Tell Him He's Dead (Max Wolfe, #4.5)

by Tony Parsons

headlights. ‘Because it’s a girl car, stupid!’ Echo always used to tell me, with one of her lopsided smiles. But she wasn’t smiling now. I could not tear my eyes from her. I took a long moment to understand what had changed about her and what would never change. Her father was originally from Stockholm and there was a fresh-faced Scandinavian beauty about her, which was misleading as Echo had always loved her nightlife. She was more of a dancing shoes kind of girl than a hiking boots kind of girl. There was a pained sweetness about her face, like a young Ingrid Bergman, but an Ingrid who was always about to say goodbye