Creed says, “Dani, I pride myself on always being available for you, but I’m kind of busy right now, unless your life’s in danger.”
“Has something terrible happened?”
“I’ll know more when we get there.”
“Where?”
“Willow Lake, Arkansas. An entire neighborhood has just been blown off the map.”
“Oh, my God, Donovan! Terrorists?”
“We don’t know. Are you in danger?”
“No. I—look, please. I wish I hadn’t called. I’m so sorry to bother you!”
“Just a sec,” he says, covering the mouthpiece. I hear muffled conversation, then he says, “I’m on the tarmac, waiting to taxi. The pilot says I’ve got ninety seconds. What’s up?”
“It seems so silly compared to—”
“Dani?”
“Yes?”
“Just tell me what you need.”
I take a quick breath and say, “I’ve been told it’s impossible to wipe selected photographs from a cell phone. In other words, to remove all traces of certain photos without affecting the others.”
“That’s bullshit. We’ve been doing it for years.”
“Who’s we?”
“Homeland Security. CIA. FBI. The Pentagon. It’s not that big a deal.”
“Could the average civilian do it?”
“No. These are classified programs.”
“Quick question. If they’ve been wiped clean, is there any way to restore them?”
“Not if we erased them.”
I pause a moment. He says, “Is that it?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry to bother you.”
“No problem.”
“Good luck, Donovan.”
“You too.”
I tell Dillon what Creed said.
“That is so unfair!” Dillon says. “Why should the government have all the cool stuff?”
“Don’t get me started,” I say.
“You always say that.”
He drops me off at the office, then drives Sophie home.
You know that feeling you get when you unlock the front door to your house and feel something’s wrong? In my case it’s the front door of my office suite.
Maybe it’s a scent. Maybe it’s intuition. Maybe it’s nothing. But feels like someone has been here since Dillon and I left earlier this morning. The feeling’s so strong I consider walking right back out the door and waiting for Dillon.
Except that Dillon won’t be back for at least twenty minutes.
And there’s this: I have a gun.
I walk through the reception area, past the perpetually vacant reception desk, and get the distinct feeling someone not only entered the office after we left, but they’re still here. To make matters worse, I hear sounds of activity coming from my office.
This can’t be good.
I quietly place my handbag on the floor, remove my gun. Creep down the hall, past Dillon’s office, the supply room, the break room, the bathroom. My office door is closed, as it should be.
YOU ARE READING
Promise You Won't Tell?
Teen Fiction"I think something might have happened to me Saturday night. Something bad." Private Investigator Dani Ripper's client list is nuttier than the Looney Tunes conga line, but she diligently solves one crazy case after another, waiting for a game-chang...
