15
The blinking light on my answering machine had a peculiar insistence that dug through my pleasure. Reluctantly I re-wound the tape and pushed play.
“Isabel, Muir here—” I punched up the next message. This one was from Reverend Hilliard, reverently informing me of the time and place for Mrs. Carter’s funeral tomorrow. The last message was from the guys.
“Yo, Stanley! Jerome here. Wanted to clue you in on tonight’s happening at the Rad. It’s Dirty Dancing night, so wear something hot, okay? We’ll be out front at ten-three-o to collect you in Drum’s truck.”
A truck. Three young men. And the CIA watchdogs. Sounded like the title of a movie. A disaster flick.
After almost getting killed it shouldn’t have felt reasonable to don black leggings with lace at the ankles and an electric red s
