left more rubber. In fact, she realized the car had to have been going pretty fast to hit the barrier hard enough to go over.
This did not make sense. Had the brakes failed? Should she go down the embankment and check the crash site? She didn’t have the nerve.
Tara took several slow breaths, forcing her stomach to settle, digging her nails into her palms to distract herself from the woozy sensation. When she felt safe to drive, she went into town.
Her first stop was Crowley’s for Faye’s pills. She pasted a smile on her face, then marched straight to the back of the store, where the pharmacy was, relieved not to hear her name called by any shoppers, thankful she didn’t recognize the pharmacist, either.
“I’m picking up for Faye Wharton. I’m her sister.”
The pharmacist’s eyebrows lifted, clearly knowing about Faye, but she hesitated for only a moment before she said, “Certainly,” and went to get the orders. There were two pills—one for anxiety and one for depression.
Tara carried them out to the car, troubled to learn her sister was so emotionally upset. How long had she been struggling? At least a month, since the orders were refills. Faye had always been even-tempered and optimistic. Happy, as her mother had pointed out. What had shaken her so much she’d sought medical help? The prescribing doctor was Eli Finch, not McAlister, so probably a psychiatrist. Locating the number among Faye’s contacts, she called it. Pretending that she wanted to cancel an upcoming appointment for her sister, Tara chatted with the receptionist, learning that Faye had seen Dr. Finch in Tucson five times, starting not long before the call she’d made to Tara. No doubt Faye would have shared a little of her troubles if Tara hadn’t been so damned oblivious, busy showing off instead of listening.
Then she had another thought: What if the medication had affected Faye’s driving? Made her sleepy or inattentive or slow to respond? That would be horrible. And when Faye woke up and learned her condition had caused the accident, she would be devastated.
Setting aside that worry, Tara drove the few blocks to the town complex and headed inside the seventies-era building. She was still reeling from seeing the accident site, but she was determined to find out what she could from Fallon.
Tara entered the complex. The police department was to the right, the utilities department and post office to the left. Down the center was a wing of glassed-in offices. She was startled to see Dylan through the glass of the second office. He was town manager, so of course that made sense. Just the sight of him cheered her, she found, eased a little of her distress.
As if he felt her eyes on him, he looked up. Tara felt that swirl of excitement and relief...that twist and sink of her stomach that she used to feel when they spotted each other. Had he sensed her presence?
He smiled, then started out of his office, but was intercepted by a woman with a file. Tara nodded and waved her hand, telling him to stick with his work. She would stop by when she’d finished with Fallon.
She headed for the police receptionist, who was flipping through a magazine. Cosmopolitan, Tara saw when she got close enough.
“I’d like to talk with Chief Fallon, if I may,” she said.
“Do you have an appointment?” The receptionist lifted her eyes reluctantly from Sixty Tricks to Unman Your Man.
Really? Was the guy that busy? Tara took a deep breath. She had to be patient. Small towns weren’t known for their efficiency.
When the receptionist saw Tara, she grinned. “Tara Wharton! Hi! Robin Walker. Reed’s little sister? Remember?”
Oh, yeah. Robin had been a chunky thirteen-year-old with braces and acne, miserable in the way only girls who’d just walked into puberty could be. “Sure.”
“You gave me this expensive makeup you said you didn’t need and made Reed apologize when he said I looked like a slut wearing it.”
“That’s right.” Tara had emptied out her cosmetics bag for the girl, who had to cope with four older brothers, including Reed, the guy who’d dumped his motorcycle the night Dylan acted as her white knight.
“I still use that brand. It’s the best zit cover-up ever.” She turned her face side to side to demonstrate.
“You look great, Robin.” She smiled. “So how about—?”
“Chief Fallon, right. He hates drop-ins. Hates them.” She studied Tara. “Tell you what. He’s pretending to prepare for a town council meeting, but he’s actually playing online