14
Art made a left. Headlights shined on the smooth exterior of another adobe-style mansion, and his brows pinched. “Are you sure this is the street?”
“Supposed to be.” Anna squinted at a mailbox number. 556 … 559.
“What number are we?”
“646.” The road dead-ended up ahead. “Don’t pull into the cul-de-sac.”
“Wasn’t gonna.” He turned down a side street and slowed to a stop. “You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
“I’m sure.” She slung her backpack over her shoulder. “I’ll call you if I get anything.” She started down the sidewalk and disappeared into a neighboring cactus hedge. It was nice working with a professional. Saved her from explaining time-wasting minutia, like telling him to be ready to go with the rest of the plan if she didn’t call.
Fingers crossed, she got to ma
