into text, knowing he’d likely be freaked out by the urgency of her attempts to contact him. But what was she supposed to do? Chase had been robbed. That man—he’d called himself Charles, Boogie, whatever—that man had taken a lot of money from Chase and Faith had done nothing to stop him. She was still shaking, even half an hour later, as she once again peered out the window to the street, just to make sure “Boogie” wasn’t lurking nearby, waiting to do some new piece of nasty business. Of course, he had no reason to stick around. He’d come into Chase’s home and gotten what he was after. Money. She could still picture the man’s hooded eyes, the wariness and slyness in his gaze, and the confidence of his gait. How old had he been? He’d moved with the ease of someone still relatively young, but his beard had flecks of gray and she’d noticed deep creases around his mouth and on his forehead. He might have been thirty-five or even fifty for all she knew. The man had frightened her with the way he’d talked knowingly of Chase’s sordid past, “running the streets.”
