Free Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel by Irene Hannon

to me was killed. Broken neck.”
    A muscle in his jaw clenched. “I’m sorry.”
    She shrugged and tucked herself into the far corner of her seat. “It’s ancient history. I never expected the memories to come backwith such a vengeance on the drive down. Sorry if I’ve been less than communicative.”
    “Not a problem. Painful memories have a tendency to crop up under the right circumstances. It happens to me sometimes too.”
    The instant the words left his mouth, he regretted them . . . but he didn’t regret the effect they had on Laura.
    She angled toward him, her posture more open and approachable. “I guess you’ve seen some bad stuff in your line of work.”
    Oh yeah.
    He expelled a slow breath and tempered his response. “Enough.”
    “As a PI—or with the ATF?”
    “Mostly with the ATF, in my undercover work.”
    Frowning, he tightened his grip on the wheel. That was another piece of information he didn’t offer clients. Few people knew about his deep cover work—especially his last assignment.
    And that was one confidence he had no intention of sharing tonight.
    “Wow.” Laura’s voice was hushed. “I’ve read about undercover operatives. That’s a tough life. How did you get into that line of work?”
    He dodged another pile of drifting snow that had encroached on the road—maneuvering more carefully this time in deference to his skittish passenger—and chose his words with care. “My dad was a cop. I think he passed on the law enforcement genes, because that’s all I ever wanted to be. But after a few years, I got restless and decided to ratchet up the action. An ATF agent had done some training for our department once, and I got in touch with him. He walked me through the application process, and the rest is history.”
    “Did the job have all the action you expected?”
    “Yeah.” And then some .
    “Yet you left to become a PI.”
    Flashing lights appeared ahead, and he could make out the distinctive metal-against-asphalt rumble of an approaching snowplow. He slowed to a crawl and pulled over as far as possible to let thebulky vehicle pass—and to give himself a moment to compose his response. The bare facts, he decided. Then he’d change the subject.
    Once the snowplow lumbered past, making no appreciable dent he could discern, he picked up speed again.
    “I had an opportunity to go into business with one of my best friends from college. So tell me how you came to be a librarian.”
    To his relief, she took the hint and switched gears.
    “Simple answer? Books have always been my best friends. They saved my life the year we lived in the tenement. I could lose myself in the pages of a story, pretend I was anywhere but there. Plus, library work is orderly and quiet and predictable—in sharp contrast to life with my mother.”
    “She was the impulsive type?”
    “ Spontaneous was the word she preferred. She thrived on adventure and was always up for a new escapade. No two days were alike with Carol Griffith. My dad was a moderating influence while he was alive, but once he was gone . . .” Her words trailed off and she turned her head to stare out the passenger-side window into the darkness.
    Dev waited her out. There was a lot more to her story, and he wanted to hear it all. But the Explorer’s snug, cozy cocoon, which insulated them from the world and created a sense of intimacy, was likely to do a better job of encouraging confidences than the third degree from him.
    Thirty seconds later, she proved that theory by continuing her tale without any prompting.
    “The truth is, I hated her for a long time after Dad died.” Her voice was softer now, and laced with melancholy. “She went on a massive spending spree, blowing all the insurance money on designer clothes and jewelry and first-class trips to exotic locales, dragging me along with her until the funds ran out and we ended up in the tenement. During all that excess, I just wanted to crawl into a hole and grieve. I