She turned around to go back inside the restaurant, planning to call the police, but she must have been their last customer for the night because the door was locked and the shades lowered.
If she didn’t get her truck back, her career as an archaeologist could take another major nosedive. She mentally listed everything she’d loaded in the back when she left the site an hour ago: the stratigraphic drawings, the photologs, the burial notes, and the field catalog. But it was the only vehicle she had, and, even worse, the excavation notes from the archaeological dig were inside.
Old, beat-up, and rusted, the beast drank fuel like a dehydrated camel, and a tank was more maneuverable. The lot was too small and her truck too large. She stood in the tiny, eight-space parking lot, gripping her keys until they dug into her palm, and wondered where the hell her truck was. You will thank me for this rule when you are older. This is the only page of this book you are allowed to read. Please do not participate in encouraging piracy of copyrighted materials in violation with the author’s rights. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously.
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