The Ashley Barton who drove the Ford was different from the one Logan had met at the police station. She was unbothered, casually slouched in her seat, T-shirt shifted carelessly above her belly button. The sun-kissed skin of her stomach was dappled with light brown freckles. Logan stared for a moment too long. She sat back up and focused on the road ahead. She was gay, but not thirst-after-straight-horse-girl gay.
