CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Okay, I thought. Don’t be ridiculous. Conroy might have a female visitor. He’s entitled to a social life.
Assuming that’s who the visitor was. I hate assumptions.
I noted the car was a silver late-model compact with Delaware tags.
So, now what? Bust in on Conroy at nearly 3:00 in the morning, probably in flagrante delicto?
The guy already loved me, so that would go over really well.
I pulled up to the curb across the street and watched the house. In a window, a shadow flickered past the blind. Then another.
“Hmm.” I squirmed and tapped a staccato beat on the wheel. Minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. Nothing.
As my watch crept up on the twenty-minute mark, I prepared to exit the car, figuring I’d sneak up to a window and take a peek inside. That’s when I saw it coming up the street. The beat-up green Chevy with the walleyed headlights.
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