Turner glanced up at the rearview mirror and then back down at the road. The highway heading back to the city from Cutter’s Point wasn’t busy. Traffic was light. The scenery around them was still impressive. The wind blowing through his hair, thanks to the top still down on the Shelby, felt relaxing. And yet—he had this nagging feeling they were being followed.
He glanced at the rearview mirror again. No one was behind him. Not for at least two good miles. There was no one in front of them. Most of the state highway from the city to Cutter’s point followed the river in an almost straight parallel line. Maybe a mile in front of them was a minivan with three or four bicycles attached to the rear door and one of those aerodynamically designed luggage containers strapped onto the roof of the
