Carver had her phone out in a millisecond. White-knuckled fingers still gripping the handle above her window, she barked orders like a drill sergeant on training day. With the last number she dialed, however, Carver listened. In Davis’s experience, listening was not a good thing. He slanted a sideways glance Carver’s way as the car flew past beach condos and palm trees. Listening meant there was something you needed to hear. And when the sky above the last known location of the woman you loved looked like the site of a nuclear warhead testing ground, there weren’t too many good things left to say. Which pretty much left bad things. Carver snapped her phone closed and turned to Davis. She pursed her lips. “Listen.” Oh boy. No good conversation ever started with that word. “Okay,” he said. Davis repositioned his hands at ten and two. He stared through the windshield and tried to pretend everything was going to be all right. “That was the Chief.” “Yeah?” Cracking sounds came from Carver’s open mouth as she bit down hard on one of her infernal lozenges.
