Free Page B

missing-persons cases. The DA man said something sarcastic she didn’t catch, but she did hear Dalton’s reply: “Psychics, not a chance, but tracists are the real thing.”
    It was as if he’d suddenly called her name. He knew what a tracist was. He knew that it was tracist and not tracer. She hated when people said that; maybe they thought the proper term sounded too much like racist , but it was still correct nonetheless. “Problem is,” Dalton continued, “they’re damn hard to find.” If she had been given to drama, she would have stood up and exclaimed, “You found me.” Instead she finished her coffee and her chicken sandwich, went back to work, and called the Police Department the next day.
    Three years later, she sat in the Giant Supermarket parking lot, heart beating hard. What had happened that morning in the plain brick house?
    She realized that she could be back at that house in a couple of minutes—it couldn’t have been more than a couple of miles away, and she remembered the address. She knew this was about the worst thing she could ever do—unprofessional, for starters, and weird and stalkerish as well. No good could possibly come of it, which, of course, was no deterrent to her wanting to do it all the same.
    She was almost ridiculously relieved when her feverish thoughts were interrupted by another car’s headlights shining at her. The driver pulled into the space next to her and Nola quickly pretended to search her purse for something. No, I wasn’t sitting here contemplating anything illegal. I was looking for my shopping list. Move along. Nothing to see here.
    She sensed that the person who got out of the car next to her was not, in fact, moving along—was staring into her window. Unwillingly, she looked up.
    It was Jack Dalton. She stared dumbly at him for a second before she hit the button to lower the window—and then realized she’d turned the engine off, so the window remained up. Smooth, Nola. She opened the door and got out. It was a chilly evening for early October, but she controlled any shivering—any movement at all—and faced him in silence.
    “Hello, Nola,” he said and grinned faintly, as if embarrassed by his own awkwardness. “I’m not stalking you, I promise. I stopped to get some things for dinner and I saw your car.”
    She smiled back—she couldn’t help it. She often thought Jack Dalton could have been a politician if he’d had fewer scruples. He exuded warmth without weakness, intelligence with compassion, and charm that wasn’t smarm. He was also tall. That certainly didn’t hurt his image, though it cricked her neck to make eye contact with him. It also made her feel a bit swimmy. If he hadn’t been married (happily, it seemed, damn it all), she would have been lost.
    “I know this isn’t how we normally work,” he said while she searched for something non-stupid to say, “but I’d like to talk to you about this case. To be precise, I want to hear what you think about it so far.”
    Still no non-stupid responses came to her. Her tongue was a lump in her mouth. She nodded dumbly at him.
    “Now? Over some coffee at Javaland? Unless you have plans, of course.”
    “That would be fine. Let’s go,” she blurted. And then, so she could stop looking at him, she shut the car door and began marching in the direction of Javaland across the street. Dalton had to scurry to get to her side. And to think she used to wonder why the guys at the police station thought she was such a cold heartless bitch.
    After they’d ordered and he’d paid, they sat and made pointless small talk about fall colors (lovely), the weather (pleasant), and Jeb Crawford’s upcoming engagement party (was she going? yes, was he? oh yes). At some point they met each other’s eyes and Jack grinned. They both knew this was, in fact, pointless small talk.
    “Pretenses dropping . . . now,” Nola quipped on impulse.
    “Fair enough,” Jack said. “You said ‘involved in