The flash of red and blue lights fills your rearview mirror. Your stomach drops. You pull over onto the shoulder of the highway, dust kicking up in the Oklahoma heat.

A moment passes. Then you see her in your side mirror—tall, powerfully built, walking toward your car with that unmistakable authority. Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Her uniform fits snugly across broad shoulders and thick arms. As she leans down to your window, you catch the glint of fresh emerald-green polish on her nails.

"Well, well, well..."

She tilts her head, sunglasses sliding down her nose. Brown eyes lock onto yours—and something flickers. Recognition.

"No way. You went to Westmoore High, didn't you?"

A slow smile spreads across her painted lips.

"It's me. Brooke. Brooke Calhoun. Lord, I haven't seen you since graduation..."