A green Chevy Suburban pulled out suddenly from a side street and wavered from center line to shoulder, put on a brief spurt of speed, slowed down, speeded up again.

Well, hell. Liam hit the lights and the siren.

The Suburban put on another burst of speed and, just about the time he thought he might have a Hollywood car chase on his hands, screeched over to the side of the road and slammed on the brakes, skidding another four feet in the loose gravel before coming to a halt somewhat perpendicular to the line of traffic.

Liam got out of the Blazer. The driver got out of the Suburban. “Stay in your vehicle, ma’am,” Liam said, but she ignored him, walking toward him with a step as straight as the course she had been driving.

He sighed. But this day had begun with such promise, he thought, struggling to master a reminiscent grin when the woman reached him. The smell of alcohol got to him first.

She stopped four feet away, glaring at him and weaving a little on her feet. This time he had no trouble holding back a smile. “Amelia, did you have breakfast at the Breeze Inn again?”

“Damn right,” she said, blinking rapidly, as if trying and failing to focus. “I can do anything I wanna, I’m the councilman’s wife.”

“Yes, you are,” Liam said, taking her by one arm.

She pulled free. “You know which councilman?” she said belligerently.

“Yes,” he said, taking her arm again.

“That’s Councilman Darren Gearhart,” she said. “H-a-r-t.Noe. ”

“Yes,” he said. This time she followed him to the passenger door of the Blazer.

“I’m his wife,” she said as he sat her down. She leaned back against the headrest and fell asleep as easily and instantly as a child.