CHAPTER EIGHT
Upon returning to the mountain cottage some two hours later, Harry couldn’t shake an abiding sense of unease. It had started while traipsing around that shadowy lane off the beaten track in Swannanoa with those two moldy Spanish houses and a crumbling garage that barely housed cousin Skip’s rattletrap Volvo. He’d tried to slough it off, telling himself how unreasonable it was to be acting this way over a proposition that was by all indications preposterous.
That loopy escapade Miranda had dragged him into that culminated in gunshots and the apprehension of the unhinged perpetrator would do anyone for a lifetime. He’d assumed she’d fully come to her senses and they were well out of it. But here she was, no matter what he said to her, dragging needless anxiety back into their
