Nancy Bush's Nowhere Bundle: Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide & Nowhere Safe. Nancy Bush

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      “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I’m wrong, but I feel like it has something to do with me. Like he’s after me.”

      Everett picked up the photo of the stalking man grabbing for the camera. “He sure doesn’t want his picture taken.”

      Auggie glanced at the address on the paper Everett had given Liv. “Patsy Owens? She’s remarried.”

      “Uh-huh. To Barkley Owens.” Everett made a face. “We don’t keep in close contact anymore, but if you see her, say hi for me, okay?”

      “I will,” Liv said. An awkward moment passed and Liv looked at Auggie, who got to his feet. She followed suit and so did Everett. They gazed at each other and then he nodded and gestured toward the door.

      “Be seein’ ya,” he said as he showed them out.

      In the elevator on the way down, Auggie said, “Do you want to call Patsy?”

      Liv nodded. “Yep.”

      “Still think we’re on the right trail?”

      “You think I’m wrong?” She gave him a long look. His T-shirt was starting to stick to him in the afternoon heat and she had to drag her eyes away, her mind thinking about how she would like to rip his shirt off and press her own overheated flesh against his.

      “I think we’re running out of time,” was all he said.

      September returned to the station in the afternoon to find Wes Pelligree at his desk. The rest of the room was quiet. There was a distant humming from the air conditioning that cycled on and off when the temperature reached the eighties, but otherwise the place was like the proverbial tomb.

      “There you are,” she greeted him. “I was beginning to think you were a figment of my imagination, Wes.”

      “Everyone calls me Weasel,” he reminded her.

      “There’s nothing ‘weasel’ about you,” she said.

      Wes smiled. He leaned toward a cowboy style with leather boots, low-slung jeans and black shirts that made his six-three seem even taller. Today he was in “uniform” and his smile moved slowly across his lips. He’d been undercover like her brother for most of the time September had been with the force.

      “If I looked like a weasel, then I would be gettin’ upset,” he said. “But I don’t.”

      His grin widened and there was the trace of a dimple. He’d been looking at some photos of Emmy Decatur and September saw the picture of Sheila Dempsey had been moved to his desktop and placed alongside the crime scene photos of Emmy.

      “What do you think this is about?” she asked him, gesturing to the line of pictures.

      “Some sick white boy carvin’ up his women.”

      “White boy?” September lifted her brows. “No chance he’s black?”

      Pelligree snorted. “This is your people kinda crazy shit. No offense.”

      “None taken. Are you serious?”

      He nodded once. “I know a lot of brothers who do a lot of bad, bad things. Drugs, killin’, rape . . . as bad as it gets. But this carvin’ writin’ thing. That’s a different kind of sick. Gotta be a white boy, for sure.”

      “You sound kinda racist, Wes.”

      “I’m just sayin’ . . . we got our shit, you got yours.”

      “I’m not going to actually agree with you, but I’ll take your point.”

      “And it’s Weasel, not Wes.” After a moment, he added, “Nine.”

      She laughed.

      “Why’re you called that?” he asked. “What kinda nickname is that? I’m Weasel ’cause my brother named me and it stuck.”

      “I heard that. You sure it’s not because you weasel out of things?” she asked.

      “Ah, ah, ah.”

      He wagged a finger at her and she smiled and said, “I’m surprised you don’t know about the Nine thing, since you’ve worked with Auggie.”

      “Your brother doesn’t tell me nothin’. And he’s been outta here for months bustin’ Cordova’s ass.”

      “Okay, well, I was born on September 1. Right after midnight. The ninth month, so I’m Nine.”

      He looked disappointed. “Must be somethin’ more to it. Nobody calls Auggie Nine, and he’s your twin. Born the same day.”

      “We were born within minutes of each other,” September agreed. “Auggie’s real name is August, as you undoubtedly know.”

      “Nobody calls him that.”

      “My family does.” She made a face. “Don’t get me started on them. But here it is: my brother—August—was born at eleven-fifty-seven on August 31. I was born six minutes later. We’re twins, but we were born different days and different months.”

      He gazed at her in mild horror as her words sank in.

      “I know,” she agreed. “It’s—flukey. To make matters worse, my father insisted we each be named after the month we were born.”

      He shook his head in disbelief. “Wha’d I say about white people havin’ their own weird shit?”

      “I won’t condemn my whole race,” she said, “but my family? They definitely have their own weird shit.”

      “How many of you Raffertys are there?” he asked.

      “Five. Oldest brother, March. Then my sisters May and July. Then Auggie and me. My mother died in an automobile accident when I was in fifth grade and my sister May was killed in a botched robbery. My father’s still alive.”

      She stopped suddenly and he eyed her cautiously. “The way you say that doesn’t bode well for daddy-daughter relations,” he observed.

      September let that one go by. She’d said about all she wanted about her father. “I suppose Auggie’s nickname could have been Eight.”

      “Knew a guy named Crazy Eight once.”

      “Drug dealer?” September guessed.

      Weasel’s smile was faint. “Close enough.” He pressed a finger to one of the photos and moved it to the side. September glanced past the array to the folder on the right side of his desk. It looked like an older homicide report; the print on the corner of one page that was peeking out was from a typewriter, not a printer.

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