She'd used her last quarter, and all that was left in her wallet were three pennies and a dozen useless credit cards. “This is Victoria Chase," the recorded voice said. "I'm sorry I can't answer your call, but if you'll leave your name—" Anne slammed the receiver down and leaned her head against the telephone. She needed to talk to Vicki. The past two weeks had been a nightmare, and Vicki was her last hope. Even though she didn't think that her stepbrother, Preston Ames, would look for her in Houston, she couldn't chance leaving her name. Preston was a desperate man with powerful connections. She wouldn't feel safe until he was locked away. But first, she had to convince somebody that her accusations against him weren't simply some sort of delusional grief reaction to her mother's death. Cars and trucks whizzed by the corner gas station where Anne stood, pouring their noise and noxious fumes into the chill night wind that tugged at the opening of her sable coat.
