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“I don’t… I’m not going to miss my classes.”

“I’m sure we can work around those.”

“I don’t really see what’s in this for you, though,” she said.

“Keeping you active is what’s in it for us,” he said. “Because one day, that thing is going to buzz, and it’s going to be your country needing you to step back up to the plate.”

Her laugh was hollow. “Baseball metaphors? Really, Frank?”

She’d never called him by his first name before, and he frowned. “You’re a very lucky girl, Miss Weaver. To have thrown away your position and have a way back in. Do this for a few years while you while you work on your degree or come back to us now. Those are your only options.”

“Stop having your goons follow me,” she said, grabbing the pager and dropping it into the side pocket of her backpack.

He shrugged. “Sure.”

She stood up and shouldered her backpack while he watched. “Goodbye for now, Anabelle Weaver. And don’t bother calling this in. You won’t be able to reach anyone higher than me. I’ve already told them that you called me and begged for your job back. That you were hysterical. I told them I would take care of it.” His eyes glinted in the harsh light of the classroom, and she could feel his gaze on her as she walked out.

Chapter 4

Annie made it through thefirst week of classes without incident. She was tense every minute, though, fully expecting the pager to beep. She tried to distract herself by reading ahead and taking copious notes in her classes. Writing things down sealed information into her brain. It was how she had always worked: copying briefs she received on potential contacts and then burning them once they were committed to memory.

There was no telling how much time Frank would expect her to give up, but reading at a table in the library beat reading in her little shack in Helen’s backyard, anyway. By Thursday, she was so far ahead in the reading that she had time to catch up on laundry while the house was empty. She left the door and windows of the garage open to air it out. Even though it was a dry-heat climate, the room could get stuffy without at least running a fan. She went to bed Thursday night after eleven, knowing she could sleep in the next day.

* * *

Her eyes opened to an unfamiliar beeping sound. She thought it was her alarm, but it was only1:24a.m., and when she hit the snooze button, the beeping continued.

She rolled over, nearly falling out of her cot.

She felt around for the lamp on the floor and switched it on, squinting momentarily in the sudden light. She couldn’t place the sound until she got up and stood in the middle of the room.

It was coming from her backpack. Her stomach dropped.

She’d finally managed to put the pager out of her mind. How often could a city the size and scope of Los Angeles possibly need someone like her? Besides, law enforcement agencies wereprickly and territorial. They never wanted to call in someone from the outside.

Or did they?

She pulled the pager out of her backpack. The little screen lit up green with a phone number. She pushed the up arrow button and saw they’d called twice. She checked for her keys in case Helen’s back door was locked and walked through the backyard in her bare feet, the pager in her hand. The air was cool—Southern California always seemed to cool off a little at night—but the concrete walkway was still warm.

She pushed open the door to the kitchen, surprised to find it unlocked and the light on inside. She heard the baby crying, and a moment later, Helen came in wearing a tattered gray bathrobe, holding him.

Annie froze. She was obviously intruding, and Helen jumped a little when she saw her. They stared at each other for a moment.

“I—” Annie started, but Helen pushed the baby into her arms. “Take him,” she said. Annie was too surprised to do anything but receive the squalling child, holding him close as Helen rushed into the half bathroom and closed the door behind her.

The pager beeped again.

“Fine, yeah, okay.” She shifted the baby to her hip. He flailed, and she fumbled for a moment, terrified of dropping him, so she tossed the pager onto the counter. It skittered across, then stopped against a porcelain canister containing, if the label were to be believed, flour. She repositioned the baby more securely against her hip while she shushed him and picked up the wall phone’s receiver. She pulled the long, twisted, curly cord to where the baby could clutch it. With something to distract him, he quieted down immediately.

She reached for the pager again, holding the phone against her ear with her shoulder, and punched in the number. A man with a tired voice picked up after one ring.

“Identification code?”

“You pagedme,” she said. “At one in the morning, I might add. I don’t have an identification code, and you can tell Clifton that he’s an asshole.”

“Name?” the voice said.

“Annie Weaver.”