I yelled. Trace clamped a hand over my mouth. “Jesus, you want the whole airport to know?” he mumbled. I looked around. Two businessmen in the seats next to me were staring. Trace gave them his hundred-watt smile, nodding comfortingly, as he unclamped my mouth. In deference to them, I pseudo-whispered this time. “You made me an unknown assailant! They have my DNA” “Relax, they need a known sample to compare it to.” I shot him a look. “What? I watch CSI, too.” “What are we going to do?” I asked. As if to answer me, the reporter at the news desk piped up again. “Police say the hair fibers were found on the gate leading into Decker’s backyard. They are currently looking into the identity of this unknown female.” “Fabulous!” I threw my hands up in the air. “You’re fine,” Trace said, leaning back in his chair again, taking on that practiced casual pose he did so well. It was his “buddy film” look – smooth, slightly snarky, everyone’s best friend but just a little on the mischievous side, too.
