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Trish slid into the arms of her coat, tied the belt, and walked out.She was cautious and aware of her surroundings at all times. Whenoutside, she always scanned the area for random thugs, as well as thosewho specifically might've resented any of her recent investigations.Like most other nights, she drove home without incident, stopping atthe wine store for something that paired well with seafood. Businesssteadily had picked up over the past few years, and she thought thatsomeday she might be able to afford converting part of their basementinto small wine cellar. For now, they had space to keep only a fewbottles on hand, so her stops at the store on the way home were quitefrequent.Walking through the front doorway of her home was comparable to beingtransported to an alternate universe. It was a fairytale world, a twiston the stereotypical 1950s household that never really existed, butthat often is idealized in pop culture. As usual, Amy was waiting totake Trish's hat and coat as she. Who the fuck had come after me? It was too early, way too early, to be part of the Macklin case. I’d done nothing except background research. No progress, not any. No personal visibility.A revenge echo from Wexler / Gunther / Meriwether? Certainly a possibility. Except that logic and common sense told me the Meriwethers weren’t involved. Not when they believed that the fatalities wouldn’t end with me. Sarah Meriwether called me my first day home to plead her case. I believed her.Greta Gunther was still serving a life sentence. And the signs indicated that Asset Forfeiture had wiped out the Gunther resources. No visits from her Dallas attorney, Bob Linkletter, since the last time I’d been in Texas.And Wexler, that fucker, was dead.The tow truck that had rammed me had been stolen that same evening from Stan’s AutoBody in Liberty. A small town between Excelsior Springs and Kansas City. The truck had been abandoned in a farmer’s cornfield and completely torched. Some sort of explosive.
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