“Oh,” I chuckle. “Well, no need to do that. I’ve just heard the name and it finally clicked. I think it was Beckett, my friend’s fiancé, who brought his truck there when some, uh, creeper bashed his windows in.” “Hold up,” I swear I can see the wheels in his head turn, “was your friend the woman that got kidnapped this spring?” “Yeah,” I grimace. “That was awful.” The hand on my thigh flips over, putting us palm to palm. “I’m glad she’s okay.” I interlace our fingers. “Me too.”
