A young, beautifully coiffed receptionist angled her head and looked at her with startled, blinking eyes.Claire turned back to scan the parking lot, dotted with the random assortment of vehicles for a slow Tuesday afternoon, and answered over her shoulder, “I have a five o’clock appointment with Terry.”“Sure,” the receptionist said in that cautious tone one uses when dealing with someone unstable. Not unlike the voice Claire had used that morning with Gideon. “Just one moment, please.”She slid deeper into the buttery leather cushions, the smell far more pleasing than the overwhelming aroma of chemicals stinging her nose. No sign of a Jeep anywhere, even though she had sworn the vehicle followed her into the parking lot. Sighing, she swung around and took a moment to observe her surroundings. The salon looked expensive, from its marble receptionist’s counter, to the custom-framed artwork and leather couches. Maggie must live on credit to afford such a posh salon on a teacher’s salary with three kids.
