18
Jason paused on the sidewalk and pretended to be looking in the window of the art gallery that occupied one half of the ground floor of the building where Laurel’s apartment was located. There were some really fine landscapes displayed there, the sort of thing he would have considered collecting if he were still interested in decorating his home. However, the place already felt like something from the past, even though he hadn’t yet put it on the market. During the drive to Flagstaff, he’d reached out to a civilian agent who specialized in high-end properties such as his, and she’d assured him she could probably sell it without even publicly listing the home.
“In fact, I have a client who’s looking for something just like your house,” she’d said, eagerness at the prospect of a big, fa
