Page 11 of One Wrong Move
She strode across the lot, her heels wobbling on a loose piece of asphalt.
Unlocking her truck, she moved for the door, then paused at the paper stuck under her windshield wipers.
“What’s up?” he asked, his hand still on the passenger door.
“Must be a flyer,” she said, pulling the cream paper out from under the wipers. Odd. It was an envelope. She cocked her head and flipped it over. Her name was scrawled across the front.
Curiosity raking through her with an air of unease, she opened it and pulled out a tri-folded paper. Her gaze had been so intent on the envelope, she’d missed Christian striding to her side.
“A letter?” he asked, his brow arched.
“Yeah. With my name across it.” She unfolded the paper.
“From someone you know?” he asked, stepping beside her.
She cast her attention to the cursive handwriting, and her gaze fixed on the signature. “It’s signed Penn and Teller.”
“What?” His broad shoulders went taut.
“I don’t know anyone named Penn or Teller,” she continued, then cocked her head at Christian’s clenched jaw. “Do you?”
He cleared his throat, his fists releasing, his fingers shaking out. “They’re famous magicians.” He tilted his head. “You’ve never heard of them?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Magicians never really were my thing.”
He held out his hand. “Do you mind?” he asked, stepping closer still, his six-four frame dwarfing her five-four one, despite her two-inch heels.
“No.” She handed him the paper.
He gripped it, his eyes scanning the page as hers did the same.
My friend Stan never loses at the poker table. Howcome?
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“It’s an old poker riddle,” Christian explained.
“But why would someone leave a poker riddle for me on my car?” It made zero sense.
“Are you sure it was left for you?” Why was his voice so tight?
“It has my name on the envelope.” She shrugged but couldn’t fathom who’d leave her such a message. She held it up for him to see, and his shoulders slackened.Odd.“Does it make sense to you?” Curiosity pricked in her. Did he think it’d been left for him? And if so, why?
“The answer is—”
“Stan never plays,” she said.
A soft smile curled on his lips. “Right.”
“So, the question stands—why would anyone leave a riddle on my car? Let alone one signed by magicians.”
“I think the thieves left it.”
“Wait. Why?” She narrowed her eyes.
“The message,” he said. “I think they’re saying this is a game.”
“A game?”
