Cord found her at the farmers market on Wednesday morning.
He was alone, no cut, in a plain canvas jacket that made him look almost like anyone. He bought a jar of fig preserves and paid without being told the price and stood at the edge of her table until the other customers cleared.
"Walk with me a minute."
It wasn't quite a request. She walked.
They went to the edge of the square, near the fountain. Cord stood with his hands in his pockets and looked at the water.
"He doesn't talk about personal things. To anyone. In twelve years I have had maybe four conversations with Rafe Santos that weren't about the club."
"He talks to me."
"I know. That's why I'm here."
He turned to look at her. He had a broad, weathered face and the kind of eyes that had watched a lot of things happen wit
