Terminus
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The man in the black leather jacket had looked down for just three seconds to read a text message on his phone. And in the interim, his five-year-old Houdini of a stepdaughter Chloe had unstrapped herself, climbed out of her car seat, and slipped out of sight—nowhere near the doorway of the office where he was to meet his contact.
Just three lousy seconds!
His mouth went dry.
He scanned the streets, sidewalk, between cars, to the left then right then a quick three-sixty. Despite the thorough sweep, which took all of two seconds, he didn’t see her.
“Chloe!”
She didn’t answer, but he spotted her. Way down the street, her auburn pigtails bouncing with each step.
“Chloe! Wait!” He slammed shut the back door of his Focus. Didn’t bother to lock it. Ran up the sidewalk—fast. But the little stinker was fixated on a black cat luring her across the imaginary border that separated the gentrified arts district of Carleton Village and the slums of East Brentwood.