CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The Missing CurlJackson pulled the Bug into a layby south of Gordonton. The tyres bit into the gravel as they slewed to a stop. “You can’t be serious!” His half shout ricocheted off the walnut dashboard, amplifying his disbelief. “I refuse to drive you to visit a potential murderer.”
“He isn’t there.” Kit spun in her seat to face him, and her spine complained. She contorted herself to rub the bruise caused by the fall downstairs. “I know where he is.”
Jackson raised his hand in the universal halt sign, his fingers centimetres from her nose. “Let me make a phone call. We can’t deal with this.”
Kit flattened her lips. “I’m not talking about us dealing with anything. I need to go alone.”
“Absolutely flamin’ not!” He threw himself back in the seat and it gave a disturb
