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KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI

Poppy pulls the Ford Explorer curbside at the Kansas City airport. Dash gave her a loaner from his dealership and she hates driving the thing since she has to sit forward to reach the pedals. But her Dad’s old Escort wouldn’t fit everyone.

She watches as weary travelers emerge from the terminal. Some are sweet scenes, family members reunited, a couple does one of those swirling hugs. But most are businesspeople looking at their phones, parents looking ragged wrangling their kids and strollers and all the crap they have to bring with them on a trip.

Poppy didn’t sleep well again last night. She’s not sure she should be going rogue on this one. But with the sheriff gone, her father still bedridden and unable to give her advice, what’s she to do?

It’s nearly four o’clock. They’re going to be tired after the long international flight and layover in Detroit.

At last, she sees them coming out of the terminal. Ryan Richardson is hard to miss towering over the crowd. Poppy has to prevent her jaw from hanging open at the sight of Alison Lane. It’s like seeing a ghost. Poppy’s memories of the confident girl from high school, the sliver of her on the viral video, are replaced with a sophisticated woman with stylish clothes straight out of French Vogue, even after the long flight. Damn. Alison’s father is no slouch himself.

Poppy opens the SUV’s door, tiptoes on the foot railing, waving her arms until they see her. They shuttle over and all shake hands like this is some routine business meeting. Poppy opens the back and they put their luggage—they don’t have much—in the cargo hold. All three climb in the back seat, like Poppy’s an Uber, but she gets it.

She pulls from the curb and heads to I-29. No one speaks for what seems like a long time.

Poppy decides to start. “How were your flights?” The worst kind of small talk, but what can you do?

They all mumble, say the flights were uneventful, which is the best you can hope for these days given the state of modern air travel. With pleasantries out of the way, Poppy gets to it: “So, my FBI contact has arranged a meet with a U.S. Marshal. My contact trusts them, knows O’Leary has someone from WITSEC or the FBI on the payroll, so it’s all need-to-know, all trusted agents.”

Michael Lane—the man in the photograph with her father and Ken Walton on her fireplace mantel—leans forward in his seat so Poppy can see him in her mirror. “Thank you for doing this.”

“I got you.”

“Before we go anywhere else,” Michael says, “I want to see your father.”

Poppy is taken aback for a moment. She swallows. “He’s in the hospital. He’s not doing great and they’re limiting visitors and—”

“I understand. But I’m not going anywhere until I get to see Mac.”