Look what people are saying about the BODY MOVERS series …

“There should be a notice on her books: for a really

GOOD time, read Stephanie Bond!”

—America Online Romance Fiction Forum

“Bond has successfully switched to the crime genre,

bringing along her trademark humour and panache.”

—Booklist on Body Movers

“A fun and exciting romp from beginning to end.

Body Movers is signature Stephanie Bond, with witty dialogue, brilliant characterisation, and a wonderful well-plotted storyline.” —Contemporary Romance Writers

“Bond keeps the pace frantic, the plot tight and the

laughs light, and supplies a cliffhanger ending

that’s a bargain at twice the price.”

—Publishers Weekly, Starred review! on Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1

“Stephanie Bond knows what her readers want and

she definitely delivers it in this fantastic

new instalment.”

—FreshFiction.com on Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1

“Bond continues her popular BODY MOVERS

series with a fast-paced and wickedly humorous story

that skewers fame and celebrity obsession with

deadly accuracy.”

—RT Book Reviews, 4 1/2 stars! on Body Movers: 3 Men and a Body

“Where the [BODY MOVERS] series goes next

continues to be an intriguing mystery. Readers who

love a combination of suspense and sexy romance will

find their thrills in Bond’s latest offering.”

—BookPage on Body Movers: 3 Men and a Body

Also by Stephanie Bond

BODY MOVERS:

2 BODIES FOR THE PRICE OF 1

BODY MOVERS: 3 MEN & A BODY

4 Bodies

and a Funeral

Stephanie Bond

www.mirabooks.co.uk

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The longer my career goes on, the more I appreciate my wonderful editors, who are champions for this series. Many, many thanks to Brenda Chin, who somehow manages to read my material both as a reader and as an editor. Brenda puts a shine on everything I write. Thanks, too, to Margaret O’Neill Marbury, Dianne Moggy and Valerie Gray for your ongoing support of the series and especially for arranging the back-to-back release of books 4, 5 and 6. And to my agent Kimberly Whalen of Trident Media Group who first proposed a trilogy to help satisfy readers who were clamouring for closer release dates! Thanks to my critique partner, Rita Herron, for our weekly meetings and for not being too biased about who Carlotta will pick. Thanks to pal Blair Fisher, former soldier, trivia whiz, all-around good guy for always answering my e-mails. My undying love and thanks to my dear husband, Chris, who cheers me on with every new project and keeps me going until The End. And to all the booksellers, librarians and readers who keep the ball rolling by telling customers, patrons and friends about the BODY MOVERS series—thank you, thank you, thank you.

1

Carlotta Wren skidded onto the sales floor of the Neiman Marcus at Lenox Square in Atlanta soaked in a flop sweat. Late on her first day back—minus ten points.

“Welcome back.”

Carlotta turned and manufactured a smile for Lindy Russell, her boss, who was standing with arms crossed. “Thank you. It’s good to be back.”

Lindy pursed her mouth. “Too bad you couldn’t make this morning’s staff meeting.”

Carlotta’s smile wavered, but she massaged the flexible cast on her arm. “Sorry. This morning was the first time I’d driven in a while, and my car battery was dead.” She didn’t think it would help to mention that the MARTA trains were being single-tracked for construction. Still, she decided not to dwell on transportation challenges since her recent medical leave had come on the heels of a two-week suspension to “get her personal issues worked out.”

Personal issues such as her brother’s gambling debts, her ruined credit, the fact that her parents were long-lost fugitives … and oh, she’d been entangled in a couple of murders as a by-product of her part-time hobby as a body mover for the morgue.

“Things happen,” Lindy conceded. “Is your arm healing well?”

Carlotta flexed the fingers of the arm that had been broken when a killer had pushed her over the balcony of the Fox Theatre, where she’d dangled with her skirt around her waist for all the attendees of an Elton John concert to see. “Almost as good as new.” Though, at the moment it was throbbing like a toothache.

Sympathy crossed Lindy’s face. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Michael.”

Michael Lane, aka the person who’d pushed her over the balcony, had been Carlotta’s former coworker and friend. He’d also turned out to have some very dark secrets.

“Me, too,” Carlotta murmured, wishing her heart could be splinted like her arm had been.

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard from him?”

She shook her head. “I was told he’s in the psych ward at Northside Hospital until he’s deemed competent to stand trial.”

“So terrible.” Lindy sighed, then checked the clipboard she held. “Well, life goes on, doesn’t it?”

Carlotta blinked. It was true, but still …

“I’m glad you could come back in time for the Eva McCoy appearance.” Lindy swept her arm toward the small dais that had been erected on the sales floor with several rows of cordoned-off chairs for seating.

Olympian Eva McCoy’s return to her hometown had been hyped on all the media outlets for weeks. “That’s today?”

Lindy arched an eyebrow.

Carlotta backpedaled. “I mean … that’s today.”

“Since you missed the staff meeting, here’s the info.” Lindy handed over a memo. “It’s going to be a mob scene so I’ll need all my best employees on the floor.”

Pleasure suffused Carlotta’s chest—her history of being a consistent top salesperson still meant something.

“And here’s one now,” Lindy said, looking past Carlotta’s shoulder. Carlotta turned and swallowed a curse when she saw Patricia Alexander, aka Stepford Salesclerk, complete with rounded-collar suit, helmet hair and strand of pearls, walking toward them.

The blonde flashed a waxy smile. “I’d heard you were coming back, Carlotta, but when I didn’t see you at this morning’s staff meeting, I assumed that something else had happened. You’re so … accident prone.”

Carlotta’s mouth tightened.

“I’ll let you two catch up for a couple of minutes before the crowd arrives,” Lindy said, handing them each a roll of tickets to be passed out to customers who wanted to meet the guest of honor. Then she gave Carlotta a pointed look. “I tend to agree with Patricia. There’s going to be a lot of security on hand today, so try not to do anything that might draw extra attention.” Lindy walked off, leaving Carlotta properly chastised—in front of her nemesis.

“Ouch,” Patricia chirped.

Carlotta was able to hold her tongue because she knew she deserved far worse from her boss than a reprimand for all her … mishaps. Determined to get along with Lindy’s new pet employee, she turned toward Patricia. “I suppose you took Michael’s place in Shoes?”

“Yes. It’s such a shame, isn’t it, that he turned out to be totally insane?”

Carlotta bit her tongue.

“So, I’ll bet you’re happy to be back to work,” Patricia offered. “You were probably bored to tears doing nothing all day.”

“I didn’t exactly do nothing,” Carlotta muttered, although she couldn’t exactly tell Patricia about the road trip she’d taken with Coop for a VIP body pickup, the unexpected appearance of her father, and the capture of a murderer while she’d been “incapacitated,” on leave with a broken arm. Instead she pasted on a smile. “But I am happy to be back in my element.”

Patricia made rueful noises in her throat. “I hope you had time to rest, you poor thing. The heartbreak you’ve been through the past decade—you must be close to the brink of insanity yourself.”

Carlotta’s hands fisted. Patricia moved in the Buckhead social circles, so she knew the sordid Wren family history—that ten years ago Carlotta’s father had been accused of stealing from his investment clients and had skipped town rather than face a trial, with her mother in tow, abandoning Carlotta and her younger brother to fend for themselves.

At the thought of her brother, Wesley, Carlotta stole a glance at her watch. He should be arriving at the Fulton County D.A.’s office right about now, hopefully working out a plea agreement, testifying against one of his loan sharks in return for reduced charges for his part in the attempted theft of a body. His attorney, Liz, was hopeful that Wesley would get off with having his community service sentence from a prior computer hacking charge extended. But Carlotta was worried that even Liz Fuck-Me Fischer wouldn’t be able to parlay enough sexual favors to make it happen. Carlotta had wanted to go with Wesley today, but he’d refused, saying it was something he needed to take care of himself. It might have been the moment she’d been most proud of him.

Except for the fact that he could be sitting in a jail cell before her shift ended.

What would she do for bail money? And what if Wesley didn’t get out this time?

Patricia waved her hand in front of Carlotta’s face. “Did I lose you?”

“No,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “And I’m coping with everything just fine.”

Patricia leaned in. “If you need something to take the edge off, I can spot you some antianxiety meds.”

“No, thank you,” Carlotta said through gritted teeth, although beneath the cast her arm was hot with pain. Knowing it would really hurt, though, if she slugged the woman, Carlotta changed the subject. “Looks like we’re going to have a big crowd today for Eva McCoy.”

“Yeah, speaking of crazy … . The woman wins a marathon after a bout of food poisoning, gives all the credit to a lucky charm bracelet and suddenly charm bracelets are selling like mad.” Patricia shook her head, apparently bemused with the trend.

Carlotta smirked. Her coworker was only frustrated because she wasn’t working in Jewelry, earning commissions on the trinkets that Eva would be promoting.

Customers were already gathering in the area of the dais where posters featured the smiling, fit Olympian with a gold medal around her neck and a “Lucky Charm Bracelet” on her slender wrist.

Carlotta and Patricia positioned themselves in front of the GET YOUR TICKETS TO MEET EVA McCOY HERE sign and began handing out tickets, and directing early comers where to sit or stand.

“So,” Patricia asked without making eye contact. “How are you and Peter Ashford?”

Choosing her words carefully, Carlotta said, “Peter and I are old friends.”

“So I’ve heard. Tracey Tully Lowenstein belongs to my club. She said that you and Peter used to be quite the item before … your family issues.”

“That was a long time ago,” Carlotta murmured.

“Tracey intimated that you two have picked up where you left off.”

“Tracey talks too much,” Carlotta said pointedly.

“I think it’s nice that you and Peter have each other,” Patricia said. “You can support each other. You know, with his wife having been murdered, and then all that you’ve gone through.” The blonde winced. “Wait a minute. Weren’t you a suspect in her murder? Gee, that has to be a little awkward.”

“Not at all,” Carlotta said pleasantly.

Patricia sniffed and turned her back.

Carlotta shot daggers into the woman’s bony shoulder blades. In truth, Carlotta was still wrestling with her recent decision to cozy up to her former fiancé. When her father had walked up to her, unannounced and in disguise, at a rest area a few weeks ago in Florida, he’d told her to stay close to Peter—that since Peter worked for Mashburn & Tully Investments where her father had once been a partner, he was in the best position to help prove Randolph Wren’s innocence. Until that moment, Carlotta would have sworn that if her long-lost father had ever approached her, she would slap him, kick his shins, spit in his face and call the police. Instead she’d been gelatinous and cooperative and … hopeful.

The fact that he made her want to believe that he’d been framed for his white collar crime made her feel used all over again.

Her father was using her—and she was using Peter. Since his wife’s untimely death, Peter had made no secret that he wanted to get back with Carlotta. He’d even recovered the Cartier engagement ring that she’d pawned, and he’d had a diamond added on either side of the original solitaire. He was holding it for her, hoping she’d agree to pick up where they’d left off years ago. Just as if he hadn’t ripped out her heart by turning his back on her when she needed him most.

But he was trying to make amends, she conceded. He’d helped Wesley out of a couple of scrapes and continued to be attentive to her. A couple of weeks ago, though, after she’d returned from Florida, his patience had worn thin. He’d been offered a position in New York and had been going to take it, unless she could make room for him in her life. She couldn’t risk him leaving, on the chance that her father might call or put in another appearance soon, in need of Peter’s inside access. So she’d told Peter to stay and had committed herself to making their relationship a priority.

Normally, being on the receiving end of a handsome, rich man’s attentions wouldn’t pose a problem, but there were … extenuating circumstances. Namely, two other men bouncing around in her head and in her heart.

“I wondered if I’d see you here.”

At the sound of a familiar rumbling voice, her pulse spiked. She turned around to see one of those two men, Detective Jack Terry, standing there with a sardonic smile on his ruggedly handsome face, as if she’d conjured him up. Her entire body smiled. “Hi, Jack.”

“Back to work, huh?”

She nodded. “First day.”

“Are you okay? You look flushed.”

She put a hand to her warm cheek. “Hectic morning. What are you doing here?”

“Extra security for Eva McCoy. It’s a favor for the mayor.”

Carlotta frowned. “What does the city have to do with this?”

“Apparently Eva’s uncle is a state senator. He wants APD on the scene just in case. And since a uniform might send the wrong signal …” He shrugged. “Here I am.”

She surveyed his gray suit and gave his red tie a tug. “You look good.”

“I keep telling him that red is his color.”

At the sound of a purring voice, Carlotta turned her head. A doe-eyed, exotic beauty in a dark suit stepped into Jack’s personal space.

Jack gave the woman a proprietary smile. “Carlotta, I don’t think you’ve met my new partner, Detective Maria Marquez. Maria, this is Carlotta Wren, a friend of mine.”

Carlotta tried not to react. Friends? Is that what she and Jack were?

She had seen the woman once, at a distance. Up close, Maria was even more … wow. She was almost as tall as Jack, with killer curves, and caramel-colored hair smoothed back from her face in a clasp at the nape of her neck.

“Nice to meet you, Carlotta.” Maria’s English was precise, seasoned with the kind of curling accent that made words like blitzkrieg and psoriasis sound sexy.

“Same here,” Carlotta murmured.

When she’d razzed Jack about getting a partner, she’d envisioned a grumpy middle-aged man with hair in his ears, not a Latina siren with perfect teeth and no wedding ring. Damn, the woman even had good taste—her suit was Ellen Tracy and the pumps were Stuart Weitzman. Carlotta knew her own Betsey Johnson tunic dress and Fendi platform sandals could hold their own, but the cast on her arm was an unsightly accessory she couldn’t wait to be rid of. And she tongued the gap between her front teeth self-consciously.

“So you work at Neiman’s?” Maria asked. The way she said it left the unspoken comparison of “and I carry a gun” hanging in the air.

“That’s right,” Carlotta said.

“Carlotta also moonlights for the morgue,” Jack supplied cheerfully. “She’s a body mover.”

Carlotta squirmed. The gorgeous giantess packing heat made her feel like an underachiever. And short.

“A body mover? How … diverse. Is that how the two of you met?”

Carlotta exchanged a glance with Jack. He looked at Maria. “Not exactly. I’ll fill you in later,” he added in a low voice.

Great. He’d tell Maria all about her criminal family—her fugitive folks, her delinquent brother … Not to mention Carlotta’s own scrapes with the law. And her futile—and inept—efforts to hold her life and family together.

“Speaking of your morbid hobby, how is Coop?” Jack asked her with wry amusement.

Cooper Craft—her brother’s body-moving boss who had pulled her in on a couple of jobs … and who’d made it known that he wouldn’t mind them being more than friends. Coop was a former medical examiner. He and Jack maintained a relationship that existed primarily of circling each other like two big-racked bucks, but collaborating when necessary.

“With this bum arm, I haven’t been helping Coop lately,” she said. “And after Wesley conspired with those thugs to steal the body we were hauling from Florida back to Atlanta … well, let’s just say he needs to earn back Coop’s trust before they work together again.”

Her brother with the genius IQ somehow rationalized making the wrong choice at almost every juncture. She bit her lip and wondered how he was faring in court.

“Despite Wesley’s interference, Coop received a lot of attaboys for the way he handled that VIP body pickup—and the aftermath,” Jack said. “I hear that Abrams might give him more access to the active cases at the morgue.”

“Good for Coop,” she said, and meant it. The quiet intellectual acted as if he was content to be relegated to the job of body hauler for the morgue he used to run, but she often wondered if he missed being in the thick of things.

“I figured you’d be happy for him,” Jack said in a sly reference to the road trip she’d taken with Coop to Florida for some fun in the sun before picking up the body. Their plans to get to know each other hadn’t exactly panned out when Wesley had shown up as an uninvited chaperone. Still, she and Coop had had their moment … and had it snatched away.

Of course, Jack didn’t have to know that.

Besides, with her promise to Peter, it was all a moot point.

“I need to get back to work,” she said brightly, gesturing to the milling crowd. “Nice to see you both,” she said, including the decadent Maria in her glance.

“Hey.” Jack caught her good arm and leaned in, his golden-colored eyes serious. “Wes is seeing the D.A. today, isn’t he?”

She lifted her chin and nodded.

“Don’t worry. Liz will take care of him.”

Carlotta’s mouth tightened, but before she could respond, Jack picked up her left hand and rubbed his rough thumb over her bare ring finger.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Just checking to see if you’re wearing another man’s ring yet.”

He winked, then walked away to join Maria. Confounded as always by Jack’s behavior, Carlotta turned back to the customers to make sure everyone had a ticket before she shepherded them into line. Beneath her lashes, she stole glances at Jack and his new partner as they scouted the layout of the store event. They looked as if they belonged on TV—the great-looking partners with amazing chemistry who put away bad guys during the day … and burned up the sheets at night?

It only made sense that Jack would want to bed the beauty—he was a red-blooded man after all. And not in a hurry to put a ring on anyone’s finger anytime soon.

Besides, since his sometimes-squeeze, Liz Fischer, aka The Cougar, was now banging Carlotta’s little brother, the big-boobed attorney probably had less time for booty calls from Jack.

If there was a bright spot to Liz seducing nineteen-year-old Wesley, Carlotta thought wryly, it was that maybe she’d work harder to keep him out of jail. The threat of having to resort to conjugal visits in the slammer might keep her on her toes.

Carlotta fretted about Wesley between handing out tickets and informing people about the day’s event, as it had been laid out in the memo that she’d memorized.

“When Ms. McCoy arrives, she’ll say a few words and answer questions from the press. Then she’ll step over to the jewelry section where she’ll pose for pictures, sign autographs, and use an engraving tool to sign the back of any Lucky Charm Bracelet purchased. There is a limit of two bracelets per person.”

It would be a sellout, Carlotta thought as she looked down the long line forming. The jewelry department, adjacent to the event area, was already selling the charm bracelets as quickly as they could ring up customers.

The novelty was that each bracelet was purportedly unique, with random charms denoting travel or hobbies or almost anything. Each bracelet was packaged in a small brown box—the recipient didn’t know exactly what they were getting until they opened it after purchase. The idea was for the wearer to treat the bracelet as a suggested life list of sorts, to be inspired by the charms to try something unexpected. There were even special journals and Web sites for Charmers, as they were now being called. The craze was sweeping the nation, bolstered by Eva’s appearances on national talk shows, hefting the gold medal she’d won for the marathon that had held the world captivated as she’d fought back from her illness to pass the leaders and against all odds, win the event. Hers was one of the greatest human interest stories to emerge from the most recent summer Olympics. And like many athletes, she was cashing in on her newfound celebrity.

“Are those two people over there police officers?” Patricia asked, nodding to Jack and Maria.

“Detectives,” Carlotta said, trying not to let the pair’s familiar body language get to her. It was none of her business where Jack holstered his gun. “Added security as a precaution.”

“So it’s true, then.”

“What?”

Patricia covered her mouth with the back of her hand and whispered. “I read on the Internet that Eva McCoy has received death threats.”

“Death threats? The woman is a world-renowned athlete. Who’d want her dead?”

Patricia shrugged. “Who knows? Sports fans can be rabid. Maybe someone doesn’t like the fact that she beat their favorite runner. Or it could be one of those urban myths that start online and run wild. Regardless, I think I’ll buy a charm bracelet before they’re gone. Want me to pick one up for you?”

“I actually have a charm bracelet at home,” Carlotta murmured. From her teenage years. A gift from her father, it was somewhere in the depths of her jewelry box. She had buried so many things from that period in her life. “Thanks anyway,” she added begrudgingly. Patricia wasn’t so bad, she was just … persnickety.

“Looks like we have a lull,” Patricia said. “I’ll be right back.”

Carlotta glanced around and decided to take advantage of the break in the crowd to get a pain pill from her purse. Her arm hadn’t hurt like this in a while.

She made her way to the employee break room and gave the locker of her former coworker Michael Lane a wistful glance. It had been emptied, but was still tagged with police evidence tape. No one would touch it, as if they might catch whatever it was that had taken hold of Michael. Carlotta opened her own locker to remove her purse. She checked her cell phone for messages, hoping Wesley hadn’t forgotten his promise to call and let her know what happened with the D.A. But there were no messages, leaving her to fear the worst. Jack had once warned her that the D.A. despised her father so much that he might try to take it out on Wesley.

With growing apprehension, Carlotta pulled the prescription bottle of Percocet from her bag and removed the lid. When the last pill rolled out into her hand, she frowned. She’d barely touched the bottle of painkillers, and had even turned down the doctor’s offer for extra refills because she hadn’t wanted to become dependent on them.

She used her cell phone to dial the pharmacy and request one of the refills she had left.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but there are no more refills on this prescription.”

“But I’m looking at the pill bottle, and it says I have two more.”

In the background was the sound of computer keys clicking. “According to our records, the prescription was refilled two weeks ago and again last week.”

“But that’s impossible—” Carlotta began to argue, then cut herself off. She suddenly felt sick to her stomach. She hadn’t taken the bottle of pain pills, and she hadn’t gotten the prescription refilled. Which left only one other person in the house who could have.

“Thank you,” she said hastily, then disconnected the call. Her eyes pooled with sudden moisture. Had Wesley taken the painkillers recreationally? Sold them?

Or was he hooked on them?

She put a hand over her heavy heart and murmured, “Oh, Wesley. What have you gotten yourself into now?”

2

Wesley glanced all around as he hurried into the building on Pryor Street that housed, among other government agencies, the offices of the Fulton County District Attorney. He was a nervous freaking wreck after riding his bike in a circuitous route just in case anyone from The Carver’s camp knew about the appointment and decided to intercept him, then persuade him not to agree to a plea deal in return for testifying against the brutal loan shark.

When he’d agreed to help The Carver’s men swipe the body of a starlet, Wesley had told himself he was killing several birds with one stone, so to speak.

The woman was already dead, after all. It was an olive branch to offer the loan shark for an embarrassing stunt Wesley had orchestrated on him at a strip club. And The Carver had promised to erase the rest of Wesley’s gambling debt in return for the favor. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d been given the option of refusing the man who had already carved the first three letters of his last name into Wesley’s arm for a former offense.

At the memory, Wesley rubbed his arm through the jacket he’d worn as directed by his attorney. Underneath, the newly healed wounds itched where the skin had drawn tight.

Thinking back to the body-snatching scheme, Wesley shook his head. Why did he think he could do it? At the last minute he’d balked and when it was over, he’d come clean with his boss, Cooper, and the police. The D.A., an asshole named Kelvin Lucas who had indicted his dad, had wanted to nail Wesley to the wall. But his attorney, Liz, had managed to persuade the D.A. that Hollis Carver was a bigger fish. Since Wesley still owed The Carver a shitload of money, it was in his best interests if The Carver went to jail for a long time.

On the other hand, The Carver could probably pull strings no matter where he was. If he found out that Wesley had turned on him, he might have the rest of his name and his address cut into Wesley’s skinny body.

Once inside the lobby, Wesley slowed his pace so as not to attract attention from the security guards, and joined the line of bored people going through a metal detector. He jammed his hands in his pockets, trying to calm his nerves, but his brain was firing like a machine gun. Sweat trailed down his back, and behind his glasses his left eye ticked nervously. It was the OxyContin—or rather, the lack of it—kicking in.

He was really making an effort this time to stay away from the stuff. The Percocet he’d pinched from Carlotta’s purse and the two refills he’d gotten had bridged the worst of his withdrawal symptoms, but he had only one pill left. He fingered the capsule in the corner of his pants pocket, yearning to swallow it, but drawing some comfort from its mere presence.

He’d hardly left the house the last couple of weeks except to go to ASS, Atlanta Security Systems, where he was poking around in his dad’s trial files under the guise of doing community service for hacking into the courthouse computer. So he’d definitely noticed that the house was being watched. The first appearance of the black SUV at the curb in front of the town house where he and Carlotta lived had nearly made him piss his pants. He’d gathered up anything that could be used as a weapon: a hammer, a few butcher knives, a cast-iron skillet, even a can of hair-spray from Carlotta’s bathroom. But when no one had emerged from the SUV with guns drawn to storm the place—the vehicle had simply left and returned at different hours of the day—he’d wondered if someone was looking out for him. Maybe Jack Terry had sent a fellow cop to patrol the house, at least until Wesley could strike his deal.

He pivoted as the line moved forward, looking for signs of trouble. When he was two people back from reaching the detector, he spotted Mouse, The Carver’s head henchman, entering the front door of the building.

Wesley almost swallowed his tongue and pecked on the shoulder of the stout woman in front of him. “I’m late for a meeting. Would you mind if I go ahead of you?”

The woman frowned. “We’re all in a hurry. You’re gonna have to wait your turn like everybody else.”

He hunched his shoulders and tried to look inconspicuous, but Mouse noticed him and came charging toward him.

The woman was chatting with the security officer, taking her sweet, fat time.

“Hey, could you put some wheels on it?” Wesley said, moving his hand in a rolling motion. His heart was galloping like a racehorse’s.

She frowned, but lumbered through the metal detector. Mouse lunged for him and Wesley practically humped the woman trying to get through the narrow opening behind her. He felt a tug on his shoulders as Mouse grabbed the neck of his jacket to yank him back. Wesley held his arms behind him and walked out of the garment.

He looked back to see Mouse glaring at him, holding the jacket. Wesley gave him a little salute. No way was Mouse walking through the metal detector—the man probably had weapons stowed in his cheeks.

“You have to come out sometime,” Mouse called.

Wesley swallowed and continued walking across the lobby and down a hall to the elevators. Liz Fischer, his attorney, was standing to the side, checking her watch. She was a triple threat—beautiful, blond and bossy. When she glanced up, her red mouth lifted in a chiding smile. “I was just getting ready to call you. It wouldn’t look good for you to arrive late for your own plea bargain.”

“It took longer to get here than I’d planned.”

She frowned. “I thought I told you to wear a jacket.”

“Sorry—I forgot.”

She sighed. “Oh, well, at least you wore a tie. But you’re sweating like a pig.”

He wiped a hand across the back of his neck. “It’s summer in Atlanta, and I rode my bike here.”

“So why are your hands shaking?”

“I’m nervous, okay?”

She gave his shirt a little pat. “Shake it off. You need to make a good impression on the D.A. Otherwise he might worry that you’ll renege on your agreement to testify against Hollis Carver.” She glanced at her watch. “We should go. This will be over soon, and we can all get back to normal.” Her fingers slid inside his shirt to stroke his bare skin and the tip of her tongue appeared.

Wesley swallowed. He missed banging Liz—her body was to die for—but at the moment, he’d rather have a hit of Oxy. Inside his pocket he turned the last Percocet capsule over and over, telling himself he’d save it to celebrate after the meeting ended. Maybe he’d just chill in a men’s room and outwait Mouse.

He followed Liz onto the elevator, his pulse clicking as they climbed floors. When the elevator doors opened, he broke out into a fresh sweat. “Will Lucas be in the meeting?” he asked as she led him down a carpeted hallway.

“He could send an assistant, but since it’s you, he’ll probably put in an appearance.”

“You mean since I’m Randolph Wren’s son?”

“That’s right.” She stopped at a frosted glass door, rapped sharply, then pushed it open.

Wesley followed her inside, thinking in that respect, Liz wasn’t so different from the D.A. She, too, was interested in him because of his dad. He’d recently discovered that not only had Liz been his father’s attorney, but she’d also been his mistress.

Like father, like son.

Kelvin Lucas, an amphibious-looking man, sat at the end of the table, his hands steepled with authority, his expression smug. At the sight of the man who had targeted his father and reneged on a deal he’d made with Carlotta in an attempt to lure their dad from hiding, bile backed up in Wesley’s throat. He didn’t want to be in the same room with the bastard, but he tried to keep his abject loathing of the man from his expression.

Next to Lucas sat a petite, bookish-looking woman who stood and introduced herself as Cheryl Meriwether, Assistant District Attorney. She seemed skittish and kept sliding her glance toward her boss.

“Well, shall we get started?” Liz suggested, indicating which chair Wesley should occupy.

He lowered himself into the seat unsteadily. The room had a sterile smell and rang with the white noise of incandescent lights buzzing overhead.

Lucas narrowed his eyes at Wesley. “Well, Wren, you can’t seem to stay out of trouble … just like your gutless father, wherever he is.”

Wesley bit down on his tongue to keep from blurting out the fact that his father had made contact with Carlotta at a Florida rest area a few weeks ago, and was planning to resurface as soon as he could prove his innocence.

Under the table, Liz’s hand closed over Wesley’s knee as a warning for him to keep quiet. Liz didn’t know about his father’s reappearance. Carlotta had told him to keep it quiet. But he heeded Liz’s advice out of necessity because his head was suddenly throbbing and he was having trouble focusing.

The lawyers opened with legal small talk to set the stage for their negotiation. Wesley zoned out, studying the books on the bookshelves, the fly trapped in the light fixture, his untied shoelace. He just wanted this meeting to be over. The Percocet capsule was burning a hole in his pocket, calling to him. He tried to concentrate on what was being discussed, catching occasional phrases.

“… deserves to go to jail …”

“… Hollis Carver is a menace …”

“… might skip town like his old man …”

“… trumped up charges …”

“… testify if case goes to trial …”

“… give a written statement …”

His mouth was cottony, and his pulse pounded in his ears. Sweat trickled down his temples.

“Wesley?”

He blinked and focused on Liz’s face. “Huh?”

“District Attorney Lucas asked you to tell us what happened.”

“Do we have a deal?”

“I’ll decide after I hear your story,” Lucas said.

“Okay,” Wesley mumbled. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. “Okay.”

Liz’s hand was back on his jumping knee with an encouraging squeeze.

“Could I have a glass of water?” he croaked.

A.D.A. Meriwether left the room and returned a few seconds later with a bottle. He took it with one hand, then stuck his other hand in his pants pocket, wedging the Percocet between his fingers so he’d be able to slip it into his mouth unnoticed. He set the bottle between his legs to twist off the top, but his hands were shaking badly now. The white pill popped out from between his fingers and flew under the table where it bounced twice on the carpet before landing next to Lucas’s ugly brown wing-tip shoe.

At least no one else had noticed. But Wesley had to exercise restraint to keep from leaping under the table and pouncing on it. He lifted the bottle to his mouth and took a drink, sloshing water down the front of his shirt. He couldn’t take his eyes off that pill.

“We don’t have all day,” Lucas intoned.

“Wesley,” Liz said, tapping the table to get his attention.

He looked up.

“Tell us how you got involved in the body-snatching plan.”

With great effort, Wesley brought his mind back to the matter at hand. “I was leaving a friend’s house, and a guy came up to me and said he worked for The Carver, that he had a job for me. He knew I worked for Cooper Craft moving bodies for the morgue and that Coop was going to Florida to pick up that celebrity, Kiki Deerling, and bring her back to Atlanta. He wanted me to help them steal the body—to let them know where we were on the road and to keep Coop preoccupied.”

“In return for what?” Lucas asked. Beneath the table, the D.A.’s foot moved, covering the capsule.

Wesley wiped his hand across his mouth. “In return for erasing my debt.”

“Which is how much?”

He thought hard before telling the truth. “About twenty grand, give or take.” It sounded even worse when he said it aloud.

“Why did Hollis Carver want the body?”

“His son, Dillon, sold heroin at the party where the girl died. He was afraid the drugs had killed her and that he’d be charged with murder.” Ironically, as it turned out, the starlet hadn’t taken any drugs, so it had all been for nothing. Coop would probably never ask Wesley to work for him again. Wesley hadn’t realized how much he wanted the man’s respect until it was too late.

“What were they going to do with the body?” Lucas shifted forward and his shoe pressed down where the Percocet pill had landed.

Wesley made a strangled noise in his throat. “Uh … I didn’t ask.”

“My client was afraid for his life,” Liz interjected. “He felt as if he couldn’t say no.”

“Funny,” Lucas said, “I heard your client say he agreed to help carry out a felony in return for twenty thousand dollars. Who is the man who approached you?”

He looked at Liz before he spoke and she nodded. “Tell him.”

Wesley’s throat convulsed from wanting that damn pill. “His name is Leonard.”

“What’s Leonard’s last name?”

“We were never properly introduced,” Wesley said drily. But he could ask his probation officer, E. Jones. The thug was her boyfriend, although she had no idea what kind of stuff the man was mixed up in, including moving drugs for Wesley’s friend Chance.

“So how do you know this Leonard actually works for Hollis Carver?”

Wesley scratched his neck in irritation. “Because he said he did.”

“He could’ve been lying.”

“I don’t think so. He knew I owed The Carver money.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. This Leonard character could’ve been using The Carver’s name to pressure you into something he wanted done.”

Wesley scoffed. “That makes no sense. The Carver and his son were the ones who didn’t want the body autopsied.”

Lucas spread his hands. “I’m just telling you what a defense attorney will say. From where I sit, you got nothing on Hollis Carver that can be corroborated.”

Wesley looked at Liz, at a loss.

“What about calls between Hollis Carver and the celebrity’s publicist?” Liz asked Lucas. “They were the masterminds of the scheme.”

“We have a record of phone calls, but the content of the calls could’ve been about anything. For all we know, they could’ve been lovers.” Lucas leered at Liz pointedly.

But Liz didn’t shrink from the D.A.’s sly remark. “I would think that the publicist would be falling all over herself to turn on Hollis Carver.”

A.D.A. Meriwether looked down and shifted in her seat.

Liz looked from Lucas to Meriwether and gave a dry laugh. “Wait a minute. The publicist has already made a deal, hasn’t she?”

Lucas took his arrogant time answering. “Yes. So as it turns out, we don’t need your client’s testimony after all, Ms. Fischer. Although it’s good to know that his story corroborates the publicist’s.”

Wesley heaved a huge sigh of relief and pushed to his feet. “I’m outta here.” Once the room was vacated, he’d come back to rescue the flattened capsule.

But Liz stopped him with a warning glance.

“Not so fast, Wren,” Lucas said, then leaned back in his seat with a satisfied smile. “You confessed to conspiring to steal a body.”

Wesley sat back down, his stomach churning with dread. Something was up.

“But the body wasn’t stolen,” Liz protested. “And my client came clean.”

“Only after the plan was foiled,” Lucas returned. “And besides confessing to a felony, your client’s actions revoke his previous probation. He’s going to jail.”

Panic skewered Wesley’s chest. He’d spent a few hours in jail when he’d been arrested for hacking into the courthouse computer. He’d passed the time and kept the pervs at bay by teaching the other guys in holding how to play Texas Hold ‘Em poker, but he didn’t relish the thought of going back.

Liz angled her head. “Kelvin, isn’t this all a moot point? We both know that Hollis Carver is an informant for the APD and will probably get a pass.”

Lucas blanched. “Who told you that he was an informant?”

“I have my sources,” Liz said silkily.

Wesley pressed his lips together. Liz must be back to banging Detective Jack Terry again, if they’d ever stopped.

“So why drag us in here today?” she demanded. “What do you want, Kelvin?”

The D.A. screwed up his mouth and bared his crooked teeth. “Maybe young Wren here has some information about his long-lost daddy he’d like to trade for his freedom?”

Wesley fisted his hands and started to rise. “You motherfu—”

“Wesley—” Liz cut in sharply, reaching up to place her hand on his chest. “Sit down.”

He dropped back into the chair, but didn’t bother to hide his contempt for Lucas.

“We’ve been over this before,” Liz said calmly. “My client doesn’t know anything about the whereabouts of his father. Come on, there must be something else we can do to work this out. Wesley is performing well under the terms of his probation, his supervisor in the city computer department says he’s excelling at his community service.”

Lucas’s mouth formed a long, thin line. “If your client is so smart, he’ll take what I have to offer.”

Liz wet her lips. “Which is?”

“I want Hollis Carver behind bars on something that will stick. I think his son is distributing drugs for him.”

Liz gave a dry laugh. “You want to set up your own informant?”

“We only made Carver an informant so he’d let down his guard. We thought we’d be able to get closer to him, but we need someone on the inside.”

Liz’s shoulders went rigid. “You want my client to go undercover in The Carver’s organization?”

A smile spread over Lucas’s toady face. “It’s a win-win situation. He gets to work off his debt to The Carver, and work off his debt to society at the same time.”

Liz shook her head. “It’s too dangerous. The man is an animal.”

“It’ll be safer,” the D.A. insisted. “Your client won’t be running from The Carver, he’ll be working for him. He’ll be too valuable to rough up.”

“Why should I trust you?” Wesley asked. “You went back on the deal you made with my sister.”

“This one will be put in writing,” Lucas said.

Wesley barked out a hoarse laugh. “What am I supposed to do, just walk up to The Carver and ask him to put me on the payroll?”

Lucas nodded. “Something like that. We’ll provide you with a contact in the APD who will guide you through the process.”

“How long are we talking about here?” Liz asked. “A few weeks? Months?”

“That depends on your client’s ability to blend in with criminals.” Lucas smirked. “Something tells me he’ll be good at it.”

A backhanded compliment, Wesley realized, even with his mind racing in circles. “My sister will worry herself sick—”

“You can’t tell your sister,” the D.A. interrupted. “No one can know except the people in this room and your contact at the police department. If we discover that you’ve told anyone, even your damn priest, we’ll find another stool pigeon, and you’ll be put in a cage, got it, Wren?”

Anger was a powerful motivator, Wesley realized. His mind was misfiring and sputtering, but even through the haze, he could process pure emotion. From now on, his life’s mission was to get even with Kelvin Lucas, to humiliate him the way he’d humiliated the Wren family.

The D.A. splayed his hands. “So what do you say, Wesley? Do you want to work for me or do you want to go to jail and make new friends?” Under the table, Lucas moved his foot back and forth. The capsule had burst and the precious white powder was being ground into the carpet.

Wesley gritted his teeth against the desperation swelling in his chest. God, how he’d love to spit in the man’s face. But his sister would be devastated if he went to jail. And he couldn’t very well help his father if he was sitting in the slammer.

“And all charges against my client regarding the body-snatching incident will be dropped?” Liz asked.

“I’ll drop it to a misdemeanor and add to his community service for appearances’ sake. That way no one’s suspicious.”

Liz turned toward Wesley. “It’s a good deal,” she murmured. “My advice is to take it.”

“And what if The Carver finds out what I’m doing?” Wesley asked, rubbing his arm where the man had already etched part of his name.

“Make sure he doesn’t find out,” Lucas said flatly. “Do we have a deal?”

More than anything, Wesley just wanted to get out of the building, ride to Chance’s and get a bag of Oxy. Even his eyelids were starting to sweat. “Okay,” he grumbled.

“Good,” Lucas said, pushing to his feet so triumphantly that Wesley immediately wanted to take it back. “We’ll be in touch, Ms. Fischer.”

After the pair left the room, Liz touched Wesley’s shaking hand. “You made the right decision. Do this, and you’ll come out debt free on the other side.”

Wesley stared at the white powder stain on the carpet in despair and nodded numbly. Debt free—or dead.

3

Carlotta swallowed the last Percocet capsule from the bottle and returned her purse to her locker. She glanced in the mirror mounted on the door and smoothed her finger over the frown line between her brows that had become more pronounced recently. Leaning close, she noticed wryly that the furrow bore a distinct resemblance to the letter W—for Wesley.

Her brother was going to be the death of her youth.

She slammed the door closed and returned to the sales floor where the crowd waiting for the Eva McCoy appearance had swelled. Carlotta joined Patricia, who was back and passing out tickets.

“Did you get your charm bracelet?” Carlotta asked.

Patricia nodded and pulled back her jacket sleeve to display the silver bracelet and dangling charms. “But I’m confused. These charms have absolutely no correlation to anything in my life. There’s a little dog charm, and I have two cats. And a baseball glove, when I’ve never played any sport except tennis. A lion, which might stand for Leo, but I’m an Aries. A Texas steer head, and I don’t eat meat. And a broom. How weird is that?”

Carlotta pursed her mouth to keep from making a comment about the broom as a mode of transportation. “I thought the idea was that the charms are random, a way of challenging you to try something new.”

Patricia frowned. “So I’m supposed to try sweeping? And baseball? Right.” She sighed. “My bracelet is a bust.” Then she held up a brown box. “But I bought one for you.”

Carlotta gave a little gurgle of surprise. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I know you said you had an old one, but maybe it’s time you replaced it.” Patricia shrugged. “You know—start some new memories.”

Carlotta sighed. She really didn’t want to have to like the woman, dammit. But she accepted the box and murmured, “Thanks.” She opened the box and pulled out the tray that held the silver charm bracelet.

“What did you get?”

Carlotta squinted as she fingered the tiny dangling charms. “This one looks like a puzzle piece.”

“Ooh, that’s intriguing—as if you need to figure out something.”

Carlotta pursed her mouth again. As if. “And this one says aloha.” She shrugged. “I certainly wouldn’t mind visiting Hawaii someday. And this one … it’s hearts.”

Patricia frowned. “There’s something wrong. There are three hearts instead of two.”

“Uh-hmm,” Carlotta murmured. “Strange, huh?” But her pulse quickened in spite of her skepticism. Three hearts, three men in her life.

“Oh, look!” Patricia said with a squeal. “It’s two champagne glasses. That must mean you’re going to have something to celebrate. Oh, you’re so lucky!”

Carlotta scoffed. “It doesn’t mean anything—it’s just a charm. This is like opening a box of Cracker Jacks. Don’t take it seriously.”

“What’s that one?” Patricia asked, pointing to the last charm, a long, slender piece of shaped metal.

“It looks like … a woman. Just a woman.”

“Her arms are crossed over her chest—maybe she’s a cheerleader.”

Carlotta’s eyebrows went up. “Uh, yeah.”

“Were you a cheerleader?”

“A lifetime ago.” Actually, high school seemed like another century. On another planet.

“Well, that must be it then,” Patricia said eagerly.

Carlotta nodded and allowed Patricia to help her fasten the catch on the bracelet. She didn’t want to say what the last charm looked like to her—a woman in corpse pose. And she wasn’t talking yoga.

Pushing the eerie charm from her mind, she craned her neck, trying to get a three-hundred-sixty-degree glance around, wondering where the dynamic detective duo had disappeared to. Maybe they’d found an empty dressing room to inspect.

She wrestled with the unreasonable stab of jealousy. She and Jack had had a nice time in the sack when he’d stayed at her house once doing surveillance, but that episode had ended disastrously. They were on opposite sides of too many issues, including her father. Besides, since the reckless bout of bone-jarring sex with Jack, she’d flirted with a fling with Cooper Craft, and now … she’d made promises to Peter. In fact, she had a dinner date with Peter after work.

Which left no time for worrying about who—er, make that what—Jack was in to.

“I think that lady is trying to get your attention,” Patricia said, nodding to someone in the crowd.

Carlotta turned to look and was pleased to see June Moody, the owner of Moody’s cigar lounge, waving. Carlotta threaded through the horde of bodies to clasp the woman’s hands. June was dressed elegantly, as always, in a slim skirt and starched white shirt. Her hair and heels were high, and her smile, wide.

“I was hoping you’d be working today,” June said, then touched the arm of a broad-shouldered man next to her. “Carlotta Wren, meet my son, Sergeant Mitchell Moody.”

Remembering that June had once hinted that she and her military son weren’t close, Carlotta was able to mask her surprise by the time he turned in her direction.

The first thing that struck her about Mitchell Moody was his sheer physical authority—the man was the size of a small mountain, with lots of impressive hills on the upward climb. The second thing she noticed were his eyes—they were the palest blue and laser-intense. Even in jeans, a red polo-style shirt and athletic shoes, the man screamed military. His head was shaved and tanned, his cheekbones sharp, his posture rifle straight. It wasn’t hard to imagine him dressed in fatigues and combat boots, wielding a weapon and defending the American way.

A little shiver traveled up her spine. The man was rather … what was the word?

Hot.

“Hi, Carlotta,” he said with a smile that seemed rusty. He swept an appreciative glance over her, and she flushed with … patriotism.

“Nice to meet you, Mitchell.”

“Call me Mitch.” His voice was low and clear, with the rumbling undertone of a well-tuned engine.

“Mitch is visiting for a couple of weeks,” June supplied, sounding almost giddy.

“I understand you’re a career army man,” Carlotta said.

“That’s right. Thought I’d be retiring in a few months, but with everything going on in the world, that’s up in the air for the moment.”

If he’d put twenty years into the army, that made him around thirty-eight years old, she estimated, although he seemed much more mature. More worldly.

“How do you two know each other?” he asked.

Carlotta met June a few months ago when she’d walked into Moody’s cigar bar, asking about a stogie she’d found in the pocket of a men’s jacket that Peter Ashford’s wife had returned to Neiman’s before she’d subsequently been murdered. But Carlotta tried to put a more philosophical spin on it. “I walked into the cigar lounge looking for answers, and your mother had them.”

“I’ve been trying to persuade her to try a new occupation,” Mitch said, glancing at June meaningfully. “Maybe she should give counseling a try.”

“Now, now,” June said, patting his arm. “Let’s not go there.”

Aware of the sudden tension, Carlotta changed the subject. “I assume you’re both here to see Eva McCoy?”

June nodded to her son. “Mitch knows Eva.”

“We belonged to the same running club in Hawaii where I’m based,” Mitch said.

Carlotta’s lips parted in surprise. “Hawaii—really?” Her hand closed over the charm bracelet that held the aloha charm. It was a coincidence, of course, but still …

Mitch nodded. “Fort Shafter. Eva trained there for the Olympic marathon.”

“Carlotta, will you take our picture?” June asked.

“Of course.”

Mitch handed her a digital camera. “Just push the silver button.”

She framed them inside the small square and noticed that while June’s smile was bright, Mitch’s seemed a little forced. “Say ‘cheese,’” she encouraged, but he still looked stiff when she took the photo. It appeared that mother and son had some fences to mend.

Carlotta handed the camera back to him just as an excited murmur swept through the crowd.

“There she is,” Mitch said.

Carlotta turned as the tall, slender brunette walked in wearing a white Olympic athletic suit trimmed in red and blue. She smiled shyly as the Atlanta crowd cheered for their hometown girl. Carlotta couldn’t help noticing that the woman didn’t seem to enjoy being in the spotlight. Eva waved with one hand, fingering the gold medal around her neck with the other hand. Her boyfriend, fellow Olympian Ben Newsome, walked a few steps behind Eva, dressed in a dark blue Olympic athletic suit, also waving to the crowd. If Carlotta’s memory served, he had medaled in a couple of track and field events as well.

A short nervous man hovered next to Eva, probably a publicist, Carlotta guessed. A beefy-looking fellow in a sport coat trailed behind, his head constantly moving, scanning the crowd. His gaze stopped on Mitchell Moody for a few seconds, sizing him up. Mitchell did stand out in a crowd, Carlotta conceded. Especially since he was taking lots of photos of Eva and waving, trying to catch her attention. At the hovering presence of the bodyguard, Carlotta wondered briefly if the Internet rumors about Eva receiving death threats were correct.

From the rear of the store, Jack and Maria came forward to speak with the bodyguard. After conferring, the three of them split up, circling the crowd, which had grown to overflow the aisles and available floor space. The detectives didn’t seem concerned, only attentive, so Carlotta tried to relax. As bodies shifted, she was separated from June and Mitchell, but Carlotta managed to wave before she was swept up in the mob.

Hundreds of people had gathered to see Eva McCoy in person. Although Eva seemed a little stiff and preoccupied when she gave her talk, the crowd was rapt. She was appealing and soft-spoken—Carlotta couldn’t imagine why anyone would want the woman dead unless they were a nut job.

Still, heaven knew there were plenty of those afoot.

Eva held up her wrist to display her famous gold “lucky charm” bracelet that she said had given her the strength not just to finish the marathon, but to fight back and finish first. Then she spoke fondly of the children’s charity that would receive a portion of the proceeds of the Lucky Charm Bracelet sales. Afterward, she entertained questions from the members of the press in attendance.

An attractive, plump redhead stood. “Rainie Stephens, Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Eva, you’re the most decorated women’s marathoner of this decade. Are you planning to compete in the World Championships Marathon in Helsinki in a few weeks? It’s the only major marathon you haven’t won.”

Eva smiled. “Thank you. And, yes, I am. That’s one race I want to win before I retire.”

“Is it true that Body League sportswear is going to pay you a million dollars if you win the World Championships?”

Eva looked uncomfortable. “That’s what I’ve heard.”

The crowd laughed.

“And what advice would you give to someone who’s facing a difficult task?”

“Just keep finding ways not to quit,” Eva said with a smile. “And don’t try to do it alone. While I was running, I looked at my bracelet and thought of the people who gave me the charms. I drew on their strength.”

Don’t try to do it alone. The words tugged on Carlotta’s heart. After her parents had left, she’d felt so abandoned and overwhelmed with raising her little brother that some days she had been an automaton—numb but moving forward. Everyone she’d counted on had left her high and dry. And yet, somehow she’d found an inner strength that she hadn’t known she possessed. Now that she had people in her life who wanted to help her—like Coop and Jack and even Peter again—she was having trouble letting them in. There was an upside to being lonely—at least it was safe.

“I love you, Eva!” a man shouted. The crowd tittered.

But instead of brushing off the outburst, fear flashed over Eva’s face. She shrank from the podium.

“Marry me!” the dark-haired man shouted, pushing people aside to reach the front of the dais. He had a wild look in his eye, appearing to be drunk or otherwise impaired.

Eva’s bodyguard stepped up next to her, poised to strike. Jack materialized in time to intercept the man who had caused the disturbance and guide him away from the crowd. The heckler didn’t resist, but looked over his shoulder as he was being led away.

“Eva! Eva, I can’t live without you!”

The man’s words ended when Jack jammed his hand over the guy’s mouth. The crowd parted to let them pass. They walked by Carlotta and she could smell alcohol rolling off the man.

The store publicist quickly took the microphone, thanked Eva, and directed the crowd to the adjacent jewelry department where Eva would be greeting the public and etching her name into charm bracelets.

Carlotta helped to facilitate the long, snaking line, unboxing charm bracelets after they’d been purchased and handing them to Eva to sign. The woman kept looking up, her gaze darting all around. Carlotta smiled and introduced herself in an attempt to put the athlete at ease. “Your own charm bracelet is beautiful.”

Eva lifted her arm and studied the now-famous piece of jewelry with a fond smile. “Yes, it’s very special to me. My coach tried to persuade me not to wear it during the run—every ounce of weight counts, you know. I’m glad I trusted my instincts.”

“Everyone here adores you.”

“I have to confess that crowds make me nervous. I started running because it’s something I can do alone.”

“I’m sorry about the earlier disturbance.”

The woman sighed. “It’s not the first time something like that has happened.”

“You’re very good at connecting with the public.”

“No, I’m not,” Eva said with a miserable smile. “I fake it.”

As one hour elapsed, then two, Carlotta noticed that each encounter took its toll on Eva. She grew more skittish and pale, fidgeting in the chair that had been set up for her in front of a tall, slant-top table. Twice she slipped and cut herself with the tool she was using to etch Eva on the back of the charm bracelets. Carlotta kept one eye on the clock, looking for an opportunity to slip away and check her cell phone messages. Wesley should be finished by now and she needed to talk to him—about the meeting with the D.A., and about the missing prescription drugs.

“You’re probably bored to death,” Eva said as she handed Carlotta back yet another inscribed bracelet.

Carlotta straightened. “Not at all.”

“I see you have a bracelet, too,” Eva said, nodding to Carlotta’s wrist. “Do you want me to sign it?”

“I wouldn’t want to jump in front of all these people.”

“Nonsense, I’ll do it now.”

Eva unfastened the bracelet from Carlotta’s wrist and bent over it while Carlotta boxed the one the woman had just signed.

“These are some of my favorite charms,” Eva said. “Hmm—what an interesting combination.”

“Does the woman have any special significance?” Carlotta asked.

“I don’t know,” Eva murmured, then frowned. “In fact, I don’t remember this charm.” Then she shrugged. “Oh, well—there were a team of designers. I supervised, but I don’t remember them all. Everything happened so fast, my head is still spinning.”

Before another hour had expired, they’d run out of charm bracelets to sign, but there was still a line of people who simply wanted to speak to Eva and get an autograph. Carlotta wished she’d been more diligent about keeping up with in-store events while she’d been off work. Getting celebrity autographs was one of her favorite hobbies, and the new autograph book in her dresser drawer at home had been signed only a few times.

Carlotta glanced up to see that June and Mitchell Moody were next in line. Eva recognized Mitch and seemed genuinely pleased to see him. “What are you doing here?”

He explained he was visiting his mother and introduced June.

“My son can’t say enough nice things about you,” June said.

Eva blushed and glanced toward her boyfriend, Ben, who was standing a few feet away looking bored. Suddenly, though, he was watching his girlfriend and Mitch Moody with great interest, Carlotta noticed, especially when they leaned close for June to take their picture.

“Mitch was a terrific running partner,” Eva said. “He really pushed me to reach my personal best. And the fact that he’s from Atlanta, too, made me feel less homesick.”

“Your talk was fantastic,” Mitch said, clearly taken with Eva.

The woman shook her head. “I like raising money for charity, but this is all a little too much fanfare for me.”

If that was the case, then Eva wasn’t going to like what was coming next, Carlotta thought as she spied a huge decorated sheet cake being wheeled toward the woman, blazing with sparklers. Carlotta frowned. Had a cake been mentioned in the staff meeting that she’d missed? The mustached man pushing the cart was dressed in white culinary garb and … roller skates? Someone started singing “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and the crowd joined in, parting to allow the cake through.

Just as Carlotta suspected, Eva didn’t look happy with the turn of events.

Carlotta leaned close. “Are you okay?”

Eva’s face reddened. “I wasn’t expecting this … I hate surprises.”

Alarm whipped through Carlotta. Eva didn’t know about the cake? Her first instinct was to find Jack, but she didn’t see him. When she spotted Maria, she waved frantically, then ran forward to block the cart.

“Take it back,” Carlotta said to the man, but she could barely hear herself over the singing. At the sight of a hand tool next to the cake that didn’t look like any culinary utensil she’d ever seen, she waved her arms at the man and shouted, “Stop!”

The man glared and shoved the cart forward, plowing hard into her. The edge of the cart hit Carlotta’s thighs, knocking her legs out from under her. She flailed for two long seconds before falling facedown into the cake. Pain sizzled against her skin where the weight of her body extinguished the sparklers. She lay in the quiet denseness of the white cake for a few seconds, trying to digest what had happened, then lifted her head and licked sweet icing and cake crumbles off her lips. She wanted to clear her eyes, but since the cart was still moving—fast—she decided it would be better to hang on.

She felt herself being propelled like a human bowling ball in Eva’s general direction. Carlotta braced for impact, and based on the force of the collision, she was pretty sure she’d taken out at least a couple of people. Then the cart tipped over, dumping her and the cake onto the floor.

Exclamations and screams sounded. Carlotta felt the crush of bodies around her and was afraid she was going to be trampled. She clawed at the gooey cake on her face and tried to blink the scene into focus, but her eyes stung and watered. Someone grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up, then shoved her against a display counter.

“Stay here,” said a woman with a curling voice. Maria.

“Clear the area!” a man bellowed. “Clear the area!” A shrill noise pierced the air, which Carlotta recognized as a display-case alarm. Had someone broken into one of the jewelry cases?

When she finally blinked the surroundings into focus, she gasped. It was a mob scene. Because of Eva’s white tracksuit, Carlotta was able to spot her at the bottom of a pile of people who had presumably been knocked down by the flying Carlotta-cake-cart, Patricia Alexander for one. Maria Marquez was hauling people off one at a time and finally reached the athlete, who looked dazed.

“Let’s get you out of here,” a man said near Carlotta’s ear. She recognized the voice—and the muscular arm—as belonging to Mitchell Moody. Grateful for the assistance, she leaned on him as she slipped and slid on cake and icing that had been mashed under many feet.

He led her to the mall entrance, where clumps of customers had congregated.

“Thank you,” Carlotta said, trying to catch her breath. “Did you see what happened?”

“Hard to say. It looked to me as if the guy with the cake was trying to get close to Eva.”

“Did he get away?”

“I don’t know. I got Mom out of there and went back to get you.”

“There you are,” June said, hurrying up to them. “Carlotta, are you okay?”

She nodded, then lifted her arms and stared down at her cake-matted dress. “But I can’t imagine what I must look like.”

Mitch gave a little laugh. “Mom said you were always into something.”

Patricia Alexander emerged from the store and came stomping over, her pearls askew and her bob disheveled. “I should’ve known something like this would happen on your first day back.”

Carlotta gaped. “Are you saying this was my fault?”

“Lindy wants all employees back in the store ASAP, and the police are asking for you. Big surprise.” The woman turned and marched back into the store.

Carlotta sighed and turned to June and Mitchell. “I’m sorry the event turned out this way. It was nice to meet you, Mitch.”

“You, too,” he said. “I hope I’ll see you again before I leave town.”

“That would be nice,” she said, pulling a piece of cake out of her ear. She said goodbye to June, and retreated to the entrance of the store with as much dignity as she could muster.

This was not how her life was supposed to be. Mired in drama. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Remember this when you’re having dinner with Peter tonight, she told herself. If she married him, she’d never have to work another day in her life. She could spend her days having her purchases rung up at Neiman’s instead of being the one doing the ringing up. She could buy a new car when her battery died. And she could make bail no matter how many times Wesley got into trouble.

The area around the event had been cleared of customers. A cleaning crew was mopping up cake that seemed to be everywhere. Carlotta realized she was tracking icing on the floor from her shoes, but it couldn’t be helped. A knot of people had gathered to the side. Lindy wore a worried expression. Maria Marquez was talking to Eva McCoy, who was being comforted by her boyfriend, Ben. Eva’s bodyguard and publicist were nearby, as well as the head of store security. Jack stood back a few steps, observing. When he saw Carlotta, he wiped his hand over his mouth to smother a smile.

“Didn’t know you had a sweet tooth,” he murmured when she walked up.

“Don’t start. What happened?”

“Not sure. I’m just getting back from handing off the drunk-and-disorderly character, so I’m hearing everything secondhand. The cake was definitely some kind of ruse. No one in McCoy’s camp or with Neiman’s knew about it. But the guy got away. His smock was found in a trash can inside the mall.”

“Did he attack Eva?”

“No. Apparently you got the worst of it.”

Carlotta gave him a withering look.

Jack pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her. “Can you describe him?”

She inhaled the scent of his aftershave on the handkerchief before she wiped her face. But the suspicion that she was only making things worse was confirmed by Jack’s wince, so she gave up. “He was about five-ten. Caucasian. Wearing a fake mustache, I think.”

“That’s not much to go on.”

“Then look for a guy wearing roller skates,” she said drily. “That should be pretty easy to spot.”

He pursed his mouth, then made a few notes on a little notepad. He pulled out his phone and made a call, relaying the description to someone on the other end. When he flipped the phone closed, he shook his head and muttered, “Why do I get all the crazies?” When she raised her eyebrows, he added, “I don’t mean you … this time.”

She frowned and crossed her arms. “Do you think he meant to hurt Eva?” Carlotta realized everyone else had stopped talking and her voice suddenly sounded very loud.

Jack gave her a look that asked her to lower her voice. “He might have meant to harm Ms. McCoy, or he might have simply wanted to give her cake,” Jack said to the entire group.

“But he could’ve killed her,” Eva’s boyfriend said. His face was red, his body language vibrating with anger. “Is anyone looking for this guy?”

“Yes, Mr. Newsome. The perp’s description has been broadcast, and we have units circling the area. But let’s try to keep this in perspective. As of now, the man’s only crime is attempted delivery of a cake.”

“I heard a case alarm go off,” Carlotta said. “Was anything stolen?”

“We think it was triggered when the cart hit a glass case,” Maria offered.

“Thank goodness nothing was stolen,” Lindy added.

Suddenly Eva gasped and grabbed her wrist. “My charm bracelet—it’s gone!”

Carlotta inhaled sharply at the loss of the iconic piece of jewelry. And from the blank expressions of the group, everyone was equally stunned.

“Did the man take it?” Maria asked.

Eva touched her forehead. “I don’t know … it’s possible. There were just so many people grabbing at me.”

“I just remembered something,” Carlotta said to Jack. “There was some kind of tool on the cart. I don’t know what it was.”

“Can you sketch it?” He handed her his little notebook and pen and she drew the outline as best she could remember.

“It was maybe six or eight inches long.”

Jack squinted at the drawing. “Looks like tin snips, maybe. Probably to cut the charm bracelet from Ms. McCoy’s wrist.”

“I thought you people were here so this kind of thing wouldn’t happen,” Ben Newsome said, his voice accusatory.

A muscle ticked in Jack’s jaw. “We can’t anticipate everything, sir.”

“We’re pulling surveillance tapes from the store cameras,” Maria added. “Hopefully those will tell us more.”

“Of course the most important thing is that Eva’s all right,” Ben said, squeezing her shoulders. “But that bracelet means everything to her, and it represents a lot to the American people, too.”

Eva’s eyes were glazed, her expression stricken. “Take me home, Ben.”

“Perhaps I should stay and work with the police,” he said gently.

“That’s not necessary,” Jack said. “Do you have a photo of the bracelet you can let me have?”

Newsome scoffed. “It’s only one of the most photographed pieces of jewelry in the world, Detective.”

Jack handed the man a card. “That should make it easy for you to send a close-up to this address. We’ll contact you as soon as we have news.”

The woman’s boyfriend scowled, but he nodded curtly and led Eva away.

Carlotta noticed a redhead loitering on the periphery of the shoe department, within earshot of the group—the reporter from the AJC. She looked up and caught Carlotta’s eye, then replaced the shoe she’d been studying, did an about-face, and headed toward the nearest exit. Carlotta frowned, wondering how long it would be before news of the stolen bracelet would be broadcast.

Lindy stepped up to Carlotta. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, but I’d like to clean up.”

“Absolutely, you should go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Carlotta nodded wordlessly. So much for not drawing attention to herself. She glanced at her watch and used her nail to scrape off the white icing dried on the face. Three o’clock. Wesley’s meeting with the D.A. should be over by now—he’d probably left her a message.

Please let it be good news, she prayed. Please let him be safe.

“Did you drive to work?” Jack asked. She shook her head. “I took the train.” “Get your things. We’ll take you home.”

4

Wesley had counted on walking out with Liz, knowing that Mouse wouldn’t come near him if he was with his attorney. But as luck would have it, she had appointments in the government office building the rest of the day.

“I don’t like the idea of you working for Hollis Carver,” she said with a concerned frown as they rode the elevator down to the first floor. “But give Lucas what he wants and maybe he’ll ease up on you.”

Wesley gave a little laugh. “You know as well as I do that Lucas would be thrilled if something happened to me on the job.”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Liz said, but without her normal brass-tits attitude. “I’m going to request that Jack Terry be your undercover police contact.”

Wesley rolled his eyes. “Anyone but him.”

“I know you don’t like Jack, but he’s the best man for the job. I want you to be safe.”

Resigned, Wesley stepped off the elevator and dragged a shaking hand through his hair. He needed a hit of something, bad.

“I’ll call you,” Liz said from the elevator. “Get some rest—you look like hell.” The doors slid closed.

Wesley glanced in the direction of the lobby where Mouse had probably parked his fat ass, pretending to know how to read. Which meant Wesley needed another way out of the building.

He walked up to a janitor who was pushing a dust mop. “Man, is there someplace I can step out to grab a smoke without setting off an alarm?”

The guy jerked his thumb toward a Stairs-Emergency Exit sign. “The door’s left propped open for smokers and the alarm turned off. Don’t tell Homeland Security.”

Wesley made a zipping motion across his mouth, then headed for the stairwell. A folded empty cigarette pack was wedged between the door latch and the strike plate. He slipped outside, then carefully repositioned the cigarette pack as he closed the door behind him. A small concrete pad littered with cigarette butts was isolated by tall bushes and a whirring HVAC unit. He looked around to get his bearings, then stepped through the bushes and headed toward the parking lot where he’d left his bike, scanning for Mouse.

He merged with a group of employees who appeared to be leaving for a lunch break, then veered off when they walked past the bike racks. He stooped to spin the combination lock securing his bike, but his vision blurred and his hands fumbled. Sweat dripped off his nose. He shook his head to focus, and finally the lock sprang open. He stood too quickly and got a head rush, but stabilized himself on the bike and pushed off, feeling smug for outmaneuvering Mouse. He’d have to face the man soon enough if he infiltrated The Carver’s organization, but he’d rather get the details of what was expected of him first.

As he rode out of the parking lot, he heard a car pull up behind him—close.

Too close.

Hoping it was the standard asshole Atlanta driver who had no respect for sharing the road with cyclists, he looked over his shoulder, only to confirm his worst fear.

Mouse was driving a dark Town Car with a big, impressive grill that was closing in fast on his back tire. Panicked, Wesley stood to apply extra pressure to the pedals, but his reaction time was slow. The impact of the car knocked his bike forward, his body up and back. He landed on the big hood of the Town Car with a thunk and slid to the windshield as Mouse brought the car to a halt.

Mouse opened the door and stepped out, then dragged Wesley off the hood by his tie and pulled his face close. “Trying to avoid me, Wren?”

“‘Course not,” Wesley said with a cough. “I need to get my jacket back.”

Mouse shook Wesley until his glasses went askew. “What happened in there? You’re not planning to rat out The Carver, are you?”

“No,” Wesley said, swallowing past the pressure on his windpipe. “I told the D.A. I don’t know anything. He was pissed and threatened to throw me in jail, but my lawyer’s good. So all I have to do is more pain-in-the-ass community service.”

Mouse looked doubtful. “You fuckin’ with me?”

Wesley couldn’t imagine anything on earth more unpleasant. “Nah, man. The Carver’s off the hook.”

Mouse released his grip. “You’d better not be lying.”

“Dude, The Carver’s attorney has probably already been contacted.”

As the big man chewed on his lip, his phone rang. He kept one paw on Wesley while he answered the call. “Yeah …? Yeah … Yeah.” He ended the call and jammed the phone in his pocket.

“Okay, you little shit, I just got verification. Now, give me a payment and we’re square for a while.”

Wesley lifted his hands. “I don’t have any money.”

“Wrong answer.”

“Dude, I thought I was going to jail today. I didn’t bring any cash.”

Mouse frowned, then released Wesley and stepped back.

Wesley exhaled in relief, but winced as his back twinged in pain. When he looked up, Mouse was carrying his dented bike to the rear of the car.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

Mouse used a keyless remote to pop the trunk. “Making your life miserable.”

Wesley could only stand and watch the man toss his bike into the cavernous trunk.

“Next time you leave the house, sport, you’d better find somewhere to stash some cash—in your wallet or up your ass, I really don’t care. I’m gonna need a payment.”

“Will I get my bike back?”

“Don’t count on it.”

Mouse slid into the car and slammed his door. Wesley jumped up on the curb to keep from being clipped by a mirror as the Town Car roared away. He swore through gritted teeth as the car disappeared—this day just kept getting better.

He pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket and brought up his buddy Chance’s phone number. His hands were trembling badly and his skin felt itchy. Under the intense sun, he felt like an egg sizzling in a frying pan.

Chance’s phone rang and rang, then rolled over to voice mail. Wesley cursed and disconnected the call. Chance not answering his cell phone meant one of two things—he was dick-deep in some big-butted girl, or he was dead. His guess was the former.

Wesley set off walking unsteadily toward the Five Points MARTA station. He had enough money for train fare to get him to midtown. From there he’d have to walk the few blocks to Chance’s place. He wiped his sleeve across his clammy brow, then loosened the tie. His throat was parched and every step was an effort. The one thing that kept him going was the knowledge that a bag of sweet Oxy was waiting for him.

He’d quit the stuff later, when his life calmed down.

A honk sounded and he jumped back, afraid that Mouse had returned to run him over.

A silver-colored dome-shaped car pulled up next to the curb. The passenger side window zoomed down and the driver leaned over to shout. “Wes? Hey, do you need a ride?”

He squinted. “Meg?” Meg Vincent worked at the city computer department where he performed his community service.

“Yeah, jump in.”

The car behind her honked with impatience, spurring him forward. He opened the door and swung inside. The coed gave him a brief smile, then looked back to the road and stepped on the gas.

“I thought that was you,” she said. “Your bony ass gave you away.”

“Ha, ha,” he said, then pursed his mouth. She’d noticed his ass?

“You weren’t at work this morning.”

“That’s because I was here,” he said without explanation. “What about you? Do you live in this area?”

“No, I live on campus. There’s a great health food store down the street, so I came over here for lunch. Where are you headed?”

“Midtown. But if it’s out of the way—”

“It isn’t.”

Wesley glanced sideways at the girl who was probably his age—she was a freshman at Georgia Tech, the same as he would’ve been if he’d gone to college. She was whip-smart with a funky, independent style. Today she wore camouflage pants, a plain white T-shirt, and her dark blond hair was covered with a smiley-face bandana.

“What kind of car is this?” he asked, glancing around at the interior.

“It’s a Prius.”

“Electric?”

“That’s right.”

It suited her, he decided. Meg’s father was a famous geneticist and apparently megawealthy, but she had a work study at the ASS office, and dressed like every other college kid who was scraping by. Plus she was living on campus in a dorm when she could easily afford her own condo in Buckhead.

“Why aren’t you riding your bike?” she asked.

“Flat tire,” he lied.

“Aren’t you a little old to be riding a bike anyway?”

“I used to have a motorcycle.”

“Used to? Is that supposed to impress me?”

He frowned. “No.”

“So what happened to it?”

“My driver’s license was suspended. I sold it.”

“Oh, right,” she said drily. “I forget that you’re an ex-con.”

“I’m on probation,” he said irritably. “Big difference.”

“Uh-huh.” She glanced over at him. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Seriously, are you okay?”

Meg had once accused him of being hooked on something, and he’d flatly denied it. “Just hot and tired.”

She reached around her seat and rummaged blindly in a container on the floorboard behind her, then came up with a Red Bull. “Knock yourself out.”

He took the can and cracked it open. “Thanks.” A couple of hearty drinks started to revive him. He laid his head back on the headrest.

“Are you moving bodies today?” she asked.

“Not today.” And after the stunt he’d pulled, he’d be lucky if Coop ever called him again.

“Doesn’t it creep you out?”

He shrugged. “It’s not pleasant, but someone has to do it.”

“So it’s something you intend to keep doing?”

If he went to work for The Carver, there’d be no time for body moving. The realization bothered him more than he expected. “I don’t know. I have a line on a new job.”

“What kind of job?”

“I don’t have all the details yet.”

“You like being mysterious, don’t you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Does that mean you won’t be coming back to ASS?”

“No, I’ll be there for a while longer.”

Something flashed across her face—relief? He must be mistaken. Meg had been apathetic toward him from day one.

“Am I taking you home?” she asked.

“Nah—to a friend’s place.”

She grinned. “You have a friend?”

“Ha, ha.”

“Is he a dropout, too?”

“I’m not a dropout.”

“Fine. Is he also too sexy for college?”

That made him smile. The only person who thought Chance was sexy was Chance. And anyone he paid to sleep with him. “He attends Georgia State.”

Her eyebrows climbed. “Really? What’s he studying?”

“Business.” Wesley shifted in his seat over the idea of Meg being more impressed with his buddy than with him. “Chance isn’t much of a student, though.”

Meg shrugged. “Most of life is about showing up.”

Rankled, he took another long drink from the can. When it came to college, he’d shown up as much as Chance—to take his friend’s exams when necessary.

“Where am I dropping you?” she asked.

He gave her the address of Chance’s condo building a couple of blocks away.

“Nice building,” she murmured when they pulled up.

“Yeah.” She probably wouldn’t think much of the cramped town house where Wesley and Carlotta lived. Living in a “transitional” neighborhood was fine if a person did it for philanthropic or moral grounds, like Meg. But it was a different ballgame if you were there because you couldn’t afford to live somewhere else. Or if you were afraid to move because your parents wouldn’t be able to find you, should they decide to come home.

Wesley realized Meg was staring at him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Fine,” he said, opening the door to climb out. “Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem. See you tomorrow morning?”

Her smile made his stomach feel funny. “Yeah, later.”

The Prius rolled away, and Wesley dismissed the nausea as hunger pains.

For Oxy.

On the way inside the building, he called Chance again, and his friend answered on the third ring, panting. “Yeah?”

“It’s Wes. I’m downstairs, but it sounds like you’re busy.”

“Uh, yeah … ah, hell, come on up.” Then he disconnected the call.

Wesley waved to the concierge who knew his face, then walked to the elevator and pushed the call button. He shook his head, wondering what he’d find his friend involved in today. From the way the big guy was huffing and puffing, he might have a whole herd of prostitutes up there. His chubby buddy had a fat trust fund and made tons of money selling soft-core drugs and hard-core porn on the side. Chance worshipped vices and excess, and was fun as hell to be around.

On the ride up, Wesley mopped at his wet forehead with his sleeve. Just knowing he was close to the Oxy made him almost weak with relief. He jogged down the hall, then rapped on Chance’s door.

After a few seconds, the door opened and Wesley stared.

“Are you coming in, or what?”

Chance had answered his door in just about every outfit and stage of undress imaginable, but this one topped them all.

“What?” Chance looked down at his short, red, spandex unitard. “You’ve never seen exercise clothes before?”

“Not on you,” Wesley said. “The headband’s a nice touch.”

“Get in here, shithead.”

Wesley walked inside and closed the door. Chance climbed on a new treadmill that took up a big portion of the living room, and increased the speed until everything on him jiggled. In the stretchy suit and black high-top tennis shoes, he looked like an overweight superhero.

Wesley pulled on his chin. “What’s with the exercise kick, man?”

“Just thought I’d start taking better care of myself. This treadmill is great. I can work out and still watch TV.”

The big screen TV was playing porn, as usual.

“And look—” From the tray in front of the treadmill that was meant to hold a book, Chance picked up a reefer and lit it with a lighter. “I can get high while I exercise.”

“Nice,” Wesley said drily. “Does this have something to do with my sister’s friend Hannah calling you fat?”

“No.” Chance drew on the joint until his face turned red, then exhaled a stream of smoke. “Maybe. You put in a good word for me, didn’t you?”

“I will the next time I see her.” Wesley shook his head. The fierce and pierced Hannah would skewer Chance’s frat-boy ass and put an apple in his mouth before she ate him alive.

“Dude, I’ve got Grimes working on getting you into another card game. He knows he owes us since it was partly his fault we got cleaned out last time.”

“Okay, sure.” Wesley darted a look toward the cabinet where Chance kept his stock of pills.

Chance saw him looking. “Need some more OC?”

He tried to sound casual. “Yeah, but I don’t have any cash on me.”

“I’ll get it out of your winnings. It’s in the second drawer. Take what you want.”

Wesley was at the cabinet before his friend finished talking. “I’m going to need more of that urine screen, too.” To keep from testing positive when his probation officer asked for samples.

“Top drawer on the right.”

He pulled out a bag of the Oxy and felt a rush just holding a pill in his fingers. He popped one in his mouth and chewed to break the time-release coating. Instantly a feeling of euphoria bled through his chest and arms. As he floated toward oblivion, the thought slid into his mind that he’d forgotten to call Carlotta to tell her he wasn’t going to jail after all.

Oh, well, she was probably too busy having fun on her first day back to work to worry about him anyway.

5

Carlotta stopped by her locker for her purse and her cell phone, feeling miserable. At least the break room was empty—all employees had been dispatched in the aftermath of the disturbance.

Her dress was sticky and stiff and dotted with scorch marks from the sparklers on the cake. Cake and icing were everywhere—under her fingernails, inside her arm cast, in her bra. She winced as she turned toward the mirror, dreading the sight of herself.

She gasped in horror at her reflection. Bits of cake and icing clung to her face, eyebrows, chin and hair. She looked as if she’d been whitewashed.

The realization sent her running to the restroom to wash off what she could. She’d need mascara remover to get rid of the icing from her eyelashes, and a good exfoliant scrub to cleanse her pores. And she’d have to shampoo, rinse and repeat a couple of times to get the hardened mess out of her hair.

She dried her face and hands with paper towels, then checked her cell phone for messages. There were two messages from her friend Hannah, but nothing from Wesley. She dialed his phone but he didn’t answer.

“Hey, it’s me,” she said into the mouthpiece, trying to sound upbeat. “Just wondering how things went today. Call me when you can.”

She disconnected the call, hoping against hope that Wesley wasn’t sitting in jail. Surely he or Liz would call her if the meeting had gone south, wouldn’t they? Carlotta bit her lip in frustration, tasting sugary remnants of icing. Swallowing her pride, she emerged from the break room to find the shimmering Maria Marquez waiting for her.

“Jack is pulling the car around,” the detective said, gesturing to a side exit.

Carlotta nodded and fell into step next to the woman, feeling like a crusty child who was being picked up from school to be driven home.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Maria asked.

“Nothing a shower won’t fix,” Carlotta mumbled. “By the way, thanks for pulling me out of that mess.”

“No problem.”

When they got to the exit, Maria held open the door, like the parent. Carlotta walked through to see Jack’s black sedan sitting at the curb. She headed for the front passenger seat, but he intercepted her by getting out and circling to the back.

“I put down something for you to sit on,” he said. From his sweeping gesture, one would’ve thought he’d rolled out a red carpet for her instead of crinkled pages of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.

“Thanks,” she said as she climbed in.

“Buckle up,” he said cheerfully, then closed the door.

She fastened the seat belt and watched as the two of them slid into their seats simultaneously, then checked mirrors, visors and their radios like a choreographed dance. They seemed to be perfectly in sync with each other, she noticed irritably. When the car pulled away, they conversed in low tones, as if they didn’t want Carlotta to hear what they were saying.

“Is it true that Eva McCoy has received death threats?” Carlotta piped up.

Jack adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see her. “Where did you hear that?”

“It’s all over the Internet.”

He frowned. “I thought one of the terms of Wesley’s probation is that he can’t have computers at home.”

Carlotta frowned back. “We don’t have a computer at home. A coworker told me she saw the rumor online. Is that why you two were there?”

“No comment,” Jack said.

Carlotta’s mouth tightened. He would’ve told her if Maria hadn’t been in the car. “Maria, did you notice anything special about the guy with the cake before he got away from you?”

Jack shot her a warning glance in the mirror, but Carlotta returned with an innocent eyebrow raise.

“No,” Maria replied with a smile. “Except that he left tire tracks over you.”

Jack pressed his lips together and turned his attention straight ahead.

Carlotta unbuckled her seat belt and stuck her head between their seats. “That reporter from the AJC hung around after the event. She heard Eva say that her bracelet was stolen—it’ll be all over the news.”

He shrugged. “That could help us. Maybe someone will see the bracelet and get in touch with the police. And a piece of jewelry known to be hot will be harder to resell.”

“Maybe it was just a warning,” Carlotta said. “Maybe the guy took the bracelet to let everyone know how close he could get to her. Or maybe whoever took it will ask for a ransom.”

“Maybe,” Jack said in a noncommittal tone. “Frankly, in the scheme of things, I don’t consider this to be a high-priority crime.”

“I’m with you, Jack,” Maria said. “I don’t understand all the hoopla around the charm bracelets in general. I see you have one, Carlotta.”

Carlotta covered the bracelet with her hand. “It was a gift from a coworker,” she said defensively. “Although I can see why the idea of charms appeal to women. They’re mementos of special times, and they’re jewelry—what’s not to like?”

“It just seems silly to me,” Maria said.

Carlotta frowned. “Where are you from, Maria?”

“Chicago.”

“And what brings you to Atlanta?”

The woman turned her head to look out the window. “I just needed a change.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to find the Atlanta heat a little hard to handle,” Carlotta offered.

Maria turned in her seat to smile at Carlotta. “I like the heat. In fact, I’m finding a lot of things about Atlanta that I like.” Her gaze drifted to Jack’s profile.

“The traffic is horrible,” Carlotta muttered, sitting back in her seat. When Jack gave her a chiding look, she wanted to stick out her tongue.

“Is that why you’re riding the train?” he asked.

“No.” Her shoulders fell. “My car battery is dead.”

“I’ll give you a jump when we get you home.”

His eyes met hers and she detected a flash of amusement—and desire. Her pulse betrayed her. Maria’s head turned.

“Your car, I mean,” he added, then turned his gaze forward as if he’d been a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“What part of town is this?” Maria asked, looking out the window at the passing neighborhood landscape which was clearly middle to lower class.

“Lindbergh,” Carlotta supplied.

“Like the cheese?”

“Something like that.”

Jack spelled it for Maria and she pulled out a map. “I’m still trying to get my bearings,” Maria explained.

“Me, too,” Carlotta whispered to no one as they pulled into the driveway of the town house she shared with Wesley.

Jack adjusted the rearview mirror. “Carlotta, do you recognize that black SUV?”

She turned around in time to see the vehicle pull away from the curb where it had been sitting across the street. Anxiety bubbled in her stomach. “I don’t think so.”

Jack’s mouth tightened as he put the car in Park. “Do you have your car keys with you?”

“Yes.” She dug in her purse for the remote control to open the garage door.

“Please tell me that you backed into the garage when you parked.”

“Only because the only thing harder than backing into the garage is backing onto the street.”

She climbed out and depressed the button on the remote control.

Maria got out of the car, too. Carlotta noticed the woman taking in the shabby town house. She had done her best to weed and spruce up the landscaping as much as her bum arm allowed while she was off work, but there was still a lot of work to do. Now that her arm was almost healed, she was hoping she could get Wesley to help her with some painting and other major projects.

If they could find the money.

And if he wasn’t languishing in jail.

The motor on the garage door opener made a loud, grating sound as the door raised. It was just a matter of time before it stopped altogether or, more their luck, caught on fire and burned the house down. In the car she saw Jack shake his head. He was no doubt wondering how she and Wesley had made it this long.

He pulled his sedan up to the nose of her car, the dark blue Monte Carlo Super Sport that she’d accidentally bought—yet another long story of her bad luck and ill timing—and turned off his engine.

“This is your car?” Maria asked. “I figured you’d be driving something like that little convertible sitting over there.”

Carlotta gazed at her crippled white Miata longingly. “Those were the days.” Coop had promised to come over and take a look under the hood of the convertible, but after Wesley’s betrayal and after her and Coop’s near-miss at romance, she doubted if he’d still offer free car maintenance to the Wren family.

Jack got out and removed jumper cables from the sedan’s trunk. To Carlotta’s chagrin, Maria opened the door to the Monte Carlo and popped the hood, then lifted it to study the offending battery. “Your battery terminals are corroded.”

Carlotta peered inside and pretended she knew what the woman was talking about.

“Hang on,” Maria said, then returned to the sedan and emerged with an open can of Coke.

“Hey, I was drinking that,” Jack said.

Maria ignored him and emptied the can over the battery. It fizzed and bubbled and ran off the sides, leaving the battery clean enough to eat off of.

“Better,” Maria said.

Carlotta stared at her in dismay. Was there anything the woman couldn’t do?

Jack lifted the hood on the sedan and clamped the cable ends to his car battery. Without missing a beat, he handed the other end of the cables to Maria, who attached them to the Monte Carlo’s battery, then opened the driver’s side door and slid behind the wheel.

Carlotta crossed her arms, wondering if the couple would notice if she left.

Jack reached into the sedan to turn over the ignition, then Maria turned over the engine to the Monte Carlo. It caught and started, much to Carlotta’s relief. The lady detective emerged from the car, then she and Jack removed the cables.

“You should pull your car outside and let it run for about twenty minutes to allow the alternator to recharge the battery,” Maria said, clapping her hands to dust them off.

For some reason, getting advice from the luscious Maria almost brought tears to Carlotta’s eyes. She felt so … useless.

“Why don’t you go on inside and shower?” Jack suggested. “I’ll babysit the car and bring you your keys.”

She nodded, then looked to his tall and talented partner. “Thank you, Maria, for your help.”

“No problem,” Maria said, as if it were of no consequence, making Carlotta feel even smaller.

She trudged toward the house and groaned inwardly to see her neighbor, Mrs. Winningham, standing next to the fence between their houses. Not only was she the nosiest woman alive, but she was convinced that the Wrens were single-handedly eroding the property values on the street.

“Hello, Mrs. Winningham,” she said cheerfully.

“What on earth happened to you?” the middle-aged woman asked, eyeing Carlotta’s appearance.

“Food fight,” Carlotta offered, deadpan.

The woman squinted at her, then nodded toward Jack and Maria. “Who are those people?”

“Friends of mine. My car battery is dead, so they gave me a boost.”

Her neighbor’s expression turned leery. “Speaking of cars, do you know anything about a black SUV parked across the street off and on the past couple of weeks? I’ve never seen anyone get in or out of it.”

“No,” Carlotta said, but her heart skipped a beat. So the vehicle that Jack had noticed wasn’t simply passing by. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Excuse me, but I need to go inside and get cleaned up.”

“Speaking of cleaning up,” the woman called behind her, “your house could use a good pressure washing!”

Carlotta bit down on the inside of her cheek. “Thank you, Mrs. Winningham.”

She climbed the steps to the town house and unlocked the door. When she pushed it open, the air in the living room was stale and confining. She didn’t stop to consider the room—the small television with its warped picture tube, the worn furniture, the pathetic little aluminum Christmas tree in the corner, a carryover from the short time her parents had lived there. The fact that Wesley wouldn’t let her take it down after ten years spoke volumes about how much their desertion had affected him.

She turned left from the living room and walked down the hallway to her bedroom, shedding shoes and clothes as she walked across the carpet. She stepped into the bathroom and turned on the water for the shower. While it warmed, she checked her cell phone on the slim chance she’d missed Wesley’s call, but there were no messages.

Mindful of the few minutes she had before Jack returned her keys, she removed the flexible arm cast and climbed in to wash away the remnants of the cake and icing. Her arm was aching again. She’d overdone it and now she was out of pain pills.

Which made her think of Wesley.

Which made her think of how messed up their lives were.

Which made her think of her absent parents.

As always, all roads led back to Randolph and Valerie Wren.

She turned off the water and toweled dry, then wrapped her hair. She pulled on her favorite full-coverage chenille robe and was walking back through the house when a rap sounded on the front door. She wasn’t surprised when Jack opened the door and stuck his head inside. He was familiar enough with her home.

“Carlotta?”

“Come in,” she said, walking into the living room.

He held up her keys and remote control, then looked her up and down and gave her a wicked smile. “I remember that robe—or rather, I remember what’s under it.”

Her bare toes curled in the pile of the carpet. Jack had that effect on her. “Gee, Jack, I thought your tastes were running toward a Spanish flavor these days.”

He came over to stand in front of her and lifted her chin. “Are you jealous of Maria?”

“Of course not,” she said, trying to scoff. Too bad it came out sounding like a cough.

“Oh, my good God,” he said, bringing his mouth close to hers. “You are jealous.”

“I am not,” she insisted.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “I think it’s kind of sexy. By the way, you looked pretty tasty all covered in cake.”

She let him kiss her, a hot, probing kiss that pushed all her worries from her mind …

Until her cell phone rang from her purse on the chair.

She reluctantly broke the kiss. “Sorry—I need to get it. I haven’t heard from Wesley yet.” She pulled the phone out of her purse, but Peter’s name scrolled across the caller ID screen. “It’s not him.” She sent the call to voice mail and sighed in disappointment.

Jack scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, the D.A. reduced the charges to a misdemeanor and added hours to Wesley’s community service.”

She looked up, her mouth parting in elation. “He did? That’s great! That’s wonderful! That’s … wait—how did you know?”

“I, um, got a call.”

Her good mood dimmed. “Ah, from Liz. Of course.”

Jack reached forward to stroke her cheek with his thumb. “We both have other people in our lives. It has to be that way … for now at least.”

“You mean, until you arrest my father?”

“No, I mean until you make up your mind.”

The charm of three hearts came to mind. The doorbell rang, startling her. She and Jack both turned and Carlotta inhaled sharply to see Peter Ashford standing on the stoop, holding his phone and peering inside. He looked every inch the successful investment broker, impeccably dressed, his blond hair cut in a sleek, precision style.

Jack looked back to her. “Perfect timing.”

“Peter and I have a dinner date,” she murmured, drawing the tie on her robe tighter.

“Let me guess. Ashford is taking you to eat sushi?”

She flapped her eyelashes. “Who’s jealous now?” “No comment.” He started toward the door, then turned back. “If you need another jump after the Ken doll drops you off, give me a call.” Jack grinned, then turned to go, leaving her shaking her head.

Carlotta uncurled her toes and went to greet Peter.

6

Carlotta manufactured a wide smile to counter the frown on Peter’s face that appeared when Jack emerged from her house. The men exchanged wary looks and did an awkward dance as they passed on the narrow stoop. There wasn’t room enough for both of them.

“Hi, Peter,” she said. “Come in.”

“I know I’m early,” he said as he stepped over the threshold. “The receptionist at the firm told me about a disturbance at Neiman’s. I was worried about you.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “The woman in the driveway said you had a dead battery?” Then he noticed what she was wearing and squinted. “What’s going on?”

“Eva McCoy had a speaking event in the store today.”

“The Olympic marathoner?”

“Right. Some guy used a cake as a ruse to get close to her and I …” She lifted her arms. “I wound up in the cake.”

He gave a little laugh. “I’d like to have seen that.”

“It wasn’t pretty.”

“That’s impossible,” he said, then sighed. “I guess superhero Jack Terry was on the scene?”

She let the jab pass. “He and his new partner were at the store for security. When they found out I’d ridden the train to work because my car battery was dead, they offered to give me a ride home.”

“Ah. So that woman is Jack’s new partner?”

“Yes. Detective Maria Marquez.”

He pursed his mouth. “Pretty lady.”

Carlotta smiled and angled her head. “Are you interested?”

“No, but I was hoping that Jack might be.” He gave her a pointed look, then his expression softened. “You’re rubbing your arm. Are you still up to having dinner?”

Her arm was aching, but on the heels of getting such good news about Wesley’s charges being downgraded, she felt happy and expansive. “Of course. I’ll pop some Advil—it’ll be fine.”

“You probably want time to get ready. I can come back to pick you up later.”

“No—stay.” She gestured to the shabby living room, suddenly noticing how yellowed the paint had become, how dingy the baseboards. She’d tried so hard to shield her dilapidated lifestyle from Peter—always meeting him at the door or in the driveway, withholding details about her and Wesley’s financial and legal problems as much as possible. But if they were going to date, he needed to know how she lived. “That is, if you don’t mind hanging out on the couch and watching a broken TV while I dry my hair and find something to wear.”

“Sounds good to me.” He seemed so pleased by the modest offer that her heart gave a squeeze.

“Give me twenty minutes,” she said, then dashed back to her bedroom where she leaned against the closed door and exhaled.

She could do this. She needed to do this, to try to rekindle the feelings she once had for Peter, both to give her father a chance to prove his innocence, and to give her and Peter a chance to … test the waters. At the very least, she owed it to herself to investigate how she felt about Peter so she could move on.

As she dried her hair and applied her makeup, Carlotta admitted to herself that her reluctance to get involved with Peter again might be rooted in fear that she’d fall for him again, and then after he’d exorcised his guilt over leaving her, he’d break her heart … again.

Which, come to think of it, was the way she felt about trusting her father again.

She downed a couple of Advil tablets, then dressed in a knee-length tan skirt and white long-sleeve linen shirt, with a triple strand of long, faux pearls and red Donald J Pliner strappy sandals. She desperately wanted a cigarette, but knew Peter would frown on the scent that would undoubtedly cling to her clothes. She glanced at the charm bracelet lying on the dresser and, on impulse, decided to put it back on. Eva McCoy had said her bracelet brought her luck, and Carlotta certainly needed all the luck she could get.

She left her hair down and as much as she hated to, she donned the flexible cast to support her tender arm. And because she was working on a blister from being on her feet all day, she tucked a pair of black Cole Haan loafers into her shoulder bag. The bottle of over-the-counter painkillers went in, too.

After checking her appearance, she put a hand over her racing heart and acknowledged she was nervous over their date. Just being near Peter always left her feeling caught between the infatuation she’d had as an eighteen-year-old and the uncertainty of the woman she was now. She took a deep breath, then returned to the living room where Peter stood with his hands in his pockets, studying the tarnished Christmas tree.

“Now that Dad has made his presence known, I was hoping that Wesley would let me take down the tree.”

Peter turned. “You told Wesley that you saw your dad while you were in Florida?”

She nodded. “I decided he had a right to know. But he doesn’t know that Dad called you.”

“That’s probably wise for now,” he agreed, then reached for her hand. “You look amazing.”

“Thank you.”

He kissed her fingers. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to tonight.”

Her pulse kicked up. She hadn’t considered that Peter might want to …

“Let’s just take it slow and have fun,” she murmured. “Ready to go?”

He nodded and they left the house. Peter’s low-slung Porsche two-seater was a far cry from the beater cars in her garage. She slid into the leather seat that cradled her like a hand and allowed him to close her door. If one thing led to another, she knew Peter would buy her any car she wanted.

Any thing she wanted. Just for the asking. She studied him as he settled into the driver’s seat.

“Everything okay?” he asked, his eyes worried as if he were expecting her to pull the plug on the date at any moment.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling. “I’m hungry.”

“Me, too. I thought we’d go to Ecco. Have you been?”

“No, but I’ve heard about their bar.” Her former coworker Michael Lane had wanted her to go with him a couple of times, but it hadn’t worked out with her schedule … or her finances. She hadn’t known financial security since her parents had left, but after having her identity stolen and her already-compromised credit damaged further, she’d cut up her plastic and put herself on a strict budget.

“They have a great wine list, and I think you’ll like the food.”

“Don’t we need reservations?”

He winked. “I got you covered.”

“Sounds good.” Good for someone else to make decisions, good to be taken care of for a change. Just … good. Carlotta closed her eyes and allowed the music on the stereo to wrap around her during the short ride to Midtown.

For a muggy Monday night, the sidewalks were busy with locals waiting out rush hour by indulging in happy hour, and visitors looking for something to do after touring the Margaret Mitchell House.

The restaurant was packed, but Peter maneuvered a place at the oversize bar where they enjoyed a leisurely glass of wine. Peter was a good conversationalist, thoughtful, yet entertaining, and startlingly handsome. She felt a rush of affection for him. Peter’s rejection ten years ago had devastated her, but surely he’d suffered more than she had with his unhappy marriage, then his wife’s betrayal and subsequent murder only a few months ago. Peter had even confessed to his wife’s murder to protect her reputation, but in the end, her dirty laundry had been aired.

Still, Carlotta thought as she smiled up at him, his actions had been noble and selfless.

After their glasses were refilled, the hostess appeared and announced their table was ready. Their “table” was more of an open-ended booth, which allowed them to sit close and look out into the crowd, European café style. Peter’s leg pressed against hers under the table while she studied the menu. Lots of variety—especially cheeses—and steep prices.

But the service was impeccable, and the menu was amazing.

When the waiter left after taking their order, Peter lifted his wineglass. “Here’s hoping this meal ends better than the last one we shared together.”

He was referring to the time she’d sneaked out for a smoke and had been attacked by a killer who was afraid that Carlotta was on to them. To her utter astonishment, Peter had saved her by showing up and whipping out a gun. With bullets and everything.

“Are you packing heat tonight?” she asked, clinking her glass to his.

“No. Are you packing cigarettes?”

She pouted. “I’m trying to quit.” But even now she was dying for one.

He twined her fingers in his. “I’m only asking because now I have even more of a vested interest in your living a long, long time.”

She pressed her lips together. Becoming part of someone else’s life made even everyday choices more complicated. “So what did your company think when you turned down the position in New York?”

“The partners had encouraged me to take it, but they were fine with my decision. Everyone at the office has given me a wide berth since Angela died. And I wasn’t really eager to go to Manhattan—I just needed a reason to stay.” He squeezed her fingers. “I’m looking forward to us spending more time together.”

She smiled. “Me, too.”

He gave a little laugh. “Sometimes I think we have so much to talk about, I don’t know where to start.”

“How are your parents?” she ventured. When they’d reunited a few months ago, he’d admitted his parents had pressured him to end their engagement back when news of her father’s scandal had broken.

“They’re fine. Dad plays golf every day at the club, and mother spends hours in her rose garden.”

“Sounds idyllic.” Perhaps her parents would have been doing something similar had their life not taken such a felonious trajectory.

“Has your father contacted you again?”

Carlotta shook her head. “I don’t suppose he’s been in touch with you?”

“No. There’s only been that one phone call.”

“What do you think about my father’s claim about there being paperwork that can prove his innocence?”

Peter took a drink from his glass. “I asked around to see what happened to Randolph’s files.”

“And?”

“And … I was told that everything was handed over to the D.A.’s office.”

She frowned. “But surely the firm kept copies?”

“One would think, but since Walt came around wondering why I was asking questions, I decided not to push it.”

Walt Tully—her father’s former partner at the firm and her and Wesley’s godfather. In name only, since he hadn’t bothered to check on them after their parents had disappeared.

“Well, I guess we’ll just wait to see what dear old Dad has in store,” Carlotta said. “He certainly likes to make dramatic exits and entrances.”

“So your first day back to work sounded pretty interesting.”

Grateful for the subject change, she nodded. “In all the commotion, the guy with the cake stole Eva McCoy’s charm bracelet.”

“That’s too bad. I’m sure it meant a lot to her.”

“Yeah, it did. She was really upset.”

“I noticed you’re wearing a charm bracelet.”

She stroked the links. “It’s one of Eva’s bracelets. All of them are supposed to be unique.”

“And foretell the future, I’ve heard. Let’s see what you got.”

She put her hand over the charms. “It’s silly, they don’t mean anything.”

He ran his thumb over her bare ring finger. “So you wear jewelry only if it doesn’t mean anything?”

Carlotta felt pressure building in her chest. “Peter, let’s not go there.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He smiled. “How’s Wesley?”

She brightened. “The D.A. reduced the charges. He got off with having to perform more community service, which is good for him. He’s so smart, you know. He really should be in college.”

“He needs to follow his own path,” Peter chided gently.

“I know. Still, I can’t help but worry about him. It’s not as if he had anyone else who cared.” She sighed. “This whole thing with Mom and Dad leaving has affected him more than it affected me.”

“Don’t downplay what they did to you,” Peter said, then grimaced. “What we all did to you, leaving like that.”

“It was tough on me,” she agreed. “But Wesley was young. He didn’t understand what was happening, or why. He blamed himself for them leaving, and he had so many problems adjusting. No one will ever know how much he suffered.” She smiled. “That’s why it’s so hard to be angry with him when he makes dumb decisions.”

“Is he still working for Cooper Craft?”

She shook her head. “Not since the body-snatching incident. But I can’t blame Coop. He gave Wesley a chance and Wesley’s stupidity put Coop’s reputation on the line.”

Peter’s eyebrows raised. “From what I heard, the doctor did himself in years ago.”

Carlotta frowned. “Have you been checking up on Coop?”

“A Google search isn’t exactly a background check.”

She angled her head. “And what exactly did you find out?”

“That he ascended to coroner at a young age, and was considered a wunderkind … until he started drinking. There was something about him declaring a woman dead when she was still alive?”

She nodded. “Jack told me about it. He said that Coop was driving home and came upon an accident. He’d had too much to drink and declared the woman dead when she was only unconscious.”

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