 
The After Hours Deception

**Masquerade Inc.** Cozy **Mysteries** #1

Patti Larsen

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2019 by Patti Larsen

Find out more about me at

http://www.pattilarsen.com

***
Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

***

# Moment De La Mort

He grins over his glass of champagne. Everything is going exactly the way he intended and, dare he say so himself, he's killing it.

_Absolutely_ killing _it._

He drains the glass, sets it aside, sits back. Laughs out loud though there's no one there to hear it, as far as he's aware. Not that he's aware of much aside from his ego's vanity, cheek, conceit.

That laugh is more than enough to hide movement behind him. His arrogance allows the sneak approach. Which means, of course, he's so distracted by his own pomposity he doesn't see the napkin-wrapped hand hover over the melting pool in the silver basin, nor does he witness said hand remove the dripping and empty bottle of bubbly from the ice bucket.

He's far too deeply sunk into that self-satisfying realm of audacity that devours common sense to even ponder for a moment everything might not, in fact, be working out as he'd intended.

The hand rises, bottle gripped within the pristine white napkin, catching any drops that might give warning. Hovers overhead a moment, though out of hesitation or anticipation he'll surely never discover. And, at last, brings it down, hard and fast and with purpose to the target intended.

He's too busy congratulating himself on a job well done to even comprehend the end has come before his time, that fleeting moment between life and eternal darkness sparing him understanding.

Death by hubris. How fitting.

***

# Chapter One

Boxes were heavy. Not that I was complaining or anything. It was just.

Boxes. _Heavy_.

Argh.

Especially when said boxes contained the sum and total of my entire existence. Corrugated hell encompassing millennial decisions made without thought for the future beyond the moment of pleasure that doing my best to recreate the life my parents had evoked. Only to end in a long, slow trudge up a narrow set of stairs over said parent's garage in a desperate attempt to evade bankruptcy and utter despondency embedded in shame, guilt and the bitter taste of failure.

I apparently put the 'suck' in success.

My boots made soft protesting noises on the staircase's wooden surface, a sort of thump-thump-are-you-kidding-me-right-now that echoed into my bones and gave me heartburn at the age of twenty-freaking-eight. While my energetic and charming Father Figure #2, Pops, hurried on ahead of me as though he was younger than me rather than twice my age.

Why did crashing and burning make me feel old?

My toe caught on the edge of the next step, and I inhaled sharply, clutching at the box in my arms like it might save me from faceplanting. Instead, I leaned hard into the railing, knowing it might fail at any second and dump me on the asphalt below in a sad and tragic end for Petal Morgan, serial student, career connoisseur and oh-so-quaint collector of bills, debt and collapsed net worth.

No such luck. Seriously. Dying right then? Might be preferable to the alternative.

Salvation strode up from behind me, Father Figure #1, Dad, (his choice, I swear), bumping into me with the front of his own burden, grunting faintly when he realized I'd come to a complete and sullen stop.

"Pet," he grumbled. "Move it or lose it."

Sigh. That was what I got for having a career FBI agent for a father. Bossypants super special whatchamacallit.

I heaved myself onward and upward, no idea what was in the paper disguised as solid and supportive packing material I held in my arms but certain at any moment my truly wretched packing skills would end in the tumbling exodus of the contents onto the stairs before me if I didn't hurry the heck up already.

Two more. One more. Felt like an old 80s aerobics video rah-rah, you-can-do-it as I finished the climb for the (thanks for the expression, Gen X Dad) umpteenth time and, blowing my blonde bangs out of my eyes, I panted a little while depositing said vestibule of all things my life on top of yet another container that cradled the deepest, darkest secrets of an almost thirty in eighteen more months woman trying her best not to be embarrassed by her present living conditions.

Not helping that my younger brother grinned at me from the freshly completed kitchen—one of the only rooms in the apartment that bore such a label—like he was taking bets on how long I'd be stuck here and couldn't wait to rub it in.

"You know," Jordan said on exactly that teasing trajectory, setting his own box of Petal goodness on the laminate counter made to look like marble, "you're stealing my bachelor pad and I'm not sure I'm going to forgive you for it."

He was lucky he was adorable in his early twenties African American slenderness and sweeter than I was, not to mention ten feet away because one of my boots might have made an impression on him otherwise.

"We're delighted to have you home, aren't we, Andy?" Pops spoke up in that ever-cheerful way of his, ageless Asian heritage belying the fifty-something of his birthdate, his nearly black eyes sparkling with good humor, still not a trace of gray in his pin-straight hair cut short enough to almost be called a buzz. His excitement at my return balanced out the not-so-enthusiastic mumble Dad let out while he set aside the box he'd been lugging, bending at the knees as he was supposed to, tall and rather wide-shouldered six plus feet towering over all of us in white-shirted, dark-tied FBI precision.

"Delighted." Dad's flat tone and blank expression did nothing to hide the laughter in those blue eyes devoid of judgment despite the fact he'd sighed when I'd first confessed how much trouble I was in and just needed somewhere to hide from the collection agencies while I regrouped and pulled myself together already.

Seriously, this was his fault. Supervisory Special Agent Andrew Walker chose to adopt me, right? Raised me to this pillar of societal perfection placed before him in the still evolving, supposed-to-be-rentable apartment in his new house, but familiar town, outside Quantico, Virginia.

My failures in life? His failures. So there.

"Freeloading kids." Dad winked at Jordan who eye rolled with a wide grin that made his white teeth flash against that gorgeous dark skin of his. At least my adopted brother wasn't neck-deep in enough debt to drown the most industrious of wanna-be success stories, unlike his pasty-faced sister despite her good looks and natural blonde locks, slim and athletic frame and endearing pearly smile everyone always said would take her far in the world.

All the way to wrack and ruin.

Maybe seeing me stumble from one lackluster opportunity to another pathetic attempt at making my way with the time I'd had so far on Earth had given Jordan the impetus he needed to grasp financial security by the short and curlies and win for both of us.

That was, if being a yoga instructor could earn out into something that didn't eventually relegate him to spending the rest of his life in the main house with our fathers. Yeah. Real success stories evolved from the kids who squatted in this place of residence.

You're welcome, little bro.

"At least you have someone you know and trust living here, Dad." Jordan had always taken great pleasure in giving our federal agent father a good ribbing. Case in point, I snickered while Dad shuffled his feet, frowning, mumbling something about getting another box before turning and striding down the steps into the early May sunshine.

"He's just cautious," Pops said, that beaming smile and empathetic caring about as familiar as Dad's grumpy cynicism.

"Pops," Jordan said, dark eyes locked on me, "we moved in here, what, two months ago?"

Our second father sighed. "Almost three," he said like doing so betrayed the love of his life out of some kind of father solidarity.

"And the whole reason we bought this house," Jordan gestured around him, closing the distance between him and me while Pops just crossed his arms over his chest and watched, "is so that you can fix up this," another wave, free arm landing around my shoulders, my taller little brother leaning into me, "and rent it out. For extra income or something." He snorted. "Like you two need it."

Pops dropped his hands to his sides, shrugged. "You know Andy," he said. "Always thinking about the future."

Wow, that sounded weak, even from Dad's main supporter. "Pray tell, dear brother," I said, taking up his teasing tone and grinning back at him, "why then, would you say, is this very apartment—that specified source of extra income—not finished and/or rented?"

"Why, my darling sister," Jordan said, free hand now pressed to the logo on his t-shirt, extravagance expanding with his broad chest, "as it turns out, our dear and amazing Dad #1 hadn't thought through the whole idea prior to the execution of such a scheme, had he?"

Pops let out a soft snort, shaking his head, then laughed. "Don't tease Andy about this," he said, voice low as he crossed to both of us, taking a peek over my shoulder to ensure, I could only assume, Dad wasn't already returning with another box. "Just because he's hesitant—"

"Untrusting." Jordan released me to tick off descriptors on one hand with the other. "Judgmental." He looked skyward a moment before smiling again. "Paranoid." He met my gaze one more time. "Did I cover it?"

I clenched my lips together to keep the laughter in, shaking my head while Pops sighed softly.

"Fine," he said. "The apartment isn't done because Andy realized he'd have to rent to a stranger and doing thorough, FBI level background checks on possible renters is illegal." He tapped his toe on the floor, practical and brandless white sneakers ridiculous at the base of his black dress pants, beige button up mostly shrouded in that thin brown sweater he loved to wear. The one with the patches on the elbows Dad gave him for Christmas three years ago to replace the previous one Pops wore out by donning it like a uniform every single day of every term.

If he wasn't a college professor he'd look ridiculous. I guess he got a pass, though I always wondered what his students thought of him and if he was teased behind his back for his choice of clichéd attire.

Dr. Sam Ito, Dean of Arts and Sciences, total and utter nerd.

Pops hugged me suddenly, Jordan, too, and I melted into my second father instantly. He always smelled like nuts for some reason, and despite his lean frame he was surprisingly strong. They were an odd pair, our fathers, but they worked and that was all I cared about.

"I'm happy about how things worked out," Pops whispered in my ear. "I get my family back, even if it's just for a little while." He pulled away then, blinking far too much and too rapidly, Jordan clearing his throat, wiping at his own eyes, while I felt like I'd taken on far too much of Dad and not nearly enough of the sweet man standing in front of me.

Speak of the devil, Dad grunted faintly, footfalls stopping at the top of the steps, shadow falling over us when his bulky body blocked out the sunlight.

"Last one, Pet," he said. I took it from him, setting it aside on the plywood floor, hugging him in thanks. He paused as I did, chin on the top of my head, the scent of his familiar cologne and the heat of him reminding me of the past, of being small and terrified and alone until the tall and kind man I'd never met before picked me up and hugged me and promised me he'd protect me from what happened to my mother.

Yeah, I wasn't going there right now. And it turned out I had enough of Pops in me after all to make my own eyes sting.

I stepped away from Dad before the waterworks could start for real, though I had no idea if he was aware of why I was suddenly tense and uncomfortable. Just like him to give me space and let it go, though, without question. Funny, he had always given me the room I needed to sort out what I wanted to say before sitting down with me to hear it.

I might have teased him for being a hard ass special agent, but Dad was the bomb.

"You can fix it up however you like, I guess." He swept the room with that intense and watchful gaze of his. I'd never, ever been able to hide anything from him, and stopped trying a long time ago.

I accepted his offer to step away from emotional conversation and nodded, both hands firmly in my back pockets, my ponytail shivering down the back of my t-shirt. "It's great, Dad, Pops. Thank you. I really appreciate this."

Pops kissed my cheek before waving Jordan off toward the door. "You get settled then come in for dinner," he said. "I'm making gnocchi, your favorite."

Soft, home made clouds of pillowy potato goodness? "Alfredo sauce?"

He winked over one shoulder and disappeared with my brother ahead of him, Dad joining them, though he paused at the door, glancing back at me, blue eyes shadowed by the backlight of the sun so it was impossible to gauge his expression.

"Welcome home, Pet," he said, soft and full of love before my stoic and confident father disappeared down the stairs, leaving me to the remnants of my life.

***

# Chapter Two

It was quickly apparent it was going to take me a lot longer than the half-hour or so I had before dinner to unpack and create the kind of interior space I needed to actually feel at home up here. If I'd ever feel at home above a garage. Sure, I'd stop complaining, I promise. Eventually. After all, I had a roof over my head, I didn't have to live in the main house with my fathers and my brother and I was safe, had food to eat and even the chance to dig myself out of the hole I found myself in.

I was further ahead than some people I knew and I needed to get over myself and this princess attitude of _why me?_ I'd chosen to cultivate.

Except, it was hard, standing here, staring at the sum and total of my life so far in those few and rather pathetic cardboard boxes on the plywood floor of an unfinished space I knew would likely remain that way because I wasn't really all that good at follow through. Part of the reason I stood here, right?

Okay, five minutes of wallowing. And, go.

Why didn't my life work out the way I wanted it to, how everyone said it should? Hadn't I done all the things right, won the genetic lottery, had a brain in my head, clever and charismatic and confident enough to succeed at anything?

Apparently not.

Turned out being attractive and funny had very little to do with loving what you did, finding a paying job that didn't require previous experience, interning for free in jobs that were supposed to create said experience, tripping over drinking hard on weekends, traveling to find yourself while modeling and acting and any number of other activities that blonde twentysomethings were supposed to aspire to, only to have all of it fall flat, stale and end in bitter disappointment and weight gain I was made to feel guilty over and a rather unhappy relationship with alcohol and old, white men who thought they owned me the last of my recent legacy.

Not. Complaining.

Just tired. And pretty sure being raised in the kind of environment I'd spent my first eight glorious (yes, that was sarcasm) years wasn't helping any. Formative or not, until the man I called Dad held me in his arms, I'd never once felt truly safe.

No excuses, honest. But not everyone got the fairytale beginning that ended in a happily ever after.

I sank to the surface of the double bed pushed against the far wall of the open space, the bachelor feel not really bothering me that much, to be honest. I liked the lack of walls aside from the small bathroom's enclosed privacy, the way the central pillars, mere jack posts at that point, cold metal begging to be disguised with faux panels of wood or boxed in with drywall, creating a natural dividing line down the middle of the long, narrow space. At least the mattress was comfortable, equal parts firm and springy, elevated by a stand and box spring enough my feet barely reached the floor. It was cool up here as the sun set and I rose again to close the door, watching the blue sky turning red and orange over the rooftops of the suburban neighborhood of this town I now called home again.

Martingale might not have been a metropolis, but its proximity to Washington D.C. at least offered me some options. Not that I was against small towns or anything, but I'd spent my high school years here and didn't recall it being all that memorable outside six long and annoying terms hating everything and wishing for summer. Thanks to Dad's job with the FBI we'd moved a lot when we were young, Martingale our longest stop. This was the first time, I think, he planned to stay anywhere longer than a few years, his new instructor position at Quantico one of those retirement ready offerings I was sure he'd fought tooth and nail. Dad had the heart of a lion and the soul of an investigator. Taking a job teaching recruits never sounded like something he'd agree to willingly.

I needed to ask him why, I guess, but like him I tended to wait and give space. He'd fill me in when he was ready.

Maybe he did it for Pops? That was possible. Being a professor, bobbing from college to college, didn't really allow for tenure. It could be Dad finally gave Pops the chance to do what he loved. And getting this sweet job as dean for a full faculty? The more I thought about it—and stopped thinking about myself, wow, look at me getting over my need to whine already—the more it made sense.

Love could make you do things you wouldn't normally.

Like I'd know. The only love I'd ever really experienced lasted about a minute—long enough to get married way too young and then divorced faster than a speeding bullet—to the wrong guy at the wrong time. I think that was why we eloped.

Yeah. Not thinking about my ex while standing in the wreckage of my existence in an unfinished room that really wasn't anything to write home about if I wasn't already home. Safe. Secure. Protected. Grateful. All those things. I just worried I'd end up staying here forever, growing old and senile, broke and washed up while my fathers took care of me and life passed me by.

Now I was just being ridiculous.

As I turned back toward the interior of the apartment, my resolve firmly in hand to make this place homey for as long as I was here—not long, thank you very much—I tripped over the last box Dad brought up, tipping it sideways and spilling some of the contents on the floor. Because clearly learning to tape things closed wasn't a skill I'd mastered.

I crouched next to the mess I'd made, no metaphors intended, hands tucking sweaters and rolled-up socks back into the righted cardboard, before I caught the corner of something hard and inhaled. I'd forgotten where I'd packed my memory box, just as startled as I was sadly delighted to come across it. I should have been unpacking, or at least figuring out a game plan. Instead, heart heavy, I crossed to the bed once again and sat, wriggling my butt until I was far enough back I could cross my legs and settle the box in the gap, tipping the top open to peek inside.

I didn't open it often, couldn't remember the last time I did. Maybe a few years ago, maybe more. Not that I'd ever forgotten what was in it. Dad gave it to me shortly after he adopted me. At the time, living in California, recently orphaned and traumatized by foster care for the six months it took for Dad to get permission to first foster me then make me his, I'd cherished the contents of the box. It was all I had left of my past.

A sad and hurtful past I now wished I could just tip into the trash and forget about. But I'd never forgive myself and I knew Dad would be heartbroken if he found out I'd thrown away the history he'd carefully preserved for me.

I'd added to it over time, but stopped years ago. When did I stop? My fingers hesitated over the thin stack of photos, the trinkets, the gold ring buried in the corner. After my divorce, that was when. After the love of my life—the mistake of my life—and I ended what we never should have started.

I fingered the smooth, gold band, the last bit of my mother I had left, aside from a photo taken a few days before her death. I stared down at her, hating the burning in the back of my throat, the way my eyes welled up and that I had to hastily wipe at them before they could splash into the box. Wouldn't be the first time. My fingers trembled when I lifted out the picture, stared at the beautiful woman with her golden hair, the tiny girl in her arms, beaming smiles from both. Perched in the front seat of a red convertible, white leather seats shining in the California sunlight.

Something rattled in the bottom of the box when I tipped it sideways and I retrieved the key. How had I forgotten? Lucille might have been long gone—my mother's favorite toy, that car, and my nemesis—but I still had the means to turn on her ignition, to hear the hum of her engine, if the opportunity ever presented.

Who was I kidding? I tossed the key in the box, the metal ringing against the gold band I buried carefully under the photo of me and my mother. Annette Morgan might have been a famous actress in her day, but she was a terrible mother, an alcoholic drug addict and a weak-willed and pathetic excuse for a human being. Her death made a lot of people rich, and left me on the street.

Oh, and my sperm donor? Well, he'd been the one who'd killed her before taking his own life, so I could hardly be blamed for not exactly calling him father of the year, could I?

Poor Petal Morgan. Except, thanks to fate, I'd ended up with the best fathers on the planet, so my endless complaining was even getting on _my_ nerves.

I shuffled through the rest of the contents, irritated by this trip down memory lane though somehow unable to stop myself, the oncoming train wreck beckoning with an irresistible song I had sung for myself far too often. At least there were a few happy memories inside, like the photo of Dad and me the day of my adoption, and the one of he and Pops getting married when it finally became legal for them to tie the knot—a reminder I had, in fact, never stopped adding to the contents and likely never would.

That had been an amazing day, I admitted it, the both of them in their tuxedos, Jordan the best man and me their maid of honor, just the four of us and the courthouse and a lovely dinner on the San Diego waterfront.

Best to end this little jaunt into my past on a happy note, especially since I was due for dinner. I closed the box, stared at the wooden top for a moment, the painted stencil Dad created of my name though he was the least crafty person I'd ever met perfect in its precision, just like him. And I smiled as I set it aside and rose to fill my belly with yummy cooking and my heart with the men I loved most in the world.

I took the back stairs to the kitchen door, almost stumbling in the falling darkness over a heavy, cracked set of ceramic bowls tucked to one side of the second last step. While I paused in the shadow of the house, the light from the interior giving me enough illumination to check out the old crockery that, if I recalled correctly, used to hold cranberry sauce and stuffing at Christmas, Pops appeared out the door to wave me inside.

He chuckled to himself when he saw me cock my head and joined me. "Your dad has been feeding a stray." He pointed at the remains of a few bits of kibble in the bottom of one, the low level of water in the other. "You know how much he loves strays."

Tell me about it. What else was I, after all? Jordan? Dad would never admit it but he was a softy when it came to critters, too. We'd never technically been allowed cats or dogs, but his fondness for taking care of abandoned animals meant we often had a selection of pets who spent their twilight or illness-riddled final days in the comfort of our house.

"I'll keep an eye out," I said. Sighed and rubbed at both arms, not really cold but chilled suddenly. "Pops." I couldn't get any more out.

Didn't need to. He hugged me, then led me inside, smile warm and that welcoming compassionate familiar expression that reassured me, no matter what happened, everything would always work out.

"You just need some gnocchi," he said.

Why did that make me laugh?

***

# Chapter Three

The delicious dinner did nothing to change my present situation, but it did fill me up with yummy home cooked goodness, so I wasn't complaining. Though, as I helped Jordan clear the table, Pops sorting out the leftovers while Dad loaded the dishwasher, I couldn't help but have those defeated and failing thoughts surface despite myself.

Home again, jiggity, back in the town I went to high school. I might as well have been sixteen all over again for all that had changed. Except now I felt like the little sister since Jordan was so much bigger than me and had his life together. So I'd reverted to teenager with adult-sized debt while my family had moved on in time without me.

Talking self-smack was a lovely way to boost my confidence, I must say.

"So, Pet," Dad said, my messy mental state attracting all the fatherly goodness I could handle and more, "what's your plan?" Because prodding me was due, like all the bills I had yet to pay. Pops made a soft tsking sound, spinning on Dad with a headshake that told me they'd discussed their Team Fatherhood approach to the subject and Dad clearly went off book. Instead of acknowledging his husband's disapproval of such behavior—Pops would give him trouble for it later—Dad looked up from settling a plate in a slot on the bottom rack, his precision loading technique relegating him to the position of only person in the house permitted to add anything to his regimented system of dishwasher perfection.

How was I supposed to argue with someone who had a brain that precise? Though arguing with him had been a rather common occurrence when I was younger, I'd learned not to bother since winning was impossible. Didn't help the resentment I was feeling, though, or improve my mood. Instead, despite knowing he was only asking because he cared, I devolved further into mumbly crank.

So much for leaving me be to sort things out, though it was a fair question.

"I'm already looking at jobs that might be available." Okay, so I'd done a little poking and prodding online this afternoon before he and Pops arrived with the car for the last of my boxes. Enough to have my confidence I might find a great job tomorrow sizzle into the faint thrill of despair that came from knowing I was fooling myself. But I had to tell him something and despite knowing false hope would get me nowhere long term, in the short, I just wanted to slink away before he could ask any more questions.

Consequences and I had a long and sordid past best left to the vaults of history.

Pops bustled to my side, kissing my cheek, another glare shot in Dad's direction. "I'm sure any number of businesses would be lucky to have someone like you work for them, Petal." He went back to his task, securing the leftovers in the fridge, carefully wrapped and stored by date of cooking on the orderly shelves. The pair of them really needed to get a life outside of domestic bliss. Then again, they'd waited so long to be able to live like this, as husband and husband, I found it hard to begrudge them their adorableness even if it meant the occasional deep breath over their habits and set ways I'd never fathom or master.

Maybe that was my problem. Yeah, right. Because my long list of things wrong with Petal Morgan wasn't exhaustive enough I had to layer on how I lacked in the living up to the potential of my fathers department. I'd blame my mother and the crappy way I was raised, my formative years spent learning that money and power, corruption and backstabbing were all signs of love and the people closest to you would strip you for everything you had the moment your back was turned. Or kill you in a fit of fury in front of your daughter. Except, again, I had choices and I wasn't my mother. All this I'd come to? It was on me and me alone.

Self-pity never felt so pathetic.

"I know you'll find something right away," Pops went on, all optimism, all the time. He closed the door with a satisfied sigh, patting his flat belly. He'd have his nose in the leftovers before bedtime. "But no pressure, okay? We don't want you to rush into anything, especially if it means you're putting yourself in a worse position. We're here for you. Anything you need, you just ask."

Not a jab, not from him. My sweet second father would never consider such words could possibly be construed as a deep and stabbing pain tied to the handful of failed attempts I made at creating my own businesses when the jobs I couldn't seem to cling to fell out from under me. Worse position? How could I possibly be in a worse position?

Okay, I wasn't that naive. And it wasn't a request or anything, to find out what worse could look like, so the Universe could just back off.

Dad, on the other hand, snorted while he shuffled a pair of plates—I swear, he ordered them by size and maybe color and some other system only he comprehended—into a more satisfying position. "In other words, before you sign up for another multi-level marketing, get-rich-quick, online business scheme, or some such, Pet, tell us."

That wasn't really fair. I'd done my best, tried hard to vet every opportunity, but yeah. As I scowled at him with my arms crossed over my chest, the formerly settled dinner doing a slow roll over in my stomach, I had to admit I'd made some truly epic choices in the what the hell was I thinking department.

Who knew that buying foreign currency from a country with a collapsed economy wasn't going to generate income right away? If ever? The guy I'd taken the course from assured me the thousands I'd paid to learn the ropes would end in me getting rich while helping the poor and downtrodden of said collapsed country. Except, it turned out, the only person who benefited was him.

At least someone was making a profit.

As for the commodities market lesson in disaster, well. Good thing the process didn't actually mean a cargo container of wheat landed in my yard or anything if I screwed up, but neither did said trading in bulk items amount to bulk anything aside from an outflux of funds to the bottomless pit of the commodities exchange. Again, someone was getting rich, it just wasn't me.

Oh, and etrading? Yeah. I might as well have taken up professional poker. I would have had more luck with cards than I did with the stock market.

Misery consumed me like I'd devoured the dinner Pops made, driving me further into self-recrimination over the wasted money and time thrown at internet businesses that failed me every time while sucking up the last of the space on my credit cards with promises of booming success winding down to whimpering collapse.

"She's hardly the only one in this position." Pops slid one arm around my waist, frowning at Dad. I hated being the source of conflict between them because, honestly? I never, ever saw them fight or even argue or, seriously, say anything against one another. Unless it was about me, naturally. Way to foster family unity and cohesion, Petal.

Dad sighed and closed the dishwasher, leaning against the counter with one hip, his tie gone but white button up still pristine and crisp despite a day spent in it. How did he do that? Those blue eyes settled on Pops, then me, as my first father nodded.

"I'm well aware of that," he said. "But we raised you to stand on your own two feet, Petal. You and Jordan." My brother chose that moment to join us in the kitchen, almost doing an about face with his own expression in a wince as he realized what he'd just strolled into. I caught his arm and held him while Dad went on. "It's time to stare down some reality here, kid. We're happy to help, but in the end you have to sort this out yourself or you'll keep repeating the same mistakes."

Broken freaking record. I didn't argue, didn't snark something back in sarcastic agreement that I was well aware of my present situation and the slim to none chance I'd be changing it any time soon, thanks so much for the reminder. Dad and I had a long history of such conversations that often ended in slamming doors, usually by my hand, because he was just so reasonable and logical and right. And I couldn't keep blaming my upbringing before him for my failings.

Besides, he meant well and I'd earned this little chat. In fact, I was lucky he wasn't pissed.

Actually, pissed would have been preferable to disappointed.

"I'll find something," I said, jaw aching from the need to clench it, "and I'll be out of your hair before you know it." So that ability I had to keep myself from showing my frustration? Fail.

Dad didn't react to my cranky response, though. Instead, he nodded and straightened up. "Let us know if you need anything." And, with that, he left the kitchen, his massive presence missed the moment he departed. I shivered a little, wishing for once I wasn't such a screw up.

"We're super close to D.C.," Jordan said, going for bright and supportive but just making things worse. "I know you'll find something in the city if you can't here in town."

I hugged him, but I wasn't in the mood for his attempt at little brothering. "Thanks for dinner, Pops," I said, and left.

Because neither he nor my brother deserved to have the lingering cloud of Petal doom hanging around them. I didn't even want to be around me, truth be told.

The sight of a large, orange tabby perched on the back steps to the garage brought me up short. He seemed as surprised to see me as I was him and, after a grave moment of observation, he hopped down to the ground and sauntered off. Not so much afraid of me but uninterested in my presence, his bob of a tail and one clipped ear proof he'd been through the wars and lived to tell the tale.

I refilled his water and food, assured he was, from the size of him, likely being fed by everyone in the neighborhood but wanting to honor Dad's need to take care of the stray. In doing so, I actually found comfort in the fact the big, beat-up tomcat found his own way in life, despite, it appeared, a rough go of things. If he, a simple orange tabby with clear attitude and spunk, could make his way past losing his tail and what looked like a large piece of one ear, surely I could figure out where to go from here.

With that little boost of confidence powering my steps, I went upstairs to my new home to unpack not just my belongings, but maybe some of my lingering doubt and anxiety and turn this looming shipwreck around.

***

# Chapter Four

An evening spent online searching local want ads added to the next morning's continuing perusal over a cup of coffee while tucked under the covers revealed what I'd already sort of figured out.

One, Martingale was small enough the likelihood I'd be finding my next big thing right here in suburbia was probably slim to none.

Two, there seemed to be an abundance of nothing to do that wasn't family oriented, as in three kids and a dog and a partner and maybe a minivan.

And, three, taking the train on a daily basis into the city was about as appealing as working eight-to-five in a cubicle while listening to watercooler gossip and rotting my brain on menial desk work that would probably end in me losing my soul in the process.

Was it really so much to ask for gainful employment that didn't require me to wear pumps and have a 401K and a ball and chain arrangement with the fourth floor of some office building that recycled the air as much as it recycled staff? Honestly, I couldn't get past the anxiety that stirred inside me at the thought of becoming a mindless drone servant to the man for the next however many years it took for me to pay into my measly pension (if I even was lucky enough to earn one of those) before retiring to Florida and a single-wide in a gated trailer park just begging a tornado to come visit?

Or, worse, some fleabag apartment because I'd be broke and single and lonely aside from my fifteen cats whose food I'd eat regularly because human groceries were too expensive.

Oh. My. God. Mini Petal who tortured me with her angsty worries and fears, who made me want to just hide under the blankets and never, ever leave?

_Stop_.

Just stop, already.

I closed my laptop and looked around at the boxes piled near me, the flooring and paint cans and miscellaneous building materials that were, if I was going to be real about it, such a metaphor for my life right now I could see it clearly. Starting fresh had excellent possibilities if I could just _stop_.

So, priorities, then. Making lists tended to help me focus, so I nabbed a notebook and pen from my side table of cardboard and flipped to the first page. Realizing I owned approximately a million journals, none of which I'd written a word in, had been a bit of an awakening. All of my good intentions to start writing down my goals and dreams, to do the meditation thing, the expand my consciousness thing, heck even to just grouse to the pages of a book had clearly failed as badly as everything else in my life.

Focus.

First on the list was a job, obviously. My car had seen better days, though it still ran okay, so there was that. I added it to the pros list of things on my side. I was actually dying to personalize this space, but the little total hanging on by a thread in my savings account wasn't going to allow for much. Still, my fathers had done a lot already, so I'd make do. Hey, look, another one for the pros list.

Yes, I was avoiding the cons because, quite frankly, I knew it would fill the rest of the stack of empty journals if I let it. And maybe I should have, just poured my heart out as I'd been told so many times I should. Instead, I took another sip of my coffee, already growing cold, and set aside the journal.

Opened the laptop.

Updated my sadly measly resume with the intense determination of a woman who would conquer the world despite herself.

My education felt a bit inflated, everything from acting school to journalism to massage therapy and more, a long list of let's try this now before I logged the last one, accounting. I shuddered when I filled in the details. How had I ever believed I'd be a good accountant?

As for my list of employment... that column ran a bit thinner, but not in the number of placements department. Nope, I'd had lots and lots and lots of jobs. Most of which lasted about two weeks, maybe a month, before ending in tragedy and either me quitting and storming out (usually) or getting fired (also frequently).

Resume updated with my new address, I emailed the file to Dad's printer and firmly hit print. SSA Andrew Walker had taught me to be a go-getter, and I was going to finally go and get.

So there.

I even got dressed before I went to the main house, though the jeans I'd worn yesterday and t-shirt that still bore the smudge of alfredo sauce probably wouldn't pass muster if Dad had been home. Good thing he was at Quantico, then, while I slipped into his office feeling like I was some kind of spy on a clandestine mission to steal valuable intel from a foreign leader.

Not that he'd ever made me feel unwelcome in the various office spaces he'd created for himself from house to house. On the contrary. Dad was always agreeable when I'd stop in to see him, either ensconced behind his large wooden desk in his large leather chair doing large Dad things or sitting with one leg tidily crossed over the other in the equally enormous leather wingback he favored, reading something that likely informed and educated because heaven forbid Dad ever waste a moment on fiction or fun.

Okay, I was being mean. He'd always made time to ensure I enjoyed my life, though with the stiff discomfort of a man who wasn't sure how to do the same himself.

Yeah. My dad.

The printer had neatly produced the stack of resumes I'd requested, already waiting for me in the out tray. I paused by Dad's desk, smiling at the photo of me and Jordan, both of us just kids, with Pops hovering behind us, my first father behind the camera and missing from the shot, the three of us on the Santa Monica pier. I'd been, what, twelve? That made Jordan about four. Crazy. I remembered that picture, that day, taken the same weekend Dad adopted my little brother after his single mom had been murdered by her pimp.

Strays. I wonder if he really knew what he was getting himself into? Though Jordan, at least, was working out, right? There were times I worried about my little brother, knowing life was so much easier for someone like me. Young, white, privileged. Still, he never showed any resentment, brought up any mention of overt racism against him and, I admit, I never asked.

Didn't stop me worrying.

I retrieved the printed pages, turned to Dad's desk, slipped open the second drawer. He was as orderly in his office as he was everywhere else, so I knew exactly where to look for a new folder to store the history of my education and employment. As I grabbed the last one, I accidentally hooked the one beside it, half-extracting it before I could stop myself.

I almost let it fall back into place, except there was a title typed in careful bold letters on a label across the tab, a single word that made me pause and frown.

LUCILLE.

I inhaled slowly over that word, pulling both the files out of the drawer. My absent fingers set aside the empty one, the stack of resumes, leaving me to stare down at the plain file folder with that simple name written like a challenge. I hesitated to open the cover, to look inside, though I wasn't sure why. Perhaps some lingering anxiety about being in Dad's office, snooping as it were. But upon contemplation I had to be truthful that my reluctance came, instead, from fearing there might be something within about my mother.

Why Dad would have a file on her car I had no idea. Nor did I care. Nope, didn't, whatever, letting it go, thanks. I firmly and rather angrily replaced the file into the space it previously resided and thudded the drawer home.

It was probably some kind of coincidence, but the back-to-back reminder about my mother and her loss, not to mention my own sorry state of affairs, wasn't encouraging me to move on or anything. And moving on was exactly what I intended to do.

Resumes in hand and head held high, I marched from the office. Only to rush back to retrieve the empty folder, blushing a little at my own silliness, before retreating at a more sedate and rather abashed pace to the main house while the tiny little part of me that whispered I should go find out what was in the other folder made a nuisance of itself.

It could just wonder and ponder and whine all it wanted. I had better things to do than poke my nose in Dad's business.

I was going to find a job.

***

# Chapter Five

Despite everything that had happened to me, I honestly never thought of myself as a quitter. Sure, I'd lost lots of jobs and left just as many over the last decade or so. Still, leaving or being fired was never really a reflection on my character or anything. It was always based on an assessment of needs/wants/fulfillment that came up lacking more often than not. Exiting an unhappy workplace was a far better choice, in my opinion, than lingering somewhere to the point I was trapped by too much time invested or advancement offers that would become difficult to refuse despite my slowly shriveling soul.

A girl and her shopping needs had to have some way to fill the gaps.

I was certain other people's opinions of what being a quitter meant was a far cry from my own, and yet I had always held my head high, knowing I was doing what was best for me, no matter what.

By Friday morning of that first week living in Fatherland? With rejection after discarded resume after hasty retreat from opportunities I'd rather not discuss in polite company—who knew a cleaning service could be a metaphor for a rather more personal position involving dominance, patent leather and telling clients they were very bad boys?—winding out behind me in a plethora of dashed hopes and dreams, I'd reached the end of the road for the more interesting and, even, lucrative options and was very slowly and infinitely painfully, lowering my standards to the point I was sure I'd be relegated to the dungeon of the big, innocent looking house on the outskirts of Martingale where far more went on than my poor naiveté could handle.

I sat in the front seat of my car, staring at the thin, plastic arm pointing far closer to the E than the F, mentally calculating how much gas it would take me to check out the last two jobs on my list without me running out on the side of the highway. I knew I could call one of my fathers for rescue, but the thought of burning up the last fumes in my tank in a desperate attempt to find something—anything, dear heavens, come on already—to earn me a living literally made my stomach churn.

I knew I was being too picky. What was wrong with the temp job at the agency who would send me out to different places regularly? I pondered the idea, memory of the older woman with the plum lipstick and over-tight button up who'd squinted at me from behind the shining lenses of her glasses whispering to me if I said yes, even in a bid to earn a little cash, I'd be her one day. Sitting in that squeaking seat with the wheel casters sunk into a rubber mat beneath her comfortable shoes, stockings bunched at her ankles, thick fingers grasping my resume so tight it wrinkled at the edges, deep voice that two-packs-a-day and martinis at lunch that warned me off so loudly and powerfully I'd almost run from the dingy office.

I grasped the steering wheel, staring out the passenger window into the busy storefront of one of the local cafes. I'd done a little waitressing when I was in college, figured my skills wouldn't take long to come back. No shame in being a server, and maybe a bit less mind-numbing than office work, right? Why then did I hesitate, chin dropping, deep sigh escaping at the thought of putting on an apron and hefting a pot of coffee while asking customers if they wanted fries or a salad with their entrée?

Pride, plain and simple. And it was time I got over myself. A week was lots of time to find something temporary enough to carry me through to the next job. But that was the problem, right? I'd spent my whole life in a transient relationship with money and work. What was it going to take for me to find that thing that filled me up?

I sighed into the soft heat of the May afternoon, air conditioning cutting the bulk of the sunlight's warmth. I hadn't even turned off my engine, idling as I sat there next to the entry of the café, heart in my throat, stomach tight, hands refusing to release their grip from the wheel while I attempted to talk myself into something I knew was a terrible idea.

Maybe if I hadn't found myself, cranky and frustrated, on the back steps last night, clutching a bag of treats I'd bought for that ridiculous orange tomcat, treats I'd bought with some of the last of my money just for him, treats he'd turned up his nose at while rejecting any kind of friendly overture I offered up all week to attempt to lure him to me for some company and a bit of a lift that came from victory.

Instead, as I sat there, fist on my chin, scowling after the bobtailed beast who'd disappeared behind the bushes the moment I made a move toward him, I made myself an open target to one of my fathers. Dad slipped out the kitchen door and joined me, sitting next to me with his rolled-up sleeves exposing tanned forearms, elbows on his knees, big hands clasped in front of him while he waited for me to talk.

Which I did, launching into a complaint tirade that began with, "I hate this place," and ended with, "I hate my life."

Yes, that talk went well. Maybe I should have tried to sugar coat the truth, to protect Dad from how I was feeling. I hadn't been able to muster any kind of softening of the edges, though. Honestly? I'd never, ever felt so low as I did sitting there next to him, knowing I'd failed him and Pops and myself.

That was when Dad did the worst—and sweetest—thing possible. He handed me an envelope, stood up, and left without a word while I choked up and clutched the thin paper, thick in the middle with what I knew could only be cash, wanting to chase after him and give it back, demand he take it, refuse to accept help.

Crushing my spirit under my own patheticness as I retreated to my—their—apartment and slipped the ten hundred-dollar bills into my wallet.

This was what I'd become. A burden and a leech. Awesome.

I needed the reminder. Unclenched my hands from the steering wheel. Turned off the engine. Inhaled. Exhaled. Slammed open the driver's door (without looking to see if anyone was coming, lucky enough there wasn't, because taking out a biker or causing an accident would have just been the peach). Squared my shoulders, resume in hand, and marched resolutely to the glass door.

I would not take money from my fathers. Even if that meant I lost my soul. Why then did it take another solid five minutes of just breathing and jaw clenching and stepping aside to let others enter and exit for me to actually work up the energy to go inside and do what had to be done?

What was wrong with me I couldn't seem to do what I needed to do to be an adult already? I slumped a little as I approached the counter, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. So I was broken, fair enough. My mother's daughter. I wondered if Dad knew I'd turn out just like her—minus the drug and alcohol problems and wait, I wasn't even a famous actress, so not even close to being her—would he even have considered taking on the life-long burden I was turning out to be?

Enough. Time to do what normal people did and just suck it up.

I was ready. I had this. Stepped up to the counter, opened my mouth. Fish-lipped at the girl behind the cash register. Muttered something vaguely uncomfortable I'd hopefully never remember, squeaked faintly and then spun to leave in a rush because no.

Just no.

I didn't realize someone was standing behind me, almost ran right into the gorgeous African American woman with the massive, silky spirals, her giant eyes widening as she focused on me. Shining pink gloss made her full lips massive as the split in a smile, perfect white teeth flashing against her dark, flawless skin.

"Petal Morgan," she said in a sultry voice I recognized far more than I did her face. "What a surprise to run into you."

"Reggie." I gulped her name, shocked at the meeting. I hadn't seen her since high school. Reggie Nolan and I had never really been friends, but we hadn't been enemies, either. Just passing acquaintances in a sea of hormonal teens ready to move on and do their best not to become their parents.

Her expression flashed to annoyed, though only for a moment as she tsked once, long-nailed hand settling on one hip, smiling softly. "Regina," she said. "I haven't been Reggie for a long time."

Well, fair enough. I shrugged in apology, smiled back, happy to see her though I wasn't sure why. A familiar face, maybe, after all the crap I'd been through? Someone who had no idea what a giant failure I was. I could pretend I had my life together for a minute.

She gestured over my shoulder to the girl at the cash. "Two coffees," she said, arching one perfectly shaped brow at me. "If you have time for a catchup?"

I nodded, spun back in an awkward motion to pay for my drink only to find Reggie, smooth as the silk blouse she wore, already covering the bill. I glanced down at her four-inch heels, remembering she'd always been shorter than me but clearly figured out how to make up for the height difference, her barely five-foot frame boosted by the truly gorgeous shoes I now coveted with the passion of a starving woman at the edge of a buffet.

This was either going to be a good thing that uplifted me or a disaster of epic proportions that would send me slinking home to hide for the rest of my life. Please, just once, let it be the former.

***

# Chapter Six

I found myself, a moment later, seated at a small table by a window, sunlight streaming over both of us, Reggie's elegantly crossed legs giving me a full view of those stunning stilettos while we sipped our coffee and she grinned at me.

"What are you doing back in Martingale?" She tapped some sugar into her cup, stirred and tasted it, before repeating the process to her liking. The cream and sugar I'd added to mine was making me jittery. Or maybe that was nerves. "I'd heard you'd run off to Hollywood to be famous like your mother."

I almost winced, except there was no malice or any sort of attack in Reggie's comment. She'd always played straight with me, had never gone the mean girl route, so I decided to be honest.

"Didn't work out," I said, sitting back, knowing I had to look at least a little defeated, though I did force a smile. "Like everything else I've tried."

Reggie's nose wrinkled while she clucked softly. "I hear you, girl," she said, waving one hand at me, long nails painted to match her pale pink lips. "I can't tell you how many crap jobs I had to tolerate before my luck turned around." She hummed a soft little sound that was all commiseration and actually made me feel better. "Daddy always wanted me to join the family business, but I'm not interested. Decided to go my own way." She nodded firmly like that was that and he could just forget about it. My extremely selfish brain wondered what her father did and if he'd substitute his daughter's friend for the real thing while she went on. "I was this close," she pinched her index finger and thumb together to make her point, "to trading my pride and caving to Daddy's offer." She rolled her eyes as if she assumed I understood how horrific that outcome would have been.

"Something came up, I take it?" Was it wrong I resented her for turning her father down when she could have had a cushy job doing likely not much with free time to pursue whatever she wanted? Not rational, no. For all I knew her father's profession would mean Reggie was relegated to a life of mediocrity and a slowly eaten soul. Still, I was having a bad day in a week from hell and a decade that could just freaking wrap up already.

Reggie didn't notice the faint echo of sarcasm, because she smiled and went on. "You still dancing?" Her change of subject startled me, as did the way she quickly scanned me as though sizing up my potential. For what? A faint frown pulled her brows together as she did, the impression I had just been turned into a possible commodity making me uncomfortable. I didn't get to answer while Reggie spoke again, nails clicking on the tabletop as she tapped them on the surface. "Doesn't matter. Besides, it was my thing, not yours." I remembered her passion for ballet, for all things dance. "So, here I am, dancing in side shows you know aren't doing much for a girl's rep as a professional," she bobbed a nod for emphasis, "when my great-great Uncle Joseph up and kicks it. Can you imagine, he leaves me this old building he'd bought years ago, right on the outskirts of D.C." She chuckled to herself while I shook my head in wonder. Turned out Rambling Reggie hadn't changed a bit. "The place hadn't been renovated since the 20's, can you believe it?" She sounded delighted, not offended by that fact. "You know I took advantage of all that history." She beamed at me, fishing into her designer purse that set off my jealous acquisitiveness yet again, handing me a shining black card. I glanced at it as she went on. "Started up my very own burlesque dance hall," she said, taking the card with Full Reveal Theater written across the silhouette of a voluptuous woman, flipping it over and forcing it back into my hand, tapping the back side with one long nail. "And a gentleman's club upstairs, for good measure." The After Hours Club. "I've been open two years and already paid off the renovations and I'm turning a profit."

So hard not to let envy burrow a dark and lonely tunnel into my heart. I very carefully shunted aside any unrest and smiled, finding I was actually happy for her. "Good for you, Reggie," I said. "Sorry, Regina."

She beamed as she sat back, expensive high heel bobbing. "Listen to me, chattering on like this and not giving you a chance to say a word." So she had changed. The old Reggie hadn't seemed self-aware of the fact she was a chatterbox. "What about you, Petal? What are you up to?"

Dread settled around me, triggered by those two innocent questions loaded with guilt and lack. Only one thing to do.

Deflect. "My fathers are living here again," I blurted to cover up my anxious embarrassment. "Dad's teaching at Quantico and Pops is at the college."

"Nice to be able to move close to family," she said. "Though sometimes I think leaving D.C. would be a good idea. Daddy's always in my business, you know?" Did I. "Mom's back in Chicago." She showed her sadness suddenly, as though it appeared when she thought about her mother's absence. I knew the feeling. "Though my Aunt Pearl is in D.C., so I have someone of a maternal nature." She blanched briefly, reaching out to touch my hand. "I'm sorry," she said, clearly contrite and embarrassed by her casual conversation. "I keep forgetting about your mother."

Nice of her to mention it, but I honestly hadn't had a negative reaction and shook my head in response. "You're allowed to love your mom," I said. "And your aunt. I make do with two dads. It's just life."

She smiled again, sitting back and sipping her coffee before rambling on while I hoped she'd change the subject. "You and Rafe still together?"

Okay, so changing the subject wasn't exactly turning out the way I'd hoped. "Not for years now," I said, knowing I finally sounded sad myself, hating my jaw clenched against the old hurt, while she flinched and leaned forward, grasping one of my hands yet again with an apologetic expression on her face.

"I'm sorry, girl," she said. "I keep putting my foot in it for some reason." She sagged in her seat, leaning away, staring into her cup. "I know better than to ask stuff like that. I've had my own share of boys cycle in and out." She shook her head, sighed. "It's just, you and Rafe, well. Everyone thought you two were forever. Though, who knows in high school what forever really means?" She tsked again, looking out the window. "Didn't he join the Marines or something?"

I nodded, throat and mouth dry but able to respond and proud of myself for that fact. "He finished the training," I said, "but he was recruited before he deployed. Private security firm." It had been part of what drove us apart, oddly. Instead of leaving me to serve our country, he'd taken a job that would keep him home. Why had I held that against him again?

"That Raphael Van Dorn," Reggie said, winking despite the sadness in her eyes. "I bet he's still as handsome as ever. Either that, or he's bald and gone to pot." Her rich laugh made me grin, though I knew better.

Rafe wasn't named after an archangel for nothing. The man was, and would always be, muscular, blond, blue-eyed heaven-sent and meant for no mortal woman.

I stared down into my cooling coffee, seeing his face though I hadn't actually seen him in a few years. "Somethings just weren't meant to be."

Reggie patted my hand as her phone began to ring. She checked it, muttering something under her breath, suddenly on the move, surging to her feet, her slim but voluptuous body aquiver with energy I remembered all too well. She'd never been one to sit still for long. She did pause, however, to set one hand on my shoulder.

"It was nice to see you, Petal," she said, so genuine it made my eyes sting with lurking tears. "I hate to run, but..." She scowled to herself, shook her head, then beamed another smile. "Come to the club tonight, you hear? I'll have a ticket for the show for you at the box office." She tucked her phone in her purse, about to rush off before I could deny the offer. "See you then!"

I waved as she strode away, those high heels carrying her short frame faster than I could have walked, while I sat back in my chair and stared out the window myself, lost in thought. Not the desperate and forlorn pathetic thought that had gripped me, but those suddenly filled with hope.

Reggie found her thing. That meant I could, too, right? Maybe this meeting with her was a sign from the Universe, or something. That I shouldn't give up on me, on what made me happy. I just had to figure out what that was.

No small task. But with my old acquaintance's enthusiasm for her life fueling mine in a renewed desire for happy, I left the coffee shop, resume forgotten, and headed for home and some research into what made Petal Morgan tick.

***

# Chapter Seven

The empty potato chip bag's gaping mouth stared at me with a dark accusation, the foil interior slick with oil and bits of salt left behind in my mindless eating massacre of the contents. I groaned a little as I rubbed my unhappy tummy, shoving aside my tablet and headphones, tired of binging another TV show episode featuring a perky but irrepressible heroine whose life was way worse than mine but, for some reason, she seemed oblivious to.

I shuffled to the bathroom, staring at my pale, grim reflection, wondering where the afternoon and evening had gone when the clock behind me shone back in the glass backward but still readable. When had it become night, now almost 8:15PM on the same day I'd come home with newfound hope and a plan to dig into unusual jobs I could tackle only to end up sucked into a new series streaming on my favorite service while devouring the contents of my cupboards, consisting of junk food, crap and a sugary wasteland that only vaguely passed as edible.

Yup, it was official. I was turning into the crazy hermit woman who no one saw, who coveted a cat who refused to like her, lived in darkness and pajamas, who grunted in place of speaking and took up jobs on the internet that questionable people would find repulsive to make ends meet.

I spun away from the mirror, marching into the main room, gaze falling on Reggie's card on the top of the cardboard box I'd been using as a coffee table, and made a decision.

Get thee out into the world and have a drink and maybe dance and have a little fun, for pity's sake.

Despite the fact I'd showered in the morning, I did a much more thorough job of things, even shaving parts I'd neglected far too long—shudder—and plucking other areas that had begun to get rather bushy. I stopped at painting my toenails, choosing closed-toed shoes instead, and, on impulse, dug into one of the boxes of my clothes and surfaced, panting and rather red-faced from the effort, with my favorite 20sesque black flapper dress I'd bought on impulse at a second-hand store.

My experimental hip-shimmy told me I could, at least, still carry a beat if I so chose and though my toes felt decidedly pinched in the heels I'd selected, I loved those shoes and felt powerful in them. Some simple jewelry and one of the bills Dad gave me tucked into my sequin purse—forgive me, Father, for I'm about to drink the money you lent me—I climbed into my car and headed for the city.

Part of the Benjamin went to some gas for my wheels so I wasn't stranded on my way to D.C. and though I felt a little guilty over the prospect of using what Dad clearly gave me to buy groceries and necessities for rather indulgent pleasure, I couldn't bring myself to turn around and go home.

I hadn't been out in an age and who knew? Maybe meeting Reggie had been a sign. Regardless, I was due a little fun, right? I'd spend more than enough time later guilting over the decision.

The club was easy enough to find, theater front flashing with bulbs lighting the marquee with old-fashioned enthusiasm, though tasteful and rather invitingly exciting if I was going to be truthful. The girl at the kiosk, adorably dressed in what looked like some kind of page girl outfit straight out of prohibition handed me a ticket, Reggie true to her word, though when I was allowed through past the looming bouncer who gave me the once-over, I realized I was very late. Had just enough time to get a quick look around the small theater, mostly standing room only, reminiscent of flappers and rum runners and full bands playing to appreciative audiences. Instead of such a spectacle, however, I ordered a drink and scooted to the very edge of the bar to watch the last act before intermission. Tucked against the antique wood beside a trio of drunk and giggling women, one of whom hosted a white crown and sash identifying her as a soon-to-be bride, I wriggled my head this way and that to get a clear view between taller people ahead of me. The cynical me would have mentally torn Soon To Be Mrs. Happily Ever After into tiny little jealous pieces if it weren't for the entertainment of another sort unfolding on the stage. Lucky for her, I was instantly captivated by what I saw.

The gold-clad brunette with the full-length gloves hanging from the shining ring lit with a spot in the middle of the dark stage stood inside the hoop before shedding her dress down to a pair of tasseled pasties and a string of a thing that barely covered her other private bits. But it wasn't her attire that caught my attention. It was her dance, the sultry, slow movements, the clever lighting that sparkled with her torso's undulations, the funny lyrics of the song she gyrated to that invited men to look but never, ever touch.

By the time she'd flung herself over the hoop with her long, dark hair cascading in a wave, curtain falling the moment the scene fell dark to thunderous applause, I was very happy I'd decided to take Reggie up on her offer.

This was fun. And, as I sipped my drink and did my best to stay out of the way of the patrons rushing the bar for refills, I found myself pondering. Maybe I wasn't thinking far enough outside my own box? I caught a half-snort, half-choking laugh at the thought of Dad and Pops, both of them staring with their mouths hanging open, as I told them I was going to be a burlesque dancer. Not that I was. Sure, it looked like a great time, but I wasn't so sure I had the courage for it. Still, it gave me the impetus to consider, finally, I'd been barking up trees reluctant to share the seeds of their success, instead settling for what was normal, ordinary, expected. Sure, I'd tried acting, if you want to call it that. One indie film and I was done with bossy, arrogant asshats who thought Annette Morgan's daughter should be a better actress. Everything else I'd tried? Safe, inside the lines, four sides, a bottom and a lid.

I suddenly wanted more than anything to talk to Reggie again, to ask her what she thought I should do. Weird, but motivating and, without thinking further about it, I exited the theater, heading around the side of the building when guided by the kiosk girl to the entrance to After Hours.

I heard the argument before I encountered it, pausing with a vague sense of dread while the same bulky, towering bouncer who'd given me the stink eye earlier loomed over the smaller, slim man in the impeccable suit, looking so far from intimidated by the giant African American muscle boy I almost squeaked at him to be careful.

The second bouncer lurked nearby, not quite as massive as his counterpart, though still an impressive slab of humanity tucked into a dress jacket and jeans. A prospective patron, clearly friends with the one I anticipated would soon be a smear on the sidewalk, half reached out toward his confident companion with his own expression one of concern.

"Carson," he said, glancing my way, apologetic smile making his middle-aged face handsome, though he was clearly not happy with the situation. "We can go elsewhere."

"Just get Gary," the one he'd called Carson snapped, arms crossing over his chest while the bulky bouncer before him shook his head. "I'll have your job. Trust me, my business is much more important than your replaceable self."

"Luke." Someone appeared at the door, a slim and tense looking man in a dark suit, brown hair hanging over narrowed eyes, hands shaking a little as he gestured for the two men to join him. "Enough. Mr. Carrigan and Mr. Jeremiah are always welcome. Please, Carson, Daniel, come inside." He stepped out into the alley so the two men could go ahead of him while the bouncer glowered after them, the second man, Daniel, shrugging in apology though he followed Carson upstairs. As soon as they were gone past the door, the third man spun on the bouncer with a snarl. "I've had enough," he said. "Try that again and you're fired."

"Yes sir, Mr. Harris," the other bouncer quickly said, joining his friend, one hand on Luke's arm. "You won't get any more trouble from Luke, will he?" It was clear he was trying to save his buddy and, after a long moment, Luke nodded.

Gary seemed to take that better than I thought he would, nodding in return. "See to it that you do your job, nothing more." He brushed past both of them and up the steps, leaving the pair of hulking men to face off.

Luke noticed me before their conversation could go any further, however, and he gestured for me to approach. "New girl?"

I hesitated, head tilting at the question. "I'm here to see Reggie."

Luke stepped aside, gesturing at the door. "You're late."

Okay then.

Not certain what I just witnessed and a little freaked out by the whole situation, I didn't comment, instead climbing the dark staircase in a hurry, wondering if this was a good idea after all.

***

# Chapter Eight

Second thoughts, who, me? I lingered at the main door, the stairway climb behind me, feeling of walking into an old speakeasy though higher end and rather lavish making my dress a good match for the décor, at least. Still, I hadn't been much for going out the last few years, my money and effort poured into trying to get small businesses off the ground and drinking away my sorrows in much cheaper environs surrounded by other millennials in the same position as me. After Hours, on the other hand, had that lush sense of old money to it, as though at any given moment a prince or some royalty of the entertainment field might hold court here and not for a moment look out of place. The crown moldings on the towering ceilings were as intricate as the scrollwork gracing the edges of the long, wide bar, dark paneled walls covered in oil paintings reminiscent of old-world museums. I inhaled the scent of history and expensive alcohol, of real wood floors and aged, oxblood leather and velvet, noting the bench seats of the booths looked not so much worn as they did flavored by time and character. Reggie hadn't been kidding about taking full advantage of what she'd uncovered in this building she'd inherited. It seemed to me she'd lucked into a space that hadn't changed much since its creation and seized brilliantly on that fact. If I was going to be totally honest, the place could have come across as shabby, tired, outdated past the possibilities of historical significance. But instead the charming and mysterious air of the space, enhanced by the full orchestral music rather than the typical pop or rock fare I was accustomed to, drew me fully into the illusion of the past and I found myself feeling out of place in a room so chic.

Kudos to her for landing such a sweet opportunity. More hope maybe my own fate wasn't sealed in destitution and endless defeat? I'd take it.

Someone bumped me from behind, nudging me further inside, a couple laughing and chatting as they stepped past me to make their way to the bar. Just like that I was a part of history, my heels clicking on the wood floor, my heart fluttering over the shimmering crystal chandeliers that cast dim but prismed light over the well-dressed and theme appropriate crowd. Turned out I wasn't the only one who'd put some thought into her outfit and the décor, my acquisitive inner princess adoring the gorgeous flapper dresses, the old suits some of the men chose, strings of pearls I was sure were real, hand knotted and spun in seemingly endless loops around slim, white necks adding to the fauxmilliar feel of being lost in an era that really wasn't as glamorous as Hollywood told us, but that Reggie made sure to play up as fully as possible.

I paused by the bar, hand settling on the solid black marble top as I exhaled finally, smiling to myself. I was glad I came, really glad, even just to witness something like this. I loved make-believe, still lingered at times over pursuing acting again, though the truth of the business always sent me scrambling for escape.

Maybe that was my ultimate issue. With each attempt at something new, I fell in love with the idea of the job, the business, the opportunity, not the actual hard reality of what I'd have to do to make things work out. Was that laziness or innocence or just a lack of gumption and follow through? What would it take for me to commit to something that I loved enough even the boring, mind-numbing and soul-devouring stuff attached to it was worth it?

On the other hand, I could always pursue a career based on what I just realized. So, anyone out there looking for someone to live in a fantasy land where everything went the way it was supposed to and nothing bad happened and work was fun, challenging and a delight at all times? A job that meant if I got bored doing one thing I could just do another thing until that got boring and try something else, all while collecting a large paycheck and living the life of my dreams?

No? Oh well. Just thought I'd ask.

I will admit, the thought did cross my mind that Reggie's place would be a great spot to work, if the chance came up. Sure, I hadn't actually served in a bar before, but the atmosphere appealed to me so much I couldn't stop smiling. Yup, fantasy land job description it was. Not that I believed, while I shuffled sideways to allow another couple to lean into the bar, that this was my kind of place. I really was more suited to dive bars with pool tables where I could drink beer and hide from my misery.

Still. I might not really fit in here, but wow, I was going to try, at least for tonight.

"New girl?" I turned at the sound of a deep and rather annoyed voice, the tall, handsome man behind the bar leaning toward me. He looked the part he played, longish dark hair swept back in a slicked do in keeping with the theme of the venue, white button up bisected with suspenders and those arm band things men used to wear on their biceps. He would have been rather handsome if it wasn't for the scowl on his face, the way that expression tightened the skin around his dark eyes and accentuated not only the lines at the corners but the deeper ones tugging his lips into an upside down arc.

Wait, what was he asking? Hadn't the bouncer called me that? There was clearly some misunderstanding and I opened my mouth to let him know he was mistaken just as he shoved a tray toward me, three drinks in short glasses rattling with ice.

"Table nine," he said, snapping his fingers at me, staring at my purse in my hand. I didn't move, even while he impatiently motioned for me to hand my goods over, his expression darkening as he finally nodded toward one of the booths near the back of the room. "You're late and I'm slammed. I can keep your purse behind the bar but if you're going to stand there and not do your job you're out of here. Got it?"

I spluttered, shook my head. Didn't get to argue now that he'd confirmed the concern I'd only raised to myself a moment earlier.

"Now," he snapped. "Or you're done before you start."

How did I find myself handing over my sequined clutch in exchange for a drink tray? He didn't pause to see if I was going to follow through on his instructions, instead turning immediately upon stashing my private effects under the bar and stalking down the length of it to the couple who'd ensured my fate by forcing my entry.

I could easily have snorted, given him the finger and walked away. After all, I didn't work here, was a friend of the owner, so there, asshat. Except, partially out of that sort of good-girl training most women I knew lived by—be nice and everything will be fine—and partly from a why the hell not attitude, I only lived once, I hefted the tray and headed for table nine, adding a bit of a sashay in my hips as I went. I might not have been a real waitress, but I did love to play a good role and this was actually sort of fun.

I'd laugh over it with Reggie later. For now, I was back in the roaring 20s, working an illegal bar while the Great Depression loomed over the American Dream and music and having fun was all that mattered.

It wasn't until I was almost to the table I realized two of the men I approached were the same ones I'd witnessed arguing with the bouncer. The one he'd called Carson had a big grin on his face, slumped back against the dark red velvet, his tie askew, expensive suit jacket undone showing off a sparkling diamond tie clip and rather fit physique. Again, he would have been attractive with his short, dark hair and piercing green eyes, now turned toward me as I stopped at the table, except for the decidedly slimy smile he gave me and the way those eyes roved over me like they had the right.

Had his measure, you bet. Met enough men like him over the years I instantly scratched him off any list remotely resembling handsome and filed him under Mayor of Yucktown.

I handed him a drink, no idea if it was the right one or not, turning and depositing the second in front of his friend. At least he seemed nice enough. Daniel, right? He nodded to me, tried a little smile, though he looked uncomfortable and unhappy.

"Can I get you anything else?" Who was the third drink for and why was it I was asking them that ridiculous question? I'd let this fantasy of mine go on long enough. Time to find Reggie and have a drink myself, not serve them.

Before they could answer, raised voices caught our attention. I turned, spotted the woman of the hour herself in a confrontation with Gary. While it was impossible to make out their specific words, the fight was heated enough, if settling into hissing after the brief outburst from her that captured my focus in the first place. Before I could interrupt or catch her attention, she spun off and marched to the far end of the room, disappearing behind an elaborate door upholstered in leather, slamming it shut behind her. The music and chatter hid the sound but I knew a good door slam when I saw it.

My attention distracted by her exit, I only noticed Gary joined us, helping himself to the third drink on my tray, when he was sitting himself next to Daniel.

"Your wife doesn't seem to like me," Carson laughed.

"My wife needs to learn business is business." Gary's fake smile made my stomach turn. Wait, he was married to Reggie? Okay, again with the almost handsome, except. Yeah, what was with the men in this bar? All smarm, all the time.

Speaking of which. I'd just decided to dump the tray and go find Reggie, really over this little act of mine, when Carson winked at me and gently but firmly patted me somewhere his hand was never granted permission to be.

***

# Chapter Nine

There were times when such unasked for attention might have lured out the raging lunatic in me, driving me to firmly plant my fist in the face of the perpetrator or, at the very least, shriek my protest in banshee-fashion at the top of my lungs while threatening a lawsuit, certain death and a long and spiraling journey down to the netherworld where men like him belonged.

I'd been impetuous as a teen, mouthy as a twenty-something. But now, approaching thirty with a finality that told me I'd officially lost my edge, I had an entirely different reaction to his hot little paw on my posterior.

I laughed. Out loud. Choked on it, actually, not out of real amusement, by any means, but the sheer chutzpah it took to reach out and manhandle a woman in this day and age without expecting consequences.

It was clear my laughter startled him, not the reaction he'd been expecting, obviously, because his offending touch fell away and a rather hurt little-boy expression crossed his face. I could easily have let this blow up into a giant mess that would likely have had me expelled from the club, Reggie or no Reggie. Instead, my instinctive choice to treat his attention with the ridiculous response it deserved ensured not only did I win, but he knew it.

Hated me for it.

Sucked to be him.

Gary waved me off but I was already leaving the table, tray in one hand, though I'd debated just leaving it behind and walking out. Thing was, as I turned and strode away, triumphant, I felt a hand settle on my arm and a tall, stunning brunette—hey, I knew her, didn't I?—steered me quickly toward the bar.

"He's such a creep." She eyerolled, her long, fake lashes brushing against her cheekbones as she batted them at me, crystal blue eyes wide and sparkling. I did know her. She was the dancer, the one I'd seen downstairs, the hoop and the tassels and the spotlight. "Sorry you had to go through that, but good handle. You'll do well here." She stopped me at the bar, smiling brightly at the bartender. "New girl's going to work out." She winked at me, full lips deep red, gold dress shimmering as she set her own tray on the bar. "You taking a dance slot, too? The show's super fun, but the money's in the bar."

I fish lipped, not sure what to say, and ended up stuttering appreciation for her talent.

She waved that off with a giggle. "I'm Everly Hunt," she said, "and if you need anything, you let me know." Her tray had been reloaded with her order and she tossed her long, dark hair at the bartender before shimmying off to deliver.

Surreal. This was just surreal and I was in some kind of alternate universe. Because I had a new load of drinks to deliver, and the bartender was glaring at me like he didn't believe Everly's assessment of my ability to stay the course.

Okay, so I did deliver the next set of drinks, this time purely out of the need to escape his judging gaze, though to my credit when I handed off to the lovely foursome at the far end of the room, their happy and tipsy excitement wearing off so I at least managed to smile, the twenty dollar bill one of the men dropped on my tray with a, "for you, beautiful," actually made me grin for real.

I debated pocketing the tip, knowing I wasn't actually working here but I'd delivered their drinks, hadn't I?

Time to find Reggie and sort myself out. I was the one who was supposed to be drinking and doing so sounded really good about now. As I spun back, the tray now dangling from one hand while I looked for a place to dump it, I spotted Reggie approaching with a huge grin on her face. She caught my elbow, steering me toward the far end of the room and that padded door I'd seen her slam, tucking me behind it and closing it firmly before she burst into laughter.

"I heard the new girl was late and had attitude," she said, dark eyes glittering with good humor, voluptuous body gorgeous in the shining sequined silver dress she'd been poured into. "Imagine my surprise when I realized the new girl was you." More laughter. "Then again, you always had attitude, so I suppose I really shouldn't be shocked."

I shot her a rueful smile, offering up the tray which she took and tossed aside in a leather wingback. This had to be her office, dark and quiet despite the music on the other side of the padded door, the carpet slippery under my heels, giant wood desk reminding me of Dad's at home. Towering windows overlooked the street below, dark green paneled walls covered in old records framed like posters and artwork that made me stop and stare.

"Sorry about that," I said. "Your bartender made an assumption and I figured I'd help out."

Reggie sank to the black leather settee, patting the seat next to her and I joined her while she poured us a pair of glasses, champagne bottle slick with condensation. I took the tall flute of bubbly, nose twitching, drooling in anticipation and not disappointed by the delicious spark of alcohol on my tongue.

"Aiden Pritch is a good general manager and a great bartender, but he's not much of a people person when it comes to staff." She shrugged, sipping her own drink, patting my knee with her free hand. "Did you love the show?" Reggie was practically gushing and I made a massive leap of understanding in that moment. She was proud of her place, proud to show it off to someone she used to know. And you know what? She'd earned a heaping helping of praise for what she'd done.

"I loved it," I gushed, not having to fake it at all. "Did you used to dance burlesque? I only remember you doing ballet." She'd been as passionate about it as any prima ballerina, though I'd lost touch with her and never found out if her dream to dance on Broadway or in some ballet company had come true.

Reggie wrinkled that delicate button nose of hers. "I had to make my own way," she said, eyebrows arching, leaving me to fill in the blanks. "Stumbled on burlesque and loved it." Now she was on fire again, leaning toward me. "There's no theater in this area of the city and After Hours seemed a perfect addition, what with the existing décor. This place." She looked around her office with a deep and satisfied sigh I envied instantly. Yes, she'd found her thing. Please, please, let me find mine. "This place, Petal."

Girls, forget relationships. Find a job that makes you look around your office space the way Reggie looked at hers.

The phone rang, Reggie rising to answer it while I helped myself to more bubbly, sighing myself, but for a different reason. My friend—yes, I considered her that now, thanks—frowned down at her phone but didn't answer, rejoining me and tossing it to the coffee table in front of us. Just before whoever it was hung up I caught the familiar IRS identifier and glanced at her in curiosity. I'd had my own share of contact with the federal government over tax issues—it turned out I was supposed to pay them every year, imagine—so I could commiserate.

Except, apparently I had no idea.

"Ridiculous," she said, shook her head, corkscrew curls shining in their bouncing perfection. I wouldn't have wanted to be the focus of the scowl that crossed her face, though. Gorgeous and glamorous or not, Reggie had a temper and from what I remembered she could hold a grudge like a boss. "They think I'm laundering money through After Hours. How stupid do they think I am?"

She clearly didn't have many boundaries when it came to privacy, so I went for it. "I'm sorry to hear that," I said. "I'm sure it will get sorted out. Why do they think that?"

Reggie shrugged, retrieving her glass and taking a healthy swig before answering. "Girl, I wish I knew. If anything, money's going missing from this place, not circulating through it. Trust me, I'd know."

I had no doubt she had a firm hand on her finances. "That sucks, too."

She nodded slowly, jaw jumping a little, staring down into the last of the bubbles in her glass. "Never hire staff," she said. "I know they are skimming but I can't seem to figure out how or what's been stolen." She patted my knee again, sighing, while I thought with a guilty twinge about the twenty I'd kept despite the fact it was a tip. "Gary says it's fine, he's looking into it, but I'm positive I'm bleeding revenue and I just can't seem to sort out where it's going."

Um, Petal? Keep your mouth shut. Because the words that wanted to emerge would implicate her husband since he was the easiest suspect, right? Either she trusted him implicitly and this was none of my business or she was blinded by love and this was none of my business.

"I'm sorry, Petal," Reggie said then, topping us up. "This was supposed to be a chance to catch up, have a little fun. Not dump my problems on you."

"I don't mind listening," I said. "You're saving me from a night at home binging a TV show that depressed me and eating more junk food when I'd much rather be following your lead and doing something that makes me happy." I looked around her office with a soft smile of gratitude. "You have no idea how much better I feel just being here, surrounded by what you've made. I just wish I could help you figure things out."

Reggie clinked glasses with me. "You could find out who's stealing from me and why the IRS is calling," she said. Paused. Grinned. "Wait, didn't you say you were looking for a job?"

I gaped at her, not sure what to say. "Yes?" Because I was, right?

Reggie giggled then, bouncing a little on the leather cushion. "Girl, how fabulous is this? The staff already think you're the new girl. And that father of yours, the one who works for the FBI?" She poked me with one long fingernail. "You got his investigation instincts or what?"

She was nuts. What did I know about solving crimes? Then again, how hard could it be to find out who was stealing from her? Staff talked. Might be fun, right?

"Tell you what," she said, leaning in with her intensity growing by the moment. "You find who's stealing and I'll give you five percent of what they took, flat fee. And you keep your tips."

Five percent. How much had she lost?

"Oh," she snorted, "and if you figure out the IRS thing? You'll get a bonus." Reggie offered her glass, eyebrows arching in what I was starting to think was her favorite expression. "Deal?"

This was insane and I had to run away and go home and change into pajamas, pop open a fresh bag of chips, cuddle down with some gushy romance or an action/adventure to distract me from tonight.

Yup. That was exactly what I needed to do. That's why I found myself clinking her glass in response, grinning back. "Deal."

***

# Chapter Ten

Remember that question I posed not so long ago about how hard could it be to solve Reggie's problems and make myself some money while hopefully having a bit of fun and even enjoying the experience like I did her champagne?

Turned out serving at a busy club while being crowded by drunk patrons, hit on almost continually all while lugging an ever-increasingly heavy tray around without spilling drinks on said patrons or myself as my feet began an increasingly agonizing campaign to make me suffer a slow and painful demise was a lot harder than I'd thought.

That waitressing experience I had? Yeah, slinging coffee in a small shop while spending most of my time reading or surfing on my phone wasn't really cutting it. Prepared me not even a little for the hustle I went through the rest of the night. My only saving grace and the part that kept me leaping to the call of Aiden's continual stream of drink orders was, you guessed it, the money.

I mean, the tips alone would pay off my loans in less than a year, I was sure of it. No one seemed to part with less than a twenty at every turn, the crinkle of bills tucked into my bodice (where, I observed, the other girls kept theirs and seemed a logical place since I was pocketless and purseless with no other venue for the containment of all that cash) giving me a rather lumpy bust line but driving me onward despite my sore feet, bitter resentment toward men and desire to whip the tray at Aiden's neck at my first opportunity.

I swear, if that man didn't stop snapping his fingers at me I was going to lose it.

Telling myself it was worth it and almost over as I caught the 1AM turnover on the clock behind the bar, I joined Everly and two other dancers, whose names I hadn't yet learned and, from their sour expressions at my company, likely wouldn't be offered anytime soon, where Aiden proceeded to tell us what we were doing wrong in that annoying voice of his.

"I want more hustle," he snapped, loading down the blonde with the massive chest before spinning on Everly. "You're supposed to be performers, not common waitresses. Act like it." She bobbed a nod with a wide smile and hurried away. His attention switched to the third girl, her pouting lower lip making him snarl. "Stop begging for tips. And no extras. This isn't a brothel." She stuck her tongue out at him before flouncing off with her full tray. Aiden's sour expression when he reached me, I told myself, wasn't really about me in any way but just his default setting. "New girl," he snapped, "if you move any slower I'll need two of you to fill orders. Now hustle!"

I was not going to ruin my chance to do a good turn for Reggie—or give up my tips—just to tell him where he could shove his bossy bullying. I'd agreed to this, to my amazement still, so I simply turned away and hit the floor yet again, shocked to find the club was even busier now after midnight than it had been.

At least the tight quarters made it harder for patrons to be so free with their hands. I was able to twist and dodge free of unwelcome advances, putting on speed not for Aiden's benefit but to avoid lingering in inopportune situations. Turned out it served me well on two fronts. Not only did my new manager stop grousing over my speed, I avoided the bulk of dancing fingers looking for somewhere soft to pinch.

I felt like I was just getting the hang of things, even throwing out a saucy bit of backtalk here and there, a rush of rather uncommon adrenaline fed by excitement racing through me. No, I wasn't planning on making a career out of serving, but this kind of fast pace really got me going and had me thinking, in the few and far between spare moments I had that night, about just what it was I was meant to be doing.

Whatever my career path, it would involve something that felt like this.

"New girl." Gary stopped me by grabbing my arm, tugging me off my trajectory and steering me toward a hallway in the back of the club. I'd noted the exit, though I hadn't had time to investigate, only realizing when he practically shoved me through the door and into a darkly carpeted hallway lined with doors, a flickering and buzzing EXIT sign on the far end denoting escape was possible if I chose that route, there was more to this place than the main bar. "I need you to serve in one of the private rooms. Can you handle that?"

Why was he asking if he doubted? And what exactly was I getting myself into agreeing like I did, bobbing a nod even though my intuition screamed at me to ask questions before just leaping into situations I had no control over?

Right, because restraint was something I'd cultivated in my twenty-eight years on the planet.

He didn't come with me, instead pointing down the hall. "Room B," he said. "Hurry up." Gary spun and left me to scowl after him like it would make a difference before I shifted from the intensity of the main bar to the sudden quiet of the hall. I really shouldn't have felt nervous heading for the door with the large gold B on it, right? This was Reggie's place and I trusted her. Surely nothing bad could happen to me back here, in private with some random men who wanted a server all to themselves.

Pops was a black belt in aikido. And while I hadn't gone that far? I could handle myself. He made sure of that.

Reminding myself of my self-defense training made me feel more comfortable and, as I reached for the door handle, I squared my shoulders and slipped into my favorite persona. Petal Morgan, self-confident powerhouse of awesomeness. Approach or piss off at your own peril.

Turns out I wasn't the only one who could hand over a solid wall of attitude. I entered the room to the sound of arguing, pausing with trepidation now, confidence slip sliding out the door behind me while I watched Reggie scowl at Carson who was hiss whispering something at her that made her eyes narrow to slits so thin I wasn't sure she could see him.

"I don't care what Gary told you," she said in response, one hand chopping through the air for emphasis, those sharp manicured nails coming within an inch of his tie, "this is my club and I say what goes on here."

Carson's smirk made me want to punch him, just for kicks. "We both know who the real boss is, Reg," he said. "So back off and let me do my thing and you'll keep making the kind of money you've become accustomed to."

Wait, what did that mean? I hated to consider Reggie might be into something seedy and underhanded, but it certainly sounded like things leaned that way. I almost spoke up, realizing neither of them knew I'd entered the room, but Reggie was already all over Carson's suggestion.

"We'll just see about that." She actually poked him in the chest, up on the toes of her heels, her barely five feet no match physically for her at least one foot height deficit, but her presence that kind of grounded and unmistakable, unshakable presence that made people stop and take notice. He did as she went on. "I run a clean place, Carson. If I find out you're involved in anything illegal, I won't just kick you out. I'll call the police."

Ah, big relief there. I misunderstood, it seemed, and thankfully.

Leave it to Gary to choose that moment to hustle inside, passing me as if he, too, had forgotten I was there, face anxious. He hurried to Reggie, though it seemed less to me like he was trying to placate her and more that he seemed terrified something happened between them he'd missed. Something important that maybe he didn't want his wife to know about?

Petal. Stop creating scenarios that made your new/old friend seem like a criminal and her husband untrustworthy.

Maybe I was destined to be a writer or in TV. I certainly had enough experience watching and more than enough making up stupid suppositions about people. Sounded like the perfect job for me.

"Ms. Nolan." Luke appeared at the door, yet another person who ignored me, his towering bulk looming next to me, gaze locked on Carson. "You want me to throw him out now?"

Reggie waved the bouncer off, tsking in annoyance, looking back and forth between Carson and her husband before she tossed her hands and hustled for the door, silver fabric hissing.

"I meant every word," she said, pausing at the exit. "Keep it clean, gentlemen. This is my place of business and I won't lose it through accessory after the fact."

She was gone without seeing me. Man, I was really starting to feel invisible, even more so when Gary guided Carson past Luke, the bouncer following them, Gary apologizing profusely and offering free drinks until I was alone in the room.

So much for serving a private client. I guess he forgot about me. Which made me grumble under my breath, since the past five minutes had cost me tips.

I was halfway down the hall, the annoying buzzing of the EXIT sign counterpoint to my footfalls, heading back toward the bar when I barked a laugh, realizing maybe I was meant to be a server after all.

***

# Chapter Eleven

3AM. How was it possibly 3AM? I barely remembered the drive home, walking barefoot from my car to the back steps to my apartment, sneaking around so I didn't wake my fathers, wondering why my aching feet were now cold and wet as dew from the flagstones sank in and actually soothed the pain. I sat down on the damp wood as I dug in my purse for my keys, unable and unwilling to support my full weight on my poor abused tootsies any longer.

What was I thinking? Throwing myself headfirst into a job I had never really done before—never done before, not like this—and agreeing to uncover a conspiracy/theft ring/possibly paranoia driven and unfounded suspicion while a woman I barely knew in high school was being investigated herself for possible money laundering? Not exactly the smartest thing I'd ever done.

Wait. I'd done worse things. So this wasn't all that shocking, not really.

Something moved at the bottom of the stairs. The giant orange tabby paused and looked up at me, even seemed curious for once. I held my breath and my position, though a terrible itch began at the side of my nose. But I refused to satisfy it, keeping as still as possible while the tomcat took a step toward me, sniffing the air.

Didn't take him long to retreat. I sighed out my disappointment he'd moved on when he disappeared behind the garbage cans, but it seemed I was growing on him, maybe.

Fine, cat. If he could be resilient, so could I. Finally free to do so, when I reached up to scratch my nose, my arm rustled across my bra, the flutter of bills still tucked firmly within making me pause. Gave me enough energy to drag myself to my feet, wavering on toes now set on fire and complaining heavily while I staggered to my bed and collapsed there, digging bills out of my dress and tossing them on the covers until I came up empty at last.

Five minutes later, said money smoothed out and stacked, counted and piled neatly before me, I could only stare in shock at my shaking hands. A thousand dollars. I'd pulled in a thousand dollars in tips in one night.

What was this magical job I'd stumbled across and did I dare not keep at it?

I was fairly certain this kind of funding wasn't typical of waitressing jobs. I'd had more than enough friends work tables who complained about bad tips, terrible wages and working conditions and terrible experiences to realize I'd stumbled across a gold mine. Clearly the patrons of the After Hours Club weren't your typical going out on the towners. Whatever she was doing to attract the upper class, Reggie was doing it right.

And I'd cashed in, at least so far. Made me wonder if finding the supposed thief or her answers about the IRS was worth my while. Then again, if this was the kind of money her staff made, what would the five percent and bonus—and _bonus_!—she offered me end up looking like?

I was far too tired and elated and weepy and stretched thin to think about it. Without even washing my face, changing my clothes or, to be honest, turning out the lights I collapsed into my pillow and passed out.

***

The closet is dark and quiet, safe. I'm safe as long as I'm in here.

On the other side of the door, my mother screams.

***

I blinked into the bright sunlight of morning, groaning that it had the temerity to be so bloody positive and sparkling this freaking early. Not even the recurring nightmare that usually jerked me awake in a cold sweat had much of an effect, the three times it popped up ending in me simply rolling over and going back to the good part.

I guess enough years reliving Mom's murder made it rather mediocre.

Except it wasn't. Early, that was, the clock reading 12:43PM.

Whoops. I hauled myself out of bed, disturbing my stack of bills, the spendable kind for once, not the PAST DUE type I was accustomed to. I paused to stare down at them like I had no idea where they'd come from and last night had been a weird and psychedelic dream even more so than the closet nightmare that haunted me for twenty years.

Except it hadn't.

Dear god, save me from myself.

A shower felt great and, while I scrubbed and conditioned and rinsed, I made a decision. Not the run away screaming decision I'd planned on. Nor the call to Reggie to apologize to her for saying yes to something I really wasn't qualified for. Instead, I dressed, and nicely in a skirt even, flats (because my feet said, girl. _No_.). Put on makeup and flat ironed my hair. Lip gloss, earrings and I was ready for stage two of my new job. For as long as this lasted, I was going to give it my all and if that meant hustling for the rich and touchy while doing my best to help Reggie, well.

I guess that was what I was going to do.

Why was I so excited to jump in my car and drive back to the club? Surely I'd lost my mind, though as I approached the side door that led to After Hours and my friend's office, I understood. No cubicle in sight, not a breath of a call center or watercooler or even a sniff of organization and retirement plans. As I parked and strode with renewed confidence toward the door, I felt that same rush of adrenaline hit me that sustained me last night.

I might have sucked at the kind of success others found praiseworthy but I finally felt alive and engaged and if that meant my path led me down a road I hadn't even thought possible let alone considered viable, well, so be it.

My fathers would understand their daughter was a waitress. Right? Considering I'd avoided them (Saturday activities would have to unfold without me) on my way out and wasn't looking forward to explaining why I'd rolled home in the wee hours this morning and likely would be doing the same tomorrow, it was clear to me I was already doubting their reaction.

Okay, Dad's reaction. I paused, caught my breath, hating that I worried he'd be unhappy. Pops would be fine, just wanted me to do something that filled me up. I knew that and he'd never say otherwise. But Dad? He'd always told me I could be anything I wanted to be if I just tried.

Waitress. Possible burlesque dancer at some point, because I had to give it a go, right? At least I could tell him I was investigating possible crimes as a cover.

Oh Petal.

Luke wasn't at his post, though the door was unlocked so I let myself upstairs, the dark entry well-lit now, faded wallpaper no longer mysterious and historic but rather worn, the carpet on the steps threadbare. Funny how things looked different when exposed to the light, though the club still had its lovely old charm to me when I entered, even in broad daylight shining through the bank of windows at the far end.

I found Reggie in her office, on the phone, knocked softly and entered when she called for me to do so. She waved me into a chair on the other side of her desk, pacing herself in front of her glass streetscape, not seeing the cool view, her steps quick and angry as she wrapped up her call.

"And I'm telling you," she snapped into the phone, "I have no idea what you're talking about. If you want to discuss this further, you can do so through my accountant. And my lawyer." She hung up, smashing her finger against the flat glass of her phone, grunting while she tossed it to the desk. "IRS again," she said with a huff of exhaled breath. "What is their problem? They clearly have an issue with a woman of color making a name for herself, that's what." I held still and quiet like I did with the tomcat as she raged on. "You take one step forward and the man, Petal, the man he pulls you back because heaven forbid a woman, let alone a black woman, makes her mark in this world." She jabbed a finger in my direction. "Just let them try and bully me."

"That's why I'm here," I said, recognizing the fact my own tone matched hers, that her aggressive confidence was either rubbing off on me or the decision I'd made had a desired effect. "I need to see your books. We're getting to the bottom of this, Reggie."

She was so fired up she didn't even argue about my incorrect name usage. "You can have access to anything you want," she said. "But no one can know, Petal. This has to be on the downlow. Agreed?"

I nodded. "Of course," I said. "Investigator by day, waitress by night. I'm all in."

And that was how I ended up in the bathroom, perched on the top of a toilet tank in a locked stall with Reggie's laptop balanced on my knees.

Glamorous. Though, almost immediately informative. A quick skim through Reggie's accounts told me something was hinky and not adding up. Sure, I might not have wanted to be an accountant, but that didn't mean I hadn't learned anything during my studies. It was pretty obvious to me, especially knowing I was looking for something, that someone in Reggie's life had been tampering with her financials. The spreadsheet she was using offered a totals column that made balancing her books look like a two-year-old had been making up numbers and shoving them in just for kicks. Whoever was behind this was either a) absolutely wretched with finances or b) wanted her to look like she was cooking her own books.

Mind you, some of what I came across I didn't understand and I ended up taking notes for further research. But, if I was going to be honest with myself, it was clear that something wasn't adding up and it wasn't just Reggie's income and expense sheets.

I snuck out of the bathroom, peeking into the main club to be sure no one was around before crossing in a hurry to her office. She was already gone, who knew where, so I returned her computer to her desk, pausing to consider my next move. The sound of voices outside her door woke panic and, instantly, I lunged for the back side of the sofa and, tucking myself behind it, crouched there, breathing through my mouth when the door opened and two sets of footfalls entered.

"We need to talk," Gary's voice said.

"I'm done talking," Aiden responded. "You either deal with things or I do." Threatening much? "I'm not kidding, Gary. I'm done. And if Reggie finds out what you've been up to, so are you." The door opened again and closed, feet retreating while I held my breath and made up my mind about who it was Reggie really had to worry about. Now to figure out how to tell her it was very likely the thief she was looking for—and possibly the IRS's prime suspect—was her own husband.

No time to contemplate such matters, however. Not when the soft tread of shoes approaching told me not only was I not alone, but it was very possible I was now trapped with the man in question.

***

# Chapter Twelve

I'd always been pretty lucky, despite the trouble I'd found myself in financially. Sure, I may never have had a solid relationship with cash and budgets, but when it came to real danger, being backed into a corner? I could usually talk myself out of any sort of unnecessary violence and seemed to carry a horseshoe up my butt (not my terminology but certainly relevant) when it came to confrontations, acts of illegality (mostly innocent) and run-ins with law enforcement (I might have been an FBI agent's daughter, but I wasn't a stranger to doing stupid stuff while drinking too much).

That was why, despite my concerned moment of nervous reaction hiding behind Reggie's couch so her ne're-do-well husband (oh, yes, I had him pegged right down to the ground) wouldn't catch me eavesdropping even though he was the one who barged in when I actually had a reason to be here, thank you very much, I wasn't really expecting to get caught. Surely he'd exit in due course, find somewhere else to be that wasn't here and I could escape to help my friend another day.

Wait. Was that his footfalls getting closer? Did he know I was here? Real and invigorating panic woke like a gunshot inside me, flooding me with focus, that hyper sensitive attention to detail and every breath of sound that came with the fear of imminent discovery turning me into a rigid gazelle waiting for the lion to freaking go have a nap already.

Another step. Another. Hang on, was that the sound of him sniffing? Did he actually catch my scent? Revolted and more than a little impressed, I fought my instincts for control of my brain while I struggled to come up with a plausible reason why I might be huddled behind the black leather with both hands pressed to my heart, kneeling on the worn carpet with my knees aching from the contact. Can you believe my usually agile mind betrayed me? Stuttered, stalled and utterly stopped, leaving me empty and bereft of any excuse whatsoever that might pass for truth or even an attempt at truth?

Someone knocked on the door. I almost squealed in relief as the footfalls stopped. I heard the padded entry swing open, a woman's voice speak.

"You wanted to talk to me about my performance." I knew her, didn't I? Too soon on the downward turn of adrenaline to make any solid connections, but it would come to me.

"I did." Gary's steps retreated toward the door, the thud of it closing behind him surely the sweetest sound in the history of any kind of sounds ever.

It wasn't until I'd snuck out that I made a stab at who the voice had belonged to. That after I gave myself a solid thirty count before rising and hurrying to the door, peeking into the main bar, grateful for the emptiness, and tip toeing despite myself to the exit where I hurtled down the staircase at breakneck speed as though the hounds of hell were on my heels.

Luke was at his post, shot me a surprised look while I caught myself and tried a smile, trembling just enough I knew he had to suspect something.

"Don't be late again, new girl," he growled instead of asking questions I still couldn't answer.

Gulp. Right. I had to work tonight, didn't I? Reggie mentioned something about being here at 8PM and it was already past five. I had to drive home the half-hour commute (if I was lucky about traffic), grab dinner, change and be back here with minutes to spare because no way was I going to be a second over time.

Which meant I was behind the wheel, scowling at the bumper-to-bumper behind a small accident when it hit me. The voice. The one who'd lured Gary away from the office so I didn't get caught. Of course I knew her.

Everly Hunt.

And now I was jumping to conclusions because yes, my brain went right to innuendo and questions about fidelity since, I'd already decided, Gary was the thief who'd been stealing from Reggie and since he was tainted by crime surely having an affair wasn't a far leap for someone of his (lack of) moral character.

Had I heard an alluring lilt to her tone when she'd asked her performance question? Honestly, I didn't know. I was so deep in the grasp of anxiety she could have openly and obviously offered him her professional services and I wouldn't have been able to confirm or deny her intent. So, it was possible I really did overhear an innocent work-related conversation and I was a horrible, horrible person who judged others because I had nothing better to do while huddling behind a sofa.

Or sitting in traffic, for that matter.

By the time I arrived home I'd resolved to bring the matter to Reggie's attention. And when I zipped up the sparkly evening dress I'd fished out of the same box my flapper one came from, I'd relegated that particular terrible idea to the wayside and chose instead to keep my lips closed tight. Dodging my fathers on the way out again with a wave through the kitchen window distracted me enough I was on the highway again before I flipped back into divulging everything to my friend only to slam my car door in the parking lot across from the club with my lower lip firmly clamped between my teeth and my wishy-washy resolve puddling into a pathetic mess.

Tell her or not tell her? I nodded to Luke on the way by, noted his approving nod at my arrival (7:55PM, boo-ya), hurrying up the stairs to the sound of voices above, music, patrons already getting started, the thump of bass from the theater below informing the soles of my feet the burlesque show was in full swing.

Any worry I might have had I'd get the opportunity to spill what I knew to Reggie despite my waffling back and forth died a fast and painful death the instant I set foot in the bar. Aiden swooped in like he'd been waiting for me, hand on my elbow, taking my purse and tucking it under the cash register before handing me a tray and shoving me into the already enthusiastic crowd to take orders and deliver drinks.

So, I'd thought last night was busy. It certainly seemed that way to the me who had been fresh meat but now felt like well tenderized but leathery around the edges Petal. It turned out Saturday? All bets were off on Saturday.

See, the dancers didn't come up to serve until after they'd finished their set. And the full bar was already packed with people looking to drown their sorrows—or their laughter and happy lives and beautiful, well-dressed existences but I could dream they were sad, right?—in as much high-end wine and spirits as I could deliver to them. It didn't take long for the first dancer to appear and give me a hand, ensuring Aiden and Gary—weird to see him acting the server for the first little while—could return to their regular jobs. It made sense to me, or to the part of me that had a second to breathe or think or even consider there was anything outside the quick stride to the bar, the order, the load up, the delivery, the quick stride to the bar, why they needed a new girl.

I barely noticed when Everly joined me, though I did bump hips with her once or twice at what had to be the 10PM mark. She flashed me that thousand-watt smile of hers but didn't stop and neither did I, though now I was dying to ask her what the deal was with her and Gary.

As for doing the job I'd actually been hired to do? I might as well have been the one stealing because for the life of me, I barely had time to track my own orders and sales let alone figure out who was skimming.

To my delight (insert heavy sarcasm here), I realized that Carson and Daniel were regular patrons of After Hours, but only after handsy boy decided to give the touchy feely another go. This time I didn't laugh, slapping his hand away and almost tipping my full tray in the process. He took my scowl like a challenge, grinning openly, tossing a fifty at me as he helped himself to his drink. If I'd known Aiden was sending me over here to deliver to this piece of work I would have passed off the glasses to someone else. Anyone else. Instead, I offered Daniel his and turned to go, only to feel a hand on my arm.

"Come serve me in Room B," Carson whispered in my ear. "I'll make it worth your while."

I couldn't think of anything I'd detest more. "Have fun serving yourself," I whispered back before jerking my arm free and striding away to complete my delivery.

Imagine my shock and dismay when Gary appeared next to me five minutes later, that same touch on my arm making my skin crawl and waking my desire to punch someone. Okay, punch him. "You will come to Room B and serve my guests," he snarled, "or you will get your things and leave."

He strode off without pausing to find out if I'd comply, the arrogant ass. And though I longed to ignore him and take that challenge, I caught Reggie watching, arms crossed over her chest, eyes narrowed, and sighed.

This was part of the job, I guess. If I was going to be effective, I had to play by the rules of the club and that meant (choke) doing what I was told.

So close to chucking everything and walking. Except, of course, for the flash in my mind to the pile of twenties on the cardboard box beside my bed, the fifty on my tray, the lure of tips—so many tips—and the possibility of that five percent and a bonus kicking me in the rear and sending me, with a grim expression that I forced into at least a semblance of a strained smile, to the back hallway and Room B.

***

# Chapter Thirteen

I paused by the door, gritting my teeth, the buzzing of the EXIT light way less irritating than my impending assignment, and was about to barge in and make myself known when I caught the sound of Carson's voice. His very happy voice. Which made me pause and listen through the crack I created by easing the way open instead.

"Check the betting line," he said. "That's a circled game. You sure you want to cover that? It could end in a push and we both know you're already sitting on a big marker."

Now, I wasn't exactly a career criminal, but I knew betting lingo when I heard it. I'd dated a guy on the West coast who'd run numbers for a bookie and he talked just like that. Just another excellent relationship choice for Petal Morgan. Informative, though, and serving me well now. No education was wasted, right? Even the illegal kind.

Carson fell quiet a minute, then laughed, clearly on the phone. "You know I've got your back, Jimmy. Just being sure. I just hate seeing you on my bottom sheet. But you tell me you're good for it, I'm game. Consider it done."

So Carson was into illegal gambling, was he? I heard him sign off and hesitated another moment. If Reggie knew he was conducting business in After Hours, this might be the source of her unhappiness with his presence. She'd told him to play things straight and here he was taking bets in her back room. The phone rang again, a ridiculous rendition of the old 80s hit, "I Wanna Be Rich" by Calloway. Gary must have known about what he was up to. And though the arrogant asshat taking bets behind the door was clearly a source of excellent revenue, it was also possible one of my friend's issues sat drinking her alcohol and doing business where he had no right to.

Because laundering illegal betting profits through After Hours would be simple if he had the right connections. I'm looking at you, Gary.

Here I was, jumping to conclusions again. Surely Reggie thought of this herself? Now determined to prove the guy with the overly friendly hands was the culprit, (because I couldn't stand him and how perfect would that be?) I chose to enter Room B with a real smile and an attitude that might get me what I wanted.

Daniel chose that very moment to move past me, though he didn't try to touch me, even grimacing a little in apology as he stepped by and took a seat on the circular bench seat behind the heavy wooden table. The red velvet room with the dark paneled walls and lush carpeting of the same color felt a bit like a tomb, though time seemed to have spared it far more than the main bar. I approached the table, nodding to both men, noting the ice bucket and bottle of open champagne, three glasses with varying amounts inside before asking for their order.

Gary arrived while Daniel's request for a whiskey followed Carson's wink and rye and ginger order. I nodded to my kind of boss who ignored me as he sat next to Daniel, looking rather frazzled. It was busy out there, and he could hardly spare me to serve drinks to two people and yet, here I was.

Spoke volumes about their association, didn't it? Maybe I wasn't jumping to conclusions after all.

"Can I get you anything, Mr. Harris?" Look at me being all polite and professional.

He waved off my question and leaned toward Carson, though he didn't speak, looking at me pointedly until I bobbed a weird little curtsy and left, closing the door slowly behind me. But despite my attempt at subterfuge his voice was too low for me to catch what he was saying outside the hurried and angry whispering.

Everly was just exiting one of the other doors, her exhale of relief matching the widening of her big eyes as she grinned at me, hooking one arm through mine.

"The private rooms might be a bit of a risk, but it's worth it." She flashed a hundred dollar bill at me with a wink. "Who do you have?"

"Carson Carrigan," I said, doing my best to keep the annoyance out of my voice. I glanced with irritation at the EXIT sign and that ridiculous buzzing. "Someone needs to fix that." Okay, so everything was pissing me off right now.

She eye rolled, grinned. "Here, let me." She trotted to the far end of the hall and, on her tiptoes, whacked the light with her tray. The buzzing stopped, all right, the light flickering out. Everly hunched her shoulders and giggled on her way back, a guilty kid who'd done a very bad thing and got away with it. "There, that's better." And probably illegal or something. At the very least, destruction of private property. So why was I grinning, too? "As for Carson, he's all talk and a jerk to boot," she spoke into my ear as she quickly led me toward the main bar, close enough I could make out what she said over the music and crowd, "and that friend of his covers for him far too often." Who, Gary? No, she must have meant Daniel. "He's nice, at least, and a good tipper if he catches Carson being a creep." Yup, she meant Daniel. "Watch your back, but have fun." She left me to lean over the bar, placing her order while I waited my turn for Aiden and the two young men—so cliché—who had joined him for the evening to fill glasses with expensive alcohol for the rich and bored.

It was hard, as the night went on, not to let my mind wander toward Reggie and her complicit state of affairs as I observed openly Carson's illegal betting activities unfolding while I delivered drink after drink, appetizers followed by a main course joined by more alcohol, all while Gary sat back and let him, Daniel at least having the courtesy to try to cover things up by dumping twenties on my tray.

To keep me quiet? More than likely. I chose to play dumb in light of the tips, though it was increasingly difficult to believe my friend didn't know what was going on in her back room. Still, the discrepancy in her financials made me uncomfortable enough to believe someone was playing her, not the other way around.

Gary. It all came back to Gary. Why didn't she do something about her husband?

One of my final trips back to Room B with more than enough whiskey to drown a hardened alcoholic on my tray, my concerns were reinforced. Especially when I found Reggie with Daniel and Carson this time, Gary nowhere to be found, my friend in deep and angry conversation with the two men.

She noticed me before I was aware of her and pulled back, but it was obvious from her furious expression she was, in fact, in the know about his little betting business. Not so little if the number of calls he'd been taking and the tiny (in writing but big in digits) numbers he'd noted in the book before him told the tale.

Carson didn't seem to notice or care why she retreated. Instead, he leaned toward her in turn and smirked.

"You threaten me again," he said in a clear and rather amused voice, "and I'll make sure it's the last time. You hear me, Reg? Not even your Daddy will be able to keep you safe."

Her cheeks turned ashen, eyes huge, and though I really barely knew her outside memory and recent interactions, it was obvious she waffled on the wall between furious and terrified. She rose without responding, striding past me and out the door while I quietly and quickly deposited the round of drinks before exiting after her.

I caught her near the far end of the hall, leaning into her where she paused to catch her breath, one hand pressed to her throat, a hand that trembled just a little.

"Reggie," I said, mentally wondering what the comment about her father could have been about, but more worried about her physical safety than Carson's specific words. "Call the cops. I'll testify he's been bookmaking all night."

The look she flashed me caught me by surprise. Not the gratitude I'd expected, but rage, pure and flaming. She caught herself, though, shook her head, that trembling hand falling to grasp my wrist as she looked away, full lips in a grim line.

"No one threatens me in my place," she said. And strode off without another word or any conscious realization she'd been gripping my arm so tight I was positive I'd be bruised in the morning.

The rest of the night passed faster than expected, the calls for more drinks from Room B silenced. Maybe I'd finally doused him in enough alcohol to make Carson pass out or, more likely, he'd left to take his nasty piece of work elsewhere. Whatever the case, I did see Daniel just before closing and he nodded to me as he headed for Reggie's office, alone and head down. Whatever. I was sure if Everly was right he'd gone to apologize to her for what his friend said, though I was certain by now she'd never accept.

The other servers fled like a flock of birds when Aiden closed up shop, even Everly abandoning me to hurry downstairs to her dressing room to change and head home for the night. Which meant, naturally, the new girl got the best job of all.

End of shift cleanup.

I just hoped the pile of tips in my bust line was worth the mess I feared I had to deal with.

To my surprise, Luke and his bouncer partner handled the bathrooms, bless them, and Aiden and his bartender boys took the main bar. That left the back rooms to me and I headed to the hall with trepidation. Surely they wouldn't send me back there if they had a chance to fob off a more awful job on the fresh meat?

Someone had turned out the light, the hallway dark and it took me a minute to find the switch. With the EXIT light now down for the count, it was so pitch black I couldn't proceed without illumination. Room A at the far end had a stack of glasses to carry to the bar, and Room C the same, though a sticky puddle of something I didn't dare try to identify took a few squirts of my cleaner bottle and three rags to wipe up. Gross.

Room D was across from C, so I slipped in there next, finding it clean and empty. Someone either got to it already or it hadn't been used tonight. That left my least favorite of the whole kit and kaboodle, though I'd been in and out of B so many times tonight at least I knew I wasn't in for a giant mess.

Optimism on my side, I slipped through the door and headed for the table, stopping in my tracks at the sight of Carson slumped over, passed out. Well, just freaking lovely. I hesitated, ready to call Luke in to have the giant bouncer deal with my unconscious patron before deciding it might be fun to wake him from a sound sleep.

I finished my approach, noting as I did something was very off, because Carson's slump was unusual, right? Not the forward collapse of a man with his head in his arms, but a sideways twist further into the bench, an odd and uncomfortable position for someone passed out. Then again, I'd found myself in weird and painful sleeping arrangements after long nights of imbibing, so maybe I was wrong?

Why was the silver ice bucket on the bench under his head? Dear god, was he throwing up? Okay, that I just couldn't handle. But no, he wasn't moving, and his head was all the way in the bucket for some reason.

Hang on. The water level of the melted ice was at his collar. Didn't that make it kind of hard to breathe—

I'm not stupid or anything. It wasn't like I was slow on the uptake most days. But I was tired, and my feet hurt and it had been a long two nights. So the fact it took me a minute to make the mental leap required wasn't exactly a stretch, okay?

Okay.

Because when it finally hit me Carson wasn't going to be touching me inappropriately ever again, nor tipping me heavily to keep me from complaining, I had a moment of guilty relief the cause of my discomfort was dead.

I was a horrible, horrible person.

***

# Chapter Fourteen

"You just walked in and found him dead, is that what you're telling me?" The young detective who looked about two years out of college and really shouldn't have held the kind of responsibility required to ask questions about murders eyed me with a narrowed expression of disdain while I clamped my lips together in frustration.

My dad was FBI. I knew the song and dance. Trust no one, ask a million questions that amounted to the same question just reiterated in as many ways as possible to ensure the person you're interrogating is telling the truth—or the truth as their fallible memory delivers it—until you're positive they aren't lying about any details.

How did I know FBI interrogation tactics? Come on, surely having an agent for a father was enough of an answer. I may not have been a suspect in a major crime before, but I'd sat on the sofa with Dad calmly and deliberately digging out honesty I swore to myself I'd keep hidden was more than enough education in that department.

So, I knew showing my temper was a terrible idea. As was changing my story in any way, shape or form. The young detective would pounce if I got even a single slice of the pie wrong. At least I was telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so I had that on my side. Still, it was growing increasingly difficult not to snap and tell him where he could shove that terrible questioning manner he'd clearly picked up from watching some old cop show from the 70s that had nothing to do with modern police techniques.

"Yes," I said for the fifteenth time. "I found him like that." Glanced away as the paramedics wheeled the carcass of Carson Carrigan past the gathering, enough of the staff still remaining despite the late hour there were lots of bodies to talk to. Live ones, that was. My rapid exit from the back room where I ran immediately into Gary and gasped out the reality of the situation turned very quickly into Reggie dialing 9-1-1 while her husband gaped at me like I'd told him the world was ending in five minutes and he'd better duck and cover.

Whether they were in the neighborhood or just keeners on the case I had no idea, but we had police officers in the club within two minutes, stopping the staff below from leaving, herding them upstairs to the main bar again in a grumbling pack of dissatisfied dancers ready to rebel at a moment's notice. Until, that was, the rumor mill made the rounds and the whispering chatter making guesswork around Carson's death was more than enough to keep them occupied and eager to remain if only to distill some detail worthy of their now focused attention.

"Miss Morgan," Detective Rick Danone said, interrupting my train of thought. Oddly, the dead body hadn't bothered me as much as it probably should have. Years as the kid of a federal agent, maybe? Or perhaps a throwback to being present when my sperm donor murdered my mother and then killed himself in front of me?

Did I linger over that detail too much? Sorry.

Yeah. It was probably that.

"Detective," I said, knowing my expression was likely a mask of nothing that wasn't helping matters any. Everyone else at least showed some kind of emotion leaning toward the human. The past had a way of making everything complicated.

He flashed me a grimace of irritation. So I was getting to him, too? Good to know. Though not good, not really. I was cooperating, though, right? Surely that had to count for something. All this repeating himself in multiple ways while getting the same answers really had to stop.

"Rick." I hadn't noticed she'd joined us until she said his name, the fortysomething woman in a black leather jacket and jeans looking like she would rather not have to deal with him at that moment caught his attention and held it.

"I'm almost done, Elle," he said. Total change in attitude. His partner had clear seniority and it was nice to note he seemed to respect her.

"Why don't you go chat with the dancers and leave this to me." No judgment, not a scrap of bad humor, just a suggestion that was an order if ever I'd heard one and trust me, I'd heard the best use that same tone and win every time. Dad would like her.

Rick just nodded, flipping closed his leather pad and tucking his pen away, before tipping his head to me and joining the flock of dancers still chattering among themselves. I chose to focus on his partner, no taller than me with shoulder-length brown hair highlighted blond and gray eyes fixing me with a steady and careful expression. My gaze dipped to the infinity necklace at the dip of her collarbone as she spoke.

"Detective Elle Gordon," she said, holding out one strong and capable hand. I shook it, just like Dad taught me, firm but not too firm.

"Petal Morgan," I said.

"Miss Morgan," she tucked both hands into her front pockets, tilting her head to the side, faint and encouraging smile just as contrived as her partner's newbie attempt at an effective questioning routine but far more practiced, "can you tell me what happened?"

My gaze flickered to the forensics team now leaving the back hall and heading for the stairs. I told her everything I remembered, details I hadn't shared with her partner, only because he hadn't asked in the right way. How many drinks, what Carson ordered, who was in the room when. That the hall light was out, how it was clear he'd been forced into that bucket by the awkward position of his body. All delivered in that deadpan tone of voice I remembered from when, at eight, in shock and incapable of processing what I'd witnessed, I sat with Dad—then just Special Agent Andrew Walker to me—everything that I'd seen.

When I was done, wrapping with Reggie making the emergency call, Elle took a long moment before a real smile pulled at the corner of her mouth.

"You're either a cop's kid," she said, "or you have training."

I shrugged. "FBI," I said. "Dad."

She laughed, grin rueful. "It shows." She sighed, glancing away a moment, jaw jumping as her gaze settled on her young partner trying to wrangle the chatting dancers. "Sorry about the new kid. Hope he didn't make you nuts." Like he made her nuts. That went unspoken. She turned back, still curious, though. "What am I missing about you?"

There was nothing intimidating about the question, so I chose to come completely clean.

"I'm working for the owner under cover," I said. "There have been thefts, an IRS accusation of money laundering. I'm trying to sort things out for her." Okay, so it wasn't lost on me I kind of liked her and now that she saw me as sort of trustworthy because of Dad's job maybe I wanted her respect like she had her partners.

Elle's pale eyes lit up. "I've heard of what you do," she said, nodding. "Some kind of deception specialist, right?"

Rick chose that moment to abandon his attempt to talk to the dancers who firmly ignored him, looking back and forth between us. I could tell from Reggie's frown where she stood at the bar, watching, she was worried what I was telling the police, but if she had nothing to do with Carson's death, she didn't have anything to be concerned about.

And yes, I was partially convinced she might have killed him.

Bad kind of friend and employee and what did Elle call me?

"Wait," Rick said, frowning, "you're one of those lie detecting scientist people?"

Elle answered for me because I had no idea what he was talking about and wouldn't have had a clue how to go about confirming or denying anything to do with her initial statement.

"Naw," she said, "one of those chameleons. You know, who infiltrate businesses and uncover crimes on behalf of the owners." She shrugged at me like we'd already talked this out and that was exactly the truth.

No way. This was actually a job?

"Exactly," I said, shocked at how smoothly that rolled off my tongue. I seized control of my mouth and shut it, knowing the best lies—though in truth it wasn't a lie, I just had no idea I was engaged in something that had a name—were short and sweet.

It was like a switch flipped. Elle's attitude shifted from understanding and confident to confidential, her body language settling into softer and more relaxed lines, even Rick seeming to follow her lead, his faint frown dissolving into a not-scowl, so I called that a win.

"Cool," he said. "My uncle's a P.I. in Philly. Kinda the same thing."

Elle just flashed him a _shut it, kid, before you embarrass yourself_ look before returning her attention to me. "Thanks for the info," she said. Wait, was she treating me like a fellow investigator? She flipped a card out of her jacket, handed it over. "I assume your cover's intact?"

I nodded, accepting the rectangle with her name on it. "As far as I know."

"You dig up anything on the murder while you're doing your job," she said, "you call me, yeah?"

"Of course, detective," I said. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't share what I told you about my work here?"

Elle winked, nudged Rick who flashed another grin. "Good luck, Miss Morgan." She turned then, steering her partner away from me, leaving me exposed and a little trembly where I hadn't been before.

And not because of the dead guy. Oh my god, had I stumbled on a real job by accident that could be repeated down the road? If I ever solved Reggie's problems, that was. Speak of the devil herself, she instantly joined me, hand on my elbow, whispering in my ear as the detectives moved on Aiden and the bartenders.

"What did you tell them?" She was shaking way worse than I was, her lip gloss eaten off, skin ashen, dark eyes locking me in a death stare.

"Just the truth," I said, feeling her fingernails dig into the flesh of my arm and doing my best to stay calm, confident. Emulating Dad, not to mention Detective Gordon. No way was Reggie going to know I suspected her in the murder of her least favorite patron. At least, not yet.

Not until I had evidence to prove it.

"They're shutting down the club." That was her concern? So maybe I was jumping the gun, seeing her anxiety as guilt when it was just fear for her business. "What am I going to do?"

"It's fine," I said, "Reggie, think about it. The club will only be closed for a couple of days, max, if that long." Forensics were already out of here, so it might be less than that. "The theater is dark for the next two nights anyway, right?" Sunday and Monday, according to the poster downstairs. She nodded, clutching at me with a desperate need to believe me written all over her face. "By the time the show opens on Tuesday, everything will be back to normal."

I was sure of that, one way or another. The cops would either find the killer in that time—the first forty-eight hours not a joke or a gimmick but a real truth for most murders and abductions—or they'd have cooling case on their hands. Either way, life would go on as usual.

Except, of course, I hadn't accounted for the fact I wasn't the only one who suspected the owner of this fine establishment. Elle Gordon chose that moment to join us, that now familiar confident and calm expression telling me volumes.

"Ms. Nolan," she said. "You need to come to the station."

***

# Chapter Fifteen

Reggie's reaction gave me doubts to her guilt, her shocked surprise at the detective's statement raising some protective feelings in me, though I did my best to hide them from Elle Gordon. I wanted to keep her on my good side and that required a little bit of playacting that could maintain my cover. The detective thought I was a pro so I'd better act like one, hadn't I? No way I was admitting to her now I was a bit of a fraud, that I had no idea what I was doing and lose all respect I'd clearly gained in our interaction. Pride, you sucked, but still. If I was going to continue to be of help to Reggie, I had to keep my cool and follow the script or I'd be either heaved out the front door and told not to come back or down in lockup or an interrogation room.

Neither appealed, frankly. So, stand by and let my friend be interrogated it was.

"Whatever for?" My beautiful friend's free hand clutched at her throat, the other still firmly grasping me. More bruises tomorrow, awesome. "I've already told the other detective everything I know."

"Ms. Nolan," Elle said, that level tone so Dad I blinked in surprise she hadn't, in fact, just magically morphed into SSA Andrew Walker, "you were the last person to be seen with Mr. Carrigan. Not to mention several people witnessed him threatening you." Whoops, including me. And yes, that had been part of my full reveal to the detective. I wasn't very good at keeping secrets, though cooperating with law enforcement was kind of built into me.

Reggie's already wide eyes grew wider. "This is outrageous," she said. "You can't think I killed Carson."

Elle didn't even twitch. "We just need to ask you a few more questions, and this isn't the best venue for that conversation."

I almost broke character and told Reggie not to go, heart pounding, positive the moment they got my friend into an interrogation room she'd crack like an egg. Confess to something she didn't do—or did, crap—and I'd never see her again. Or my five percent. Petal, sheesh. Okay, but I was trying to be a friend and practical and they didn't seem to go very well together in this particular situation. Who knew?

I needn't have worried about Reggie. As the truth of what Detective Gordon said settled in, my savvy friend stiffened, worry vanishing in a wave of determined anger. She gathered herself physically, like a warrior queen preparing for battle, nodding to Elle in an elegant and decisive motion that made her gorgeous hair bob like a shining corkscrew crown.

"Of course," she said. "Just as soon as I call my lawyer and have him meet us there."

Elle had to be expecting that, because she nodded back and, in that moment, I saw not one, but two, epic women ready to face off in a contest of wills I was glad I wouldn't witness. "That would probably be a good idea."

There was nothing I could do but watch Reggie go, not handcuffed at least, but definitely under scrutiny. Rick held up what looked like a flash drive to his partner, more than likely the security footage from whatever time of death the M.E. came up with. I glanced away, a bit heartbroken at the sight of the strong-willed woman being escorted from her club. It was only that inability to watch as everyone else did—the gathered staff could cut back on the enthusiastic gossiping anytime soon—that gave me a clear view of Gary and Everly, a few feet from one another but without an inch between the look that connected them.

Suspicion blossomed while Gary, finally jerking free of his locked gaze with the brunette dancer, hurried after his departing wife with a frown that could have been worry or something else I had as yet to identify. Maybe I should have given him the benefit of the doubt, but something hinky twinged my sixth sense for girlfriend solidarity and I chose to act on it rather than let it go.

I joined the dancer he'd been so taken with immediately, leaning in, going for that vapid curiosity the others seemed to have mastered. "What was _that_ all about?"

Everly's expression flickered to something I didn't recognize—a hardened wall of refusal, even some sort of mask barely hiding rage like I'd never seen—before she shrugged and blushed. I blinked, wondering if I'd imagined it, as her whole body softened, expression now contrite and filled with regretful concern. "Poor Reggie," she said. "Do you think she did it?"

Nice deflect. She was hiding something and I had a sinking feeling it was Gary related. Before I could press her further on her relationship—or not—with my friend's husband, Everly left my side to join the other dancers, the uniforms allowing everyone to leave at last. I glanced at my cell phone when I retrieved my purse from behind the bar, surreptitiously checking out familiar faces for flickers of guilt and seeing nothing—and noted it was well past 4:30AM. I had a half-hour drive ahead of me. Groan. But at least there wouldn't be traffic.

Silver linings were necessary at times like these.

I paused at the bottom of the steps on my way out, Luke and Dante—I'd finally learned the other bouncer's name—whispering to each other while the staff filed out and went their own ways. Luke looked furious, ready to commit murder himself, and jerked free of Dante's grip before heading upstairs.

"Is he okay?" I hoped I sounded sufficiently concerned and equally unattached to the outcome.

Dante shrugged, voice a surprisingly soft tenor for a guy his size. "No way Reggie killed that guy," he said. "Luke's just... protective."

So much more to that story layered under innuendo I couldn't have missed it if I wanted to. "He's pretty attached to her." Not a question.

Dante sighed deeply, leaning against the brick wall, helping himself to a cigarette from the inside pocket of his jacket. So weird to see someone smoke. I choked a bit on the byproduct as he spoke. "You could say that." He looked far too worried for me to let this go, disgusting and dangerous habit making my eyes water or not.

"He'd do anything to protect her, wouldn't he?" Again with the attempt at subtly that probably missed the side of a barn with its horrendous delivery.

But clearly Dante wasn't the brightest boy on the block, because he nodded, leaning in so the scent of his cigarette made me gag. "He left his post earlier," the bouncer said. "Near closing." He took a long drag, the glow of the ember shining in his dark eyes with demonic light. "And he'd do anything for Ms. Nolan," he said, with emphasis. " _Anything_. You get me?"

"He has feelings for her." This was way too easy.

Dante nodded. "Always has." He sighed out his lungful of smoke and crushed the butt into the pavement at his feet.

"Do you think he'd go that far?" And that was the line, I saw it on his face, heard my own slipup, the step across innocent questions into interrogation making Dante blanch and pull away.

"I don't know nothing," he said. "You'd best be getting on home, miss."

Not a threat, but close enough. And, to be honest? I was tired, my feet were on the brink of quitting on me and the murder investigation wasn't my job.

Whether Reggie committed the crime, or Luke did the deed, or anyone else? I'd been hired to uncover theft and, hopefully, sort out accusations of tax evasion for a bonus. So why then, as I drove home in my bare, throbbing feet, so tired I had to put the air conditioning on full blast to keep my eyes open, did I ponder, not my job, but the dead man's fate?

***

# Chapter Sixteen

I was climbing the stairs to my apartment, shoes in hand, feet on fire, and didn't notice until I almost walked on him the big, ginger tomcat curled up on the last step in front of my door. If it hadn't been for the faint light coming from the street, I would have missed him entirely, and froze in surprise in the darkness, feeling oddly guilty he'd caught me coming home so late. Early. Whatever.

He lifted his head from his paws, letting out a faint meow that sounded like he'd been smoking cigars his whole life, It was enough like an enquiry as to why I was dragging my sorry hide home at this hour I answered out loud.

"Nice to see you too," I said.

He yawned, stood, stretched like I wasn't waiting for him to get out of the way already so I could go inside and collapse on my bed and maybe pass out for a while. All the time in the world unfolded as that cat, his attitude unchanged though his friendliness toward me seemingly altered for the better, finally meandered down the stairs past me, stub of a tail alert despite missing most of itself. I watched him vanish through the hedges and decided to take his growing trust as a good sign.

***

Her clothes smell like her perfume. I snuggle into the pile of them I pulled from the hangers, tucking them around me like the walls of a fort. They'll keep me safe, hidden, deep inside this closet, while he beats her on the other side of the door and her screams get softer and finally stop.

***

You'd think finding a dead body would trigger a different kind of nightmare. Then again, I moaned to myself as I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, this was my second death, so the first took bad dream precedence.

Sleep wasn't long returning and, this time, my past let me rest.

Funny how the fact I only had one revisit to my mother's demise instead of the multiples I'd been expecting gave me a boost of confidence. Enough that when I woke for the day—again well after noon with a faint groan at the time on the clock—the Sunday morning sunshine added to the optimistic bent I really didn't deserve to linger in.

I had a job to do. One that got me up, moving, showering, dressing, even doing my hair again, a bit of makeup, though Reggie would just have to deal with jeans and boots rather than business attire. Come on, it was Sunday.

I was hoping to yet again escape the premises without encountering either of my fathers. I really didn't have anything to tell them that would generate any kind of confidence in the path I was taking. Considering I'd stumbled on a dead body early this morning, neither of them would be so understanding as to allow me to continue without a thorough talking to and, in the case of Dad, poking his nose into Elle Gordon's investigation to make sure his little girl was okay.

Pops? He'd have a conniption fit. If you've never seen a tiny Asian gay man have a conniption, I advise against it. I'd be comforting him for weeks and forget about going back to After Hours or anything like it.

Just my luck, however, Dad was in the back yard when I tried to sneak out. My sneaking skills had never been the best, to be honest, and his seek and find abilities honed to that level of federal agent perfection that ensured I never, ever got away with anything.

I did peek out the window before I slunk down the steps, but I failed to notice him camouflaged behind the rose bushes he was pruning. Okay, so maybe he wasn't purposely hiding out but it amounted to the same thing when, breathing a faint sigh of relief as I hurried toward the side of the house and my car in the driveway, Dad seemed to leap out of nowhere.

"Pet." I squeaked in surprise, close enough to a squeal his eyes widened, pruning shears suddenly silent in his hands. "Are you okay?"

I caught my breath, glaring. The fact he hadn't actually leaped out at me, was really just standing there and I'd failed to see him, only made me more irritated. "You could have warned a girl."

Blue eyes narrowed just a little. "You've been out two nights in a row," he said, the sharp shears clipping a dead bit of branch from the bush in a crisp and efficient snip. His statement of fact wasn't exactly an accusation, but I knew he probably thought I was drinking the money he gave me.

Yes, I used to party. A lot. Who didn't? A momentary flash of that good old guilt triggered the need to correct his assumption, though I knew better than to give him fodder for questions. "I'm working," I said. "I found a job."

Dad paused again, eyebrows arching, the shears still and waiting for his attention. "Doing what?"

I left myself open to that, and it was honestly a fair query. I tended to see Dad as a master interrogator who always got what he wanted but, if I was going to be utterly honest with myself, I was the one who handed over more than I should in any given moment because, let's face it, I wanted him to be proud of me.

"I'm serving." Sigh. "In a club in D.C." Stopped myself from divulging the rest, but barely. Miracles could happen and I could keep my mouth shut.

Dad nodded, went back to pruning. "Nothing wrong with a service job to get you on your feet," he said while my mind flashed to the just north of $1500 in tips I'd made last night. "As long as you have time to keep looking for something that makes you happy."

There was the judgement I'd been expecting. "What if being a waitress makes me happy, Dad?" Wow, I wasn't planning on this conversation this morning, nor on being confrontational with my father who loved me unconditionally and just wanted the best for me. Clearly I had issues, shocker, right? Dad didn't deserve to bear the brunt of them. And yet, he'd prodded the sleeping bear living inside me and I was still tired and in a mood and couldn't control my mouth after all.

The look of surprise on Dad's face instantly slapped me with regret. I didn't wait for him to respond, for that faintly hurt expression to leave him, instead hurrying toward my car and climbing inside though Pops was calling for me out the kitchen door. I drove away like a coward running from her problems with the acceptance that was my modus operandi so why change now?

By the time I reached the club, determination to prove to Dad I was better than being a waitress—while battling the truth there was nothing wrong with being a server, especially one who made the kind of money I'd made the last two nights—drove me to take the steps two at a time, to stride through the main bar and into Reggie's office with intent and intensity that died the instant I realized I wasn't alone.

Everly noticed me first, gasped and pushed Gary from her, though I'd seen more than enough of the two of them and their couch groping to put two and two together and confirm the affair. Reggie's cheating husband turned toward me, shock on his face, enough of his own guilt there I knew I was in trouble the moment his expression settled on rage.

"You say a word to Reggie," he snarled, "and you're fired."

"Good luck with that," I shot back, because my mouth had a life of its own today, "since she hired me to investigate you."

Not true, but enough of a shocker to him he gaped, Everly gaped, and I got to dwell in self-satisfaction long enough to regain my confidence.

Everly didn't wait for an explanation, fleeing the room, sobbing. I let her go, pinning Gary with a scowl I hoped would keep him contrite and controlled. Instead, he stood to confront me, and while not all that much taller felt like he was towering past my five foot five, clearly trying to intimidate me.

He'd never had to face down Dad. Intimidate away, Gary.

"What are you talking about?" His belligerence wasn't doing him any favors, nor was his bullying. "Reggie trusts me completely."

"Right," I said. "Because she has so much to trust in you, doesn't she? Bringing in illegal gambling to her club, having an affair with one of her dancers. So trustworthy, Gary. I'm shocked anyone would think you weren't on the up and up." Oh, Petal. Dig that grave, girl. Dig it.

At least I got through to him, enough to make him even more dangerous because as the expression of his understanding passed over his face, it resolved, not in contrite regret, but a deep and rather scary rage that almost made me back up.

Almost. Dad and Pops didn't raise me to retreat in the face of that kind of threat.

"We'll see about that," he said. "When Reggie gets back."

Back? "She's still with the police?" Wasn't lost on me he'd reduced any level of intimidation he offered up by using his wife as a threat. Did he know he suddenly sounded like he was waiting on his mommy to fix things? Didn't matter. I was more concerned with Reggie's present circumstance, though my own worry she was responsible for Carson Carrigan's death awoke again with a vengeance.

Gary didn't answer, brushing past me, though not making enough physical contact for me to call him on it. I let him go, breathing a little sigh of relief he'd gone and didn't make this any harder than it already had been. Now that Gary knew I wasn't just a server, I had to push past the fact I'd given up my edge and sort of betrayed Reggie to the very man I was now sure was the source of her troubles.

Only one way to make up for my mouthy confrontation. Time to prove Gary was the culprit and hope that didn't lead to also uncovering the fact my friend was a murderer.

***

# Chapter Seventeen

I was just sitting behind Reggie's desk when someone knocked on the door. Maybe the cat was out of the bag with Gary and Everly, but if I had any hope of uncovering the thief—if, in fact, it wasn't her cheating husband—I should at least try to maintain my cover. So I hurried to the door and opened it, peeking out with what I hoped was a contrite expression, to find Luke looming there.

The bouncer didn't seem surprised to find me in his boss's office, so it was possible she'd shared with him my real reason for employment. Not that it mattered, but if I had Luke on my bad side I'd be feeling much more nervous about the whole thing. Sure, I could take care of myself, but he was _gigantic_. Especially filling almost the entire doorway of the impressively sized entrance to Reggie's office.

He entered and closed the door, me retreating while doing my best not to let it look like retreat, the bouncer glaring at me when the way was barred and my exit blocked. But any anxiety I was feeling dissolved as his face crumbled and he actually teared up, hands clutching into fists at his sides.

"You know," he said. "You caught them, too."

So, I wasn't the only one, huh? "Everly and Gary," I said.

Luke sniffled a little, dark cheeks flushed, lower lip trembling a moment before he pulled himself together. "I told Ms. Nolan," he said, never mind first names. She'd clearly dove head first into the whole professional woman thing, making me think about renaming and reinventing myself. "I warned her but she wouldn't listen. You have to talk to her. Get her to dump him. He's wrong for her."

"You seem to think I have more sway than I do," I said, fishing for confirmation and getting it a moment later when he ran one huge hand over his mouth, nodding.

"She told me," he said. "Why you're really here. Said to keep an eye on you, give you anything you needed. Especially now." He shook his head, light glinting off his shiny baldness. "She trusts you, Ms. Morgan."

Even though I suspected she might be a murderer? Well, Reggie didn't know that, though if the thought hadn't crossed her mind yet, she wasn't as smart as I thought she was. Staying with Gary didn't qualify in the intelligence department. Brilliant women hung their lives on losers all the time. But she had to know it didn't look good if Elle Gordon was right and Reggie was the last one on the video footage with Carson.

Made me think about why the back hall light was out, what happened the twenty or so minutes between my final drink delivery and my discovery of the body. And just what was on that security feed.

"Any idea why she's still being questioned?" Couldn't bode well.

Luke's shift from worry to rage made me stiffen. "No way she killed that guy," he said. "Dude was a creep and a bookie doing business where he shouldn't have been, but Ms. Nolan's too classy for that."

"And you, Luke?" I took a chance, remembering what Dante said early this morning, that his fellow bouncer—clearly more protective of Reggie than was called for if he was just an employee as far as I was concerned—had left his post around the time of death, that narrow twenty minute window. "Are you too class for murder?"

Maybe it was dumb to challenge the giant man that way, trapped in this room with him the way I was. But there was something about him I trusted, that reminded me in a way of my father, and despite knowing he probably was capable of doing almost anything to keep Reggie safe, I doubted he'd resort to murdering me to keep me quiet.

At least, that's what I told myself as the big bouncer shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking sheepish.

"I didn't kill him," he said. "If I wanted him dead, no one would find the body."

Fair enough. "Good to know," I said, doing my best to sound reasonable and remain confident because the way he said it? Yeah, there was probably far more honesty behind his words than I wanted to uncover. "Reggie knew Carson was bookmaking here, though, didn't she?"

He nodded, big head bobbing. "She was pissed," he said. "And that Mr. Harris let it happen. But he and Mr. Jeremiah are old friends of Mr. Harris, so she let it slide."

"How does he know them?" I needed to get back to the real reason I was here and find proof Gary was stealing from Reggie and likely laundering money and putting it all on her. I might not have had the power to protect her from a murder charge, but I'd be damned if I was going to let her go down for the rest of it.

Unless she was in on it and I was being played. That possibility crossed my mind as Luke spoke again.

"Mr. Jeremiah is Ms. Nolan's accountant," he said.

Something stank and it wasn't yesterday's dinner. "Thanks, Luke," I said. "You've been a huge help." I had to talk to Daniel Jeremiah. I might have just found my launderer.

Luke shrugged, paused like he had more to say but turned and left a heartbeat later before I could prompt him to continue. I did want to ask about his personal feelings for Reggie, but it was pretty clear he was in love with her so prodding that toothache likely wouldn't get me far past what I already knew. Why she trusted him with who I was but wouldn't listen about Gary, however? I shook my head to myself, though I didn't really have the right to judge. I'd made my own mistakes—hello, married and divorced at twenty-one while remaining in love with the wrong man all these years—so calling the kettle any color but black smacked of the kind of hypocrisy that would make me squirm with embarrassment.

We'd just leave Reggie's private life at that.

Time to dig into the people with motive and means to ruin my friend and forget the superfluous stuff that really didn't amount to much more than gossip. I rifled around in her desk, finally found Daniel Jeremiah's card. Right, it was Sunday, no one in his office. I didn't want to have to wait until the morning to talk to him, however, on the off chance Reggie was cleared. I'd love to be able to offer her some answers to take her mind off the fact someone was murdered in her club. I know if I was her I'd be in the market for a win right about now.

Turned out, I didn't have to wait after all. As I exited her office, intending to ask Gary for a personal number for Daniel—oh, he'd be giving it to me, believe you me—I heard voices from the back hall and, curious and more than a little cautious, I crept to the doorway and listened in on the conversation.

"This is all your fault." That was Aiden Pritch. Who was he blaming for what?

"I had nothing to do with it." Well now, the man in question himself. Daniel sounded reasonably distressed, at least.

"We'll see if the cops agree with that," Aiden snapped before stomping toward me, his footfalls the only warning I had he was approaching. I did my best to fake surprise at his appearance, though I didn't have to work too hard at it. He ignored me, storming out of the bar and down the stairs. I turned back to find Daniel watching me, face tight and worried.

"Can I help you?" He was polite, at least, doing nothing to correct my first assessment of him. He'd been a counterbalance to his friend's smarminess and it appeared that hadn't changed with Carson's death.

I took Reggie's trust into my own hands and nodded. "We need to talk," I said. "I'm not who you think I am."

He flinched a little, eyes tightening, body tense. "You're a cop? Undercover?"

"Not law enforcement," I said. "Deception specialist." I called on Elle Gordon's terminology in a flash of inspiration. "I'm here to uncover who's stealing from Reggie and find out if the IRS accusations about the laundering are something she needs to worry about."

Daniel sagged then, hands shaking as he ran them both through his dark hair. "I see," he said. "You'd better come with me."

Why did those words sound ominous? But he simply led me back to Reggie's office and her laptop and showed me what I already knew.

"Reggie's been stealing from the company for months," he said, sounding disappointed and resigned. "I can't believe she's being so blatant about it, but it's all here in black and white."

I leaned against the desk, arms crossed over my chest, shaking my head, even more certain now she was being set up. "There's no way she's that stupid," I said. "Come on, Daniel, think about it. This looks like someone's laying the groundwork for her to take a fall. And I think I know who it is."

His troubled expression made me angry. "You think it's Gary," he said.

"Don't tell me you're going to let an old friendship let a woman go to prison for fraud and money laundering," I said, pulling out my very best Supervisory Special Agent tone on him.

Daniel flinched from me, sagging back into Reggie's big, leather office chair. "How did things go so wrong?" He sounded like his heart was breaking and I actually felt sorry for him while he cleared his throat. "Life wasn't supposed to turn out this way." Tell me about it and cry me a freaking river already. "Carson started bookmaking a few months ago, despite the fact I tried to talk him out of it. It's the family business, but he's been legit for years. Went to college, got a law degree, even. But he hated it and when his father died..." Daniel tossed his hands. "You don't care, and you know what? I guess I don't anymore, either. Carson is dead, Reggie is in custody and Gary might have killed our friend to keep him from telling his wife he's been shunting the gambling funds through After Hours for a bigger cut of the profits."

Whoa, hang on. "Tough having a conscience," I said. "Isn't it?"

He bobbed a slow nod. "I swear I had nothing to do with any of this. I didn't even want to come to the club last night because I knew Carson was going to confront Gary and blackmail him." Despair aged him, his hazel eyes meeting mine, full of old hurt and new agony he didn't know how to deal with. "My friends, my oldest friends, turning on each other over money."

"Aiden thinks you were in on it?" Was that what their fight was about?

Daniel hesitated before shaking his head, telling me there was more to the story than he'd let on just yet. "What are you going to tell Reggie?"

"The truth," I said. "That her husband and his friend were stealing from her, laundering illegal betting profits through After Hours and that Gary is actively cheating on her while, quite possibly, allowing her to take the fall for a murder he committed." Just let me get my hands on him. Meanwhile, I couldn't help the surge of proud excitement that rippled through me. Had I really solved all three cases just like that?

I still didn't have proof of absolute guilt, but who needed that?

"Where's the laundered money?" And the stolen funds. God, was Reggie really that blind? I was going to kick her in the butt for refusing to see who Gary really was. Love. She could keep it.

Daniel shrugged, standing. "I don't know," he said. "But now that Carson is dead, someone needs to find out. And there's no one else." He sighed softly. "I'll dig into the accounts and keep you posted. Wherever they funneled it, it's likely the went offshore or into numbered corporations. Now that I know to look," oh, he knew before, but being willing had finally come into play, "it shouldn't be too hard to uncover the truth."

"And clear Reggie," I said.

He shrugged. "Of fraud and laundering," he said. "But there's still a chance, Ms. Morgan. That she killed Carson."

True enough.

"There's one other player in this you should consider," Daniel said, heading for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "Aiden Pritch manages the theater and the club, has access to all the accounts. If he wanted to set up Reggie and deflect interest from himself to others, he has the means to do it. Not to mention history with Carson." He hesitated a moment before going on. "And there's me."

With that, he left, closing the door softly behind him.

Way to muddy the crystal clear waters, Daniel.

***

# Chapter Eighteen

I debated my next moves, realizing that despite my little trip down back-patting lane, if I didn't have some kind of proof that wasn't pointing at Reggie as the culprit, everything I'd guessed at and supposed was just that. She needed concrete and I wanted that five percent and bonus, so.

While I didn't entirely trust Daniel to deliver on his promise to keep me posted, there wasn't much I could do about it either way except wait him out and see what came of his assurances he was on the right side at last. That covered the laundering and theft questions, but there was still the infidelity and that, at least, I could bring to her on a silver platter.

I just needed someone to spill her guts and I knew exactly how to make Everly do it. And not by direct confrontation, either. When I slipped downstairs to see if she'd hidden out in the theater, my quest was satisfied, finding her crying in the dressing room. She looked up when I entered, flushed and with mascara tracks down her cheeks and, for a moment, seemed angry I was there. Then, with a gurgled cry, she rushed toward me and hugged me like I was her lifeline and she was drowning in those guilty tears of hers.

Honestly? I hoped she choked on them. But I wasn't going to say as much, not when I needed a confession from her, one I could convince her to share with Reggie.

While I highly doubted my club-owner friend would be initially grateful I gave her what she needed to end her marriage, and didn't expect a second bonus for homewrecking, I couldn't stand by and let Gary take advantage of her, especially if proving he was cheating gave Reggie the impetus to believe other, more serious, accusations against him. Maybe she'd even come to some conclusions of her own after she had her eyes opened.

Or she'd fire me and be on her own and go to prison for murder, money laundering and fraud. Which I'd have to live with if I did this wrong.

That's why I tolerated and even comforted Everly as she wept on my shoulder, guiding her toward a pair of chairs in front of the long, lit mirrors in the dressing room, patting her back and handing her a fresh tissue when she released me.

"It's going to be okay," I said.

"Please, don't tell Ms. Nolan!" Everly's wailing request put my teeth on edge. Of course I wasn't going to tell her. Everly was. "I know it's wrong, and I never intended it to go very far. But Gary is so sweet and he says he loves me." She trailed off, misery written in the lines of her slumped body while I sighed inwardly and resisted the urge to smack her.

"I'm sure," I said. "Everly, you have to come clean. You know the police will probably uncover the affair in the investigation. It'll go way better for you if you tell her yourself." Like that, huh? Came up with that little argument on my way downstairs and though I worried it wouldn't hold together spoke out loud like it had in my head, it seemed just as sound verbalized as imagined. Cool, maybe I was good at this.

Everly shook her head, looked away, biting her lower lip, but she didn't seem like she was denying my words, just horrified by them. "You really think so?"

"It's inevitable," I said, with just enough Pops sorrow in my voice to gain a soft gasp from her. He had the best guilt trip tones of voice ever. Epic, and clearly taught me well. "Gary will try to blame you, you know he will. You'll lose your job over this. If you tell Reggie what happened, she might believe you. I know I'd want to hear it from you, not his version of things."

Maybe I pushed that a bit far. After all, if she really was in love with the scumbag soon-to-be ex-husband of my friend, she'd side with him over Reggie, right? I'd known enough young women like her, however, to see the self-preservation wake in her eyes and guess she wasn't so taken with the married man after all.

"I don't know what to do," she whispered, hoarse. "Gary erased all the tapes that had us on it. If you hadn't walked in..." she shivered. "Do you think there's other evidence?"

Poor blind, wretched, misled child. Sure, she might have only been a few years younger than me, but there was enough innocence in her I felt sorry for her briefly. Like, a microsecond before remembering she'd had an affair with my friend's husband. Still. I did have a heart. "There's only one way to find out." Hmmm. This could be a window of opportunity in other areas, too, right? "Where is the video feed recorded?"

She pointed at the back of the dressing room, toward a door I just noticed. "Aiden's office," she said.

Aiden, huh? "Is he around?" As far as I knew he'd left, though I'd seen him storm out of After Hours. Did he end up down here?

Everly shrugged delicately, so I took that as a lack of interest in finding out. "Think about what I said," I told her, standing and crossing to the door. "Reggie deserves to hear it from you, Everly." I didn't wait to hear her response, pausing at the entry to the office to listen. Silence, at least as far as I could tell. I took a chance, turned the knob.

Locked. Darn it.

"Here." I jumped and spun, only realizing when she handed me a key Everly had followed me to Aiden's office door. I looked down at it, up at her in surprise while she dabbed at tears on her cheeks. "He hides it under the feather boa box." She shrugged like that was common knowledge before turning and leaving me alone with the means to break and enter into Aiden's office.

Which I promptly did. I was careful, don't get me wrong. He could have entered and locked it behind him, so I didn't just barge in or anything. But when I noted the darkness, flipping the switch to illuminate the small room, taking in the four monitors against the wall, the laptop on his rickety desk, the absence of anything resembling another person, I took a chance and slipped inside, doing as I thought he might and turned the center of the knob to the locked position.

While there was still a chance I might get caught, at least I'd have some warning of impending confrontation.

The video footage storage was a hard drive and desktop, easy enough to navigate and sort through thanks to a semester of film editing I took a few years ago. The system might not have been the same but the concept was similar, and I quickly found myself skimming through the available footage from the previous night and early morning.

Turned out there were only four cameras in After Hours, the rest positioned around the theater. I ignored those for the moment and focused on the club. One was aimed at the side door, Luke and Dante in full view, the next behind the bar, mounted high enough the bulk of the main floor was covered. The third sat at the entry to the back hallway, and the fourth at the top of the stairs, also covering the bar.

That meant no cameras in the private rooms, so no way of knowing who killed Carson. I watched the footage that Detective Rick Danone had obviously taken with him on the jump drive earlier this morning, of Reggie entering the back hall, Room B, leaving a few minutes later, looking furious. As she vanished from sight, the light went out. Huh. Did she turn it off herself? If so, why? She must have known Carson was back there. I fast forwarded past the pitch black footage until the light came back on and I appeared, twenty minutes after Reggie's exodus, and entered Room B.

Okay, so now I understood why Elle Gordon was questioning Reggie. But if the light was out, there was an excellent chance someone could have purposely done so in order to sneak to Room B and kill Carson. I reviewed the footage again, more slowly, at regular speed, waiting to see the door open. When it didn't, I chewed my bottom lip a moment, only then realizing, as my gaze fell to the timecode, something was very off.

As in, a whole three minutes of footage was missing. That couldn't be right. I wound back, watched the timecode again, and the unmistakable skip forward of exactly three minutes. So, the feed had been tampered with. Whoever turned out the light to the hall had snuck to the room, killed Carson and, for good measure, broke in here and erased the footage.

Everly knew where the key was. Then again, so did everyone else, as far as she was concerned. Including Aiden, since this was his office and his equipment. And Reggie. She'd been the last one in the hallway, the light going out right around the time she would have passed the switch. If only it was in the sightline of the camera, but it was just out of field.

I sat back, scowling at the now still footage, mind turning while, unnoticed, so was the lock.

So, remember what I said about having warning I was about to get caught? Just not observant enough for my own good, apparently. Not when, as I inhaled and sat forward, ready to check out Aiden's laptop for any inside knowledge into the rest of Reggie's troubles, the man in question opened his door and stepped inside, freezing on the threshold with his wide eyes locked on me while I stared back in a stupefied trance.

Way to get caught, Petal.

***

# Chapter Nineteen

Before Aiden could get down to the nitty gritty accusatory ditty, I groaned and held up one hand. Then promptly shared with him, as I had Gary and Daniel, who I really was and why I was there.

While the other two had taken what I said pretty much at face value, Aiden seemed less willing to do so, frown of suspicion making me equally frustrated with his lack of trust and a little leery of the first pair of accepting souls and what I now realized was a rather massive leap of faith.

Well, I had that kind of face, right?

"Believe me or not," I said, "Reggie will confirm it when she gets back. For now, I have a job to do, Aiden, and I'm not going to stop digging until I prove what she's paying me to prove."

That seemed to placate him somewhat, though the furtive looks he gave his laptop told me he had his own secrets to hide. "She won't be coming back," he said, tone flat and empty, hands stuffed into the back pockets of his jeans, closed off and clearly antagonistic. "She killed Carson and the cops know it."

"Because of this?" I jerked a thumb at the footage, didn't bother waiting for his affirmation. "Or the three missing minutes from the security film?"

He started, paled, shook his head. "There's no time missing." Aiden no longer held back or kept his distance, leaning over me and queuing up the feed, watching himself before, at the flicker of time gone, he swore softly under his breath. He sank to the desk behind him, sitting on the corner, hands in his lap now, expression softened. "Why didn't I see that?"

"Looking for someone to blame, maybe?" Time to prod him a little harder now that he'd relented. The guilty grimace he gave me told me as much.

"Listen," he said, "it's not just the footage. Reggie had me put that champagne bucket together, the best bottle in the house. She had it sent to Carson. Sure, Gary insisted, but she ordered it."

"That doesn't mean she killed him," I said.

Aiden crossed his arms over his chest, belligerent all over again, though not aimed at me. "I arranged it personally," he said, like that offended him.

"Just because you did doesn't make you guilty by association, so relax." I thought about it a moment while he pondered in silence, staring at the dark screen in front of me and the frozen timecode. "Who delivered it?"

He thought about it a second. "Everly," he said.

That didn't really mean anything either. From the footage, the champagne arrived ages before the lights went out and the footage went missing. I'd noticed it when I was first corralled to serve in the private room.

Though the next tidbit Aiden shared did give me a shiver. "I overheard the M.E. talking to forensics," he said. "Before he drowned in the ice bucket, Carson was struck on the back of the head." He paused. For effect? Maybe. "With the champagne bottle."

Which also meant nothing, though he seemed to think it made Reggie guilty. "A weapon of opportunity anyone could have used," I said. "And since there are only a few people with access to this room," I waved one hand, realizing in a flash of insight into my own character that should have made me feel weird but instead gave me a thrill I was actually enjoying myself, "that short list of suspects might include Reggie. But Aiden, it also includes you." And me, if I was going to name names. I knew I didn't do it, at least.

More guilt, but was it over murder or did he know something about it he wasn't saying?

Aiden stood abruptly and leaned over the desk, grabbing his laptop. "You'd better have proof if you're going to start accusing people," he said, before leaving in a hurry while I watched him go.

Was this how Dad felt interrogating suspects? With little else to do, and no one else around to question, I instead headed home, weary and ready for a nap, though my brain wouldn't stop churning. I got it, then, the reason he loved what he did. Wondered why I never pursued law enforcement, hadn't even really considered it. And he'd never suggested it, though I doubted there was an ulterior motive.

Maybe he thought witnessing Mom's murder would keep me from wanting to dig into police work. Since the thought hadn't crossed my mind, I could hardly blame him. Now that I'd had a taste of investigating? We'd just see where things went from here.

Mind you, I talked myself down as I pulled into the driveway with my head so big I was going to have trouble getting out of the car, I'd been doing this all of two freaking days and had managed to uncover pretty much squat aside from what Reggie shared with me and walking in on a few arguments and a passionate embrace. That pinprick to my ego deflated me sufficiently that by the time I was taking the stairs to my apartment, it was hard not to feel a bit defeated.

Reggie was counting on me. I was counting on me. And what did I really have to show for it?

Imagine my surprise when I found my place already occupied by an anxiously pacing Dad who spun on me the moment I entered. A quick glance at my phone, forgotten on the kitchen counter, made me groan when he held his up to show me he'd been trying to call.

"I wasn't dead in a ditch," I said. "Or kidnapped."

He didn't smile at the joke or the sarcasm. If anything, he looked even more anxious, though he did his best to hide it. "Someone stopped by to see you," he said. "About an hour ago." He let that hang in the air a second. Now here was a man who knew how to use a pregnant pause to make a point. Aiden was a rank novice compared to my dad. I was actually holding my breath by the time he finished. "Detective Elle Gordon would like you to get in touch." He paused yet again. Nodded, hands on hips, face a mask I couldn't read. "About a murder." Dad's jaw jumped. Oh boy. "At the club where you work. The body you found while investigating," he choked a moment, looked away, then back to me, "fraud and money laundering."

Well, crap.

"Dad," I said. Stopped when he held up one hand.

"The detective," he said, voice low and soft, a sure sign he was very unhappy, "would like to see you right away. In person. At the station." Dad inhaled a long, slow breath. "When you're done, come see me, Pet. We need to talk."

He left then, footfalls heavy retreating down the back stairs, not closing the door so I heard each and every step until he finally opened and then firmly closed the kitchen entry. I held still a long moment after, heart aching, kicking myself for not confiding in him before now.

What a way for him to find out his daughter made some stupid choices and was now embroiled in a murder investigation. I really was a piece of work.

Well, I'd deal with it later. Because later was my favorite. For now, I had to drive back to D.C.

That half-hour commute? Gave me a lot of time to beat myself up, to waffle back and forth between blaming Dad for being mad because I was a grown woman, right? I could make my own decisions and get into trouble if I wanted to, and kicking myself in the hurty places as hard and painfully as possible for causing him distress like this.

He deserved better.

I was grateful for the distraction of the police station, the noisy, rather aromatic interior of the precinct only a few blocks from After Hours (naturally, because driving for an hour to make a five minute trip was aces). Dodging a pair of unsavory young men arguing with a uniform, I caught the attention of the desk sergeant who quickly directed me to the elevator and the fourth floor.

Elle Gordon waved me over to her desk when she spotted me arriving in the bullpen, and I joined her immediately, sinking to the chair across from her while she shuffled some papers aside and smiled at me.

"That FBI dad of yours," she said. "He's got a solid poker face, but I get the impression he didn't know anything."

I shrugged, hands clasped tight in my lap. "He does now."

Elle laughed, like she'd done me a favor. "Always better to ask forgiveness, Petal. So, let's talk."

Maybe she was right. Didn't matter now, anyway. I filled her in on everything I'd learned, from Gary's affair to Daniel's concerns and pointed out the missing footage.

Elle grunted over the missing three minutes, frowning. "Yeah, caught that myself after Rick decided your girl Reggie was guilty." She sipped a cup of coffee that was clearly cold, the rim of the cream clinging to the inside of the mug, but she ignored it in favor of the caffeine fix. "Anything else?"

I shook my head. "Still waiting on info from Daniel Jeremiah. I'll keep you posted." That's what he told me. So was this my fate, to be a go-between?

Elle sat back, eyes bright. "You know," she said, "I get why you didn't pursue being a cop. I do. Don't get me wrong, I love my job. But what you do..." she sucked in a breath, grinned. "Way more fun."

This was just embarrassing. I really needed to tell her I'd stumbled onto what I was doing and it wasn't a real job and she didn't owe me any respect but, instead, I pushed on.

"Is Reggie still your number one suspect?" There was no reason for Elle to answer me, but she shrugged like it didn't matter.

"She is." She toyed with a paperclip, frowning at it. "At least, my partner and my captain seem to think so." Which meant she had doubts. "Whatever Daniel Jeremiah turns up in his own files, we've sent over a forensic accountant to dig into Ms. Nolan's. They should turn up anything he doesn't."

"Including anything the real fraudster planted to make her look guilty," I said, not meaning to be so heated.

Elle's gray eyes met mine, hers expressionless. "Truth."

"So why would she hire me to find out what was going on if she was behind it?" Never mind I was proving rather worthless, aside from uncovering exactly what the police already had. I suppose that should have brought me some comfort. "It doesn't make sense." I was not mentioning the fact there was a possibility Reggie hired me specifically for that reason—to provide herself an alibi because she figured I'd find nothing and make a mess and give her the benefit of the doubt.

Not going there. My confidence couldn't handle it, not after the run-in I'd had with Dad.

I needed answers, needed to know the truth. I'd always considered myself an excellent judge of character. I couldn't have been that wrong about Reggie. And if I had, I wanted to know it and move on from it, give Elle what she needed to prove it so I could wash my hands of all of this and go back to trying to find a real job and making my fathers proud of me.

"I want to see her," I said.

***

# Chapter Twenty

I half expected Elle Gordon to roll her eyes and tell me to go home and stop pretending to be a detective. Instead, she stood and guided me across the bullpen to a hallway.

I didn't expect her partner to interfere, though, and from the mild surprise on her face, neither did she. But Rick Danone must have had his own agenda, coming between her and the doorway she paused next to, shaking his head, frowning at me.

I guess the faint respect he'd had for me in After Hours wasn't sufficient. "You can't let her in there."

Elle laughed, soft and light. "I what?"

Rick hesitated, his obtuse confrontation not going the way he'd planned, apparently. "She works for the suspect."

"I am well aware of Ms. Morgan's relationship with Ms. Nolan." Elle's dry tone made my mouth pucker it was so efficient. "Get out of the way, Danone. You're embarrassing yourself."

He didn't move just yet, but I could see him wavering. Clearly I was in the middle of some kind of power play, the young detective cutting his teeth on challenging his partner. I knew he was going to lose. Elle knew it, too, and likely the whole quiet bullpen was waiting for the punchline. Rick, on the other hand, had no idea.

Poor kid.

Elle reached around him, her gray eyes locked on his, and opened the door. She didn't touch him, but she didn't have to. As she stared him down, he backed off two steps, face set in denial, petulance.

"This isn't proper procedure," he mumbled.

"There's a time and place for everything," Elle said. "Get a few years under you. Then talk to me about procedure."

He nodded like it hurt and spun and walked away. From the disappointed mumbling behind us, the gathered detectives watching the show had been hoping for something of a spectacle. Elle, it seemed, was a class act and I found myself liking her even more as she gestured for me to enter the now open door.

"Five minutes," she said, nodding to me and, to my surprise, Reggie sitting at a metal table staring at us with huge eyes clearly bloodshot from crying.

I joined her, hugging her briefly, feeling her cling to me while Elle closed the door behind us. I wasn't sure if Reggie would ever let me go, my attempt at a quick embrace turning into a choking moment of her despair washing over both of us.

"I'm being set up," she whispered in my ear. "Petal, I swear it."

I nodded, though not to agree with her, only to give her that sense so she'd let me go and not cut off my oxygen any longer. She did release me at last, hands shaking, crumpled tissue dark with mascara piled in her lap. She retrieved the top one and dabbed at her eyes while I grabbed one of the chairs opposite her and sat on her side, holding her free hand.

"We're going to figure this out," I said, meaning it. "Reggie, there's something really wrong with your books."

She started, tugging me toward her. "I know," she hissed in my face. "Petal, the spread sheets you saw? They aren't the same ones I've had access to all along. I have no idea what's going on. I thought I had a handle on everything." She sobbed once, low and soft and full of desperate fury at herself. "So much for being a businesswoman. I can't even manage to keep the people around me from framing me for fraud and murder."

I know I had no reason to believe her. There was more than enough evidence to at least suspect she was the murderer and had her clever hands in the rest of the mess. But I just couldn't bring myself to accept it, not when she was so genuinely distressed and clearly at a loss for what to do next.

"Who handles the day-to-day?" I was pretty sure I knew but wanted to soften the intro.

"Aiden," she said, surprising me. "And Gary."

There was the name I was looking for. "I'm going to tell you something that's going to hurt. A lot. But you need to know because there's a very good chance your husband is behind all this, Reggie."

She swallowed, looked away. "He's having an affair," she said.

Damn it. "You did know and you didn't do anything?" I hadn't meant to be so accusatory, but come _on_.

She shrugged, tearing the corner of her tissue apart in slow, thin strips, lower lip jutting like a petulant child called out on bad behavior. "Just don't," she said. "I'm an idiot. I hardly need to be told. I'm well aware I've been blind when it comes to Gary." She shook her head, curls bouncing their own denial. "I can't bring myself to believe he'd do this, though, Petal." Those dark eyes met mine with a plea that told me she was arguing with herself. "It's a big leap from infidelity with pretty dancers to murder."

Never mind the thefts and the laundering. "Your husband," I said, stressing that word so she'd listen, "is setting you up to go to prison while he runs off with your dancer, your money and, now, likely all the laundered profits from Carson Carrigan's business."

I watched her resistance dissolve. That had been my goal, after all, to cut through her denial at last. Thing is, I miscalculated, because I hadn't taken into consideration the fact while I had a bit of a temper? Reggie was a firestorm buried under an active volcano.

"I'll kill him," she shrieked suddenly.

Just as the door opened and Elle Gordon walked through. Perfect timing. The detective didn't comment about her threat, though. "Five minutes are up," she said.

I hugged Reggie again, feeling her tremble against me. "I'll get to the bottom of this," I said. "I promise."

My friend just sagged in her chair, hands falling still in her lap. Was she giving up? Did she pour all of her rage and hate into that one threat and now had nothing left? Well, she'd been here, trapped in interrogation, for hours. I'd be pretty wiped out, too.

I left, Elle following me, and paused in the hall. "Is this necessary?" I gestured at the closed door while the detective arched an eyebrow at me.

"Basic procedure," she said. Winked. Her partner's favorite word came back to haunt me.

"Where's her lawyer?" I distinctly recalled Reggie asking for such representation, back up now about the whole mess.

"She fired him," Elle said, "when he sided with the husband."

Well, craptastic. She couldn't go unrepresented. "She didn't do it and we both know it."

"She didn't kill Carson Carrigan," Elle said, guiding me away by walking off herself, "but I still don't know if she was involved in the fraud and laundering. So she stays until I am."

Frustrated, lost and knowing I was in such deep water treading it was going to burn me out before too long, I left the police station, sitting in my car a long moment, staring out the window into the May sunshine, wondering how I'd gotten into this mess. I wasn't an investigator, had no training, was going to let Reggie down.

Realized with a sinking feeling in my stomach Elle Gordon played me. Let me talk to Reggie alone in a room where she could listen in, where privacy was not assured. What had she overheard? And was that why she'd allowed me to see my friend?

Of course. Everyone had their own agendas. I knew that well enough just from life experience. I didn't hold it against her or anything, but it still made me feel like a fool.

Oh, and Dad. Lovely. I had to talk to Dad yet. This day was just getting better and better.

My phone rang, making me jump, and I flinched before I realized it wasn't a number I knew. When I answered with some trepidation, Daniel Jeremiah's voice answered.

"For what it's worth," he said, "I've found an odd account that's been routed through a pair of numbered corporations with the funds stored offshore." Just like he said it might. How convenient of him to have located exactly what he'd been looking for. "I know what you're thinking," he said, sounding tired. "But it wasn't all that well hidden. Just enough to keep someone who isn't an expert from uncovering it."

"How much is in the account?"

"I don't know yet," he said, "but the last transfer was for $15,000 and there have been multiple transfers over the last several months. I'm estimating well over $500,000."

Holy Hannah. "Did you tell the police?"

"Detective Gordon was my previous call," he said, "and you're my last. I really don't think Reggie was involved, and I told the detective as much."

That was big of him. "Thanks for following up," I said.

"I said I would." He paused a moment. "Carson used to be a good guy." And then he hung up, like that was supposed to mean something.

If it made him feel better, great. As for me, it did nothing but add to my frustration. Still no proof. The account could have been Reggie's. Hopefully the forensic accountants would be able to trace who opened it, however, and who controlled the corporations, though if the person responsible was as clever as all that, everything would trace back to Reggie, with the only exception, of course, being their ability to empty the account.

That meant the culprit had to be attached somehow. I felt a little better. Even the smartest criminal left a trail, and surely the police accountants were brighter than the average fraudster. I had a feeling Carson's murder hadn't been an original part of the plan, which meant it was likely whoever was behind this had to be scrambling to wrap things up before the cops found any evidence other than what pointed directly at my friend.

The second time my phone rang I answered it in a bit of a daze, mind still churning around the details. "Petal," the young woman said, taking me a moment to identify Everly. "Petal, are you there?" She sounded scared, like she was whispering.

"Everly?" I jerked out of my moment of pondering, frowning out my windshield in concern. "What's wrong?"

"Please, meet me at the club." Her voice dropped further, making it hard to hear. "Can you come?"

"Of course." She hung up on me, leaving me with a sour taste of anxiety in my mouth. Rather than drive the few blocks and fight for parking, I hopped out and jogged to After Hours, the unlocked door welcoming me inside. Everly wasn't upstairs, however, only the cleaning crew doing a more thorough job than I ever could.

I finally found her in the theater, sitting in one of the few seats at the front of the stage. She huddled with her arms around herself and, when I joined her, hugged me tight with a low cry.

"He dumped me!" She wailed that as if I should care since she'd been sleeping with my friend's husband.

"I'm sorry," I managed.

Everly pulled away, face furious, a flash drive landing on the table between us. "I'll teach him to use me like this," she snarled, tears forgotten. "You have to take this to the police."

"What is it?" I slipped the drive into my pocket without really looking at it, hoping it held information that would exonerate Reggie.

"Proof," she said. "That Gary's been stealing from his wife and laundering money through the club and that he planned to run off and let her go to jail for it all."

***

# Chapter Twenty One

It was hard not to bounce in excitement at the news. I held myself still despite the pounding of my heart and need to beam a huge smile at her, hug her, thank her. She did Reggie a favor, in my opinion, outing Gary. And now this?

Maybe I didn't suck at this after all.

"Let's go see Detective Gordon." Everly could explain everything she knew. I stood but the dancer was shaking her head, shrinking down into the seat she occupied, glancing over her shoulder as if suddenly afraid.

"I can't, Petal," she said, voice dropping to a whisper. "I shouldn't even be out in the open like this, talking to you. If Gary finds out..."

The implication made me pause, slowly sit again. "Did he kill Carson?"

She didn't answer, blinking slowly, lips trembling, but I drew my own conclusions.

"He was in deep with Carson and the organization that funded him." Organization?

"Do you mean the mob?" This was very bad. What would they do to Reggie? I'd seen far too many mafia movies to feel even remotely comfortable with such references in connection to my friend's husband and his business dealings.

Everly did another shoulder check before leaning in. "Just take it to the cops. They'll handle it."

"What about Daniel Jeremiah?" If he was involved, I'd pin his butt to the ground myself.

The dancer shook her head, frowning a little. "Gary and Carson used to complain Daniel was such a princess. Refused to take part in any of it."

Nice to know someone in Reggie's life wasn't on the take. "Aiden?"

Everly blinked like I'd leaped a fence onto a part of the farm she hadn't expected me to go. "I don't know," she said.

"Or Luke?" Prod, poke, come on, Everly.

That flash of anger I'd seen before crossed her face, gone in a heartbeat but I knew it was there, recognized it. She wanted me to accept what she told me and not ask more questions, huh? What was that all about? She must have thought I was an idiot.

Well, no comment.

She stood abruptly, high heels scraping on the wood floor, skintight jeans and t-shirt making her look so tiny she'd dissolve in water. "Reggie's innocent," she said. "Isn't that all that matters?" She fled then, leaving me to contemplate her part in all this because I was starting to wonder if her dancer act wasn't just for the stage.

Elle was at her desk when I returned to the station, sitting down without an invite. She didn't seem unhappy to see me, especially when I slid the flash drive toward her.

"I have no idea what's on it," I said, frustrated I didn't have my computer with me so I had no means to check the files. "But according to Everly Hunt, this is proof Gary was behind everything."

Elle picked up the drive, bounced it in her palm, before plugging it into a USB slot. "The dancer he was sleeping with?" She didn't seem surprised. "Even the murder?"

I nodded, but the detective was already frowning.

"Except we have footage of him outside the club at the T.O.D." She skimmed the contents of the drive. "And yes, I'm well aware of the fact if someone had been able to cut time from the footage, they might have tampered with the timecode, too."

I had a thought. "What about Luke? The bouncer?" Dante said he'd been missing from his post.

Elle nodded absently. "We talked to Mr. Johnson as well as his counterpart, Dante King. The latter was at the door the entire time, on camera. As for Luke Johnson, he said he was in the theater, looking around after closing. We have a bit of footage with him in the bar downstairs, so it fits, at least to a point."

"There's a back entrance to the club," I said. "Emergency exit." The busted EXIT light had become rather convenient. "Luke could have snuck upstairs and done the job then gone back downstairs to set his alibi."

She whistled low, shook her head in amazement as she read through whatever was on her screen. When I tried to lean around and peek, she shut off her monitor and met my eyes with hers narrowed and, for the first time, shut me out.

"Go home," she said. "Thanks for this, but if what I'm reading is true, your friend is in a whole heap of trouble I'm going to have to scramble to get her out of. Leave it to me. Okay?"

There wasn't much I could say to that. I stood on the street outside the station, hands in my pockets, frustrated all over again. Well, at least it looked like Reggie would be in the clear, at least where the law was concerned. But if she had deeper trouble—with the mafia of all organizations—Elle Gordon was probably right.

I needed to cut and run and wish my friend well.

Wouldn't you know, I spotted Aiden Pritch at the very moment I decided to just go home and face the consequences of my actions? He was hurrying down the sidewalk in the direction of After Hours. On impulse, I followed him, almost lost him when he ducked around a corner into an alley. It was only the sight of Gary Harris coming the other way, tucking into that same alley, that gave me the indication I needed to slow and stop and peek and listen.

They were far enough down the alley their angry faces were clear, but their words weren't. Gary shook his index finger in Aiden's face, his own pale and creased with worry. Aiden's grim reticence was a wall of stone and, looking furious but unable to get the answer he wanted, Gary snarled something before rushing off in the other direction, away from me and to the next street.

Aiden huddled in his jacket, head down, frowning at the pavement while I approached, looking up at the last minute, sighing heavily at the sight of me.

"What do you want?" He turned to leave, not waiting for my answer, but I spoke up before he made it a step.

"I know everything," I said. "Gary and Carson and the mafia. The numbered account offshore, the corps. The cops have all the information they need, Aiden."

He froze, turned around again, now pale and shaking himself. He joined me then, hissing at me to be quiet, glancing over his shoulder much as Everly had before nodding heavily.

"Fine," he said. "Then what do you want from me?"

"Who killed Carson?" I was hoping throwing that question at him might shake him further, but he just shrugged.

"Take your pick," he said, sounding bitter enough even he could have been guilty. "Gary, Reggie. Luke. Some random mob hitman. That's what stealing from the mafia gets you, you know. Dead."

Stealing from the...?

So that was why Everly was so afraid and Elle wanted me out of the investigation. I did my best not to show my surprise at the reveal, instead offering up a grim, grave nod of my own.

"The $500,000," I said. "All stolen?"

He grunted softly, didn't argue. "Try ten times that, at least in the account I know about." Five million? Gulp. "Gary kept a half mil in cash floating around just in case." You know, for emergencies. Wow. "All laundered through After Hours, squeaky clean and, according to Carson, untraceable by the mob or the cops." He laughed a little, humorless and angry. "Nothing is untraceable these days. Maybe if they'd stolen from someone other than Reggie's dad, but no. Gary had to keep things close to home."

Gary. Choke. Reggie's. Gasp. Wait.

What?

"Reggie's dad is in the mob?" Okay, couldn't hold that in, thanks. Just too much. Her whole reticence to join the family business was now so understandable any wonder I'd felt over her turning her father down died a quick and painless death.

Aiden's scowl was enough evidence he was growing suspicious, but I didn't have those kind of acting chops, thanks.

"He runs this end of town." He paused then. "I thought you said you knew everything?"

Connections fired off in my head, synapsis making pathways to truths. "Luke works for Reggie's dad," I said. "Protects her and the club."

Aiden nodded slowly, some of his trust returning. "Of course. So does Dante."

"What about the money Reggie said has gone missing from the club?" Damn it, I needed to solve that, too.

Aiden shrugged that off. "The money she thought was hers," he said. "It was her father's. Gary cooked up some books so she'd think she was making more than she was so he could hide the cash he and Carson were funneling out of the gambling operation." Aiden sighed then, backed off. "Listen, this has gotten way too hot for me. I'm just a bar manager. Sure, Gary was paying me on the side to stay quiet, but I never wanted to frame Reggie, and I had nothing to do with the murder." He grimaced. "And now the money's missing and Gary's terrified because his only chance to make it right and return what he stole is gone." He shuddered. "He's a dead man walking."

The money was gone? "Who took it?"

He spread both hands in front of him, denial written all over him. "Not me," he said. "If I did, I'd be long gone. I figure it was Daniel."

Daniel. Of course. "Thanks," I said.

He shook his head before turning to go. "Don't thank me," he said. "Just forget we ever met."

I watched him go, jaw clenched against all the uncovered bits and bobs that suddenly made all of this not only make sense, but much more terrifying. Reggie could have told me her dad was a mob boss. Nice of her to suck me into her mess like this without warning. Still, it literally connected dots and the reality of her success, of her association with Carson, of Luke's protectiveness, of her ability to own a place like After Hours, all wound up into the realization my friend's life was about to get very, very complicated.

Did Elle know who Reggie was?

Didn't matter now. All I knew was when it came down to it, the missing money was the most important piece of the puzzle. Because if anything was a motive, large chunks of change were a great bet on murder.

***

# Chapter Twenty Two

I could have—likely should have—gone back into the station and yet again dumped information on Elle Gordon. Except she'd told me to stay out of it from here on in and, frankly, with the involvement of organized crime (Reggie's dad was _what_?) I knew better than to argue. I thought Dad was mad now.

Wait until he hear the whole story. Yikes.

Instead, I left her a voicemail, outlining what I'd heard from Aiden. It was possible she already knew of Reggie's involvement with the mob, though her paternity might have been missed in favor of the theft. If Elle's expression when she'd read the file I'd shared was any indicator, she'd been worried enough for Reggie she hadn't known about any sort of family ties that might keep my friend at least alive until the truth came out.

Home beckoned and my confrontation with SSA Andrew Walker, which was why I immediately headed back to the club to check on a hunch despite Elle's request and knowing I was taking a risk getting further involved. But I was involved, and Reggie was my friend. Besides, it was just a little hunch and if it made her life easier, and kept me from having to have that gut-wrenching and most unhappy of chats with my father, well.

I'd take the mafia over my dad's anger and disappointment any day.

I was just entering Reggie's office—at least I didn't have to sneak around and pretend anymore, since Luke's nod of welcome told me I could come and go as I pleased assured me everyone now knew who I was and why I was there—when my phone dinged. I check the message, surprised to see the response was from Elle.

_Odd transfers in Luke Johnson's account,_ she sent. _Not the $15,000, but large sums, all cash_.

I texted her back immediately. _Did you get my voicemail?_

_Checking_ , she responded and went quiet.

I should have stayed in the office and poked about around my hunch but it seemed much less interesting now, especially knowing the man at the bottom of the stairs might be able to give me a reason for what Elle dug up. Which meant, naturally, the right thing to do (going home and locking myself in my apartment with a bag of chips and a new TV show to binge) was out of the question, since I was already halfway down the steps to confront the bouncer before I realized I already knew what the money was for.

"The cops know you're working for the mafia." Look at me blurting information like it didn't put me in a terrible position with the gigantic man who stared at me in flat unhappiness when I came to a halt next to him. The least I could have done was pause on the final step and close some of the height distance. Instead, I put myself at a distinct disadvantage, hating as I always did my measly 5'5" pitted against the hulking gargantuanism of his easy 6'5". It was one of the things that always bugged me about my ex-husband. Rafe was tall, big, though never intentionally dominating. Luke, on the other hand? I caught the whiff of his towering threat the moment I stopped talking and took notice of the fact I was alone in a quiet alley with someone who could very easily have been paid off to kill Carson Carrigan.

"Is that so?" His chest thrust outward, jaw jutting at the same time, hands in fists at his sides. "How'd they figure that out? You tell them?"

I eye rolled. I couldn't help it. Sighed heavily despite the fact I should have felt intimidated. I mean, come on. Really? "Luke," I said. "Your boss is the daughter of a mafia kingpin. You work for him. He pays you cash into your bank account. It's not rocket science to follow that trail to the moon and back."

He blinked then, clearly confused. "The moon?"

"My point is," I said, realizing I was making things worse with my sassy nature but not sure how to excise that particular part of me and knowing now was a terrible time to think about altering my personality despite the fact it might keep me from harm. "It wasn't hard for them to figure out. And now that they know, they're wondering if the money was for services rendered. If you know what I mean." I tried a conspiratorial wink.

Now, I'm not saying Luke was stupid. He certainly didn't display anything mind-numbing in our previous interactions. However, it did take him almost thirty seconds to arrive at the desired finish line. When he did, however, his big, brown eyes flashed with denial so authentic I believed him before he even shook his head, large hands held up between us.

"I didn't kill nobody," he said. "I mean, I would have. I'd do anything for Reggie. But not Carson. That wasn't me."

Nice of him to be so honest. "I know," I said, reaching out to pat his inflated bicep with one hand, noting how rock-hard he felt and how very vulnerable I was if he decided to take his frustration about the situation out on me.

Instead, Luke sagged against the railing next to the stairs, expression hangdog enough the fact he was in love with Reggie might as well have been a billboard flashing neon over his bald head.

"I'm just supposed to make sure she's okay, that's all." He sighed then, a giant gust of air from a pair of massive lungs that ruffled my hair with the scent of coffee and caramel. "Her dad, he never trusted that creep she married." Good to know. "Welcomed him into the family, though. But Reggie, she never wanted anything to do with the business." I knew exactly what business he was referring to. "And Mr. Nolan, he honored that choice. He's a good man."

For a mob boss.

"Can I make a suggestion?" He nodded glumly when I drew a breath and tried a smile. "Maybe ask him to stop paying you cash. Either that, or don't put the cash in your account where it can be found. Big red flag, my friend."

Luke bobbed a nod. "Thanks," he said.

I hesitated before asking my next question, but he might have been the source I was looking for. "Did you know Gary was stealing from Mr. Nolan?"

Well, that was a terrible thing to ask the bouncer/hitman/wise guy. It was clear Luke did not know and, from the twisting of his lips and rather raging bull-like huffing he was making before he stormed off, Gary was in for a very, very bad time of things.

Did I just make Reggie's life better or worse? And Elle? I really needed to listen when I was asked to step aside. Still, that hunch... surely it wouldn't hurt. I was in this deep, right?

But Reggie's files, the new ones that had been added, weren't available for my perusal. Her laptop was gone, either in Gary's possession or already in the hands of the police. I kicked myself, realizing it was the cops, of course. I sank into her chair, staring glumly at the surface of her desk, randomly testing drawers but finding them all open and ransacked with nothing inside more interesting than pens and a half a candy bar she'd clearly been snacking on at some point.

No proof to be had Gary had Carson killed. If the time code was correct, then he hadn't done it directly, but he certainly had access to funds to hire someone. There was only one other office in this building that might hold answers and I was already doing something I wasn't supposed to, so what the hell.

The partially opened entry to Aiden's office in the theater green room told me he'd run off like the coward he clearly was. Had he left anything behind? I wasn't thinking, wasn't being careful, certainly didn't expect anyone else to be around. I guess having training in this kind of thing actually was a great idea, because if I had been through a course or two on investigating dangerous criminals, I might not have just barged into the office, coming up short with a little meep of shock, to find myself between a terrified Everly, crouched against the desk, and a furious Daniel.

Pointing a gun at her. And now at me.

Just awesome.

***

# Chapter Twenty Three

It turned out they weren't exactly expecting my interruption. If anything, my arrival threw a wrench in plans that appeared, at first glance, to have unraveled in a way unintended and only getting worse. Daniel's panicked expression gave me mental pause in a crystalline moment of awareness so acute it was as painful as a bullet wound. Perhaps lost himself in his own world of surreal simplicity and hyper focus, my momentary misstep, rather than leading to the untimely end of yours truly, instead seemed to trigger his flight instinct. He turned in an attempt to run, despite the fact he had the weapon, a surprising reaction but one that gave me an edge. Since I was between him and his quarry, and near the door, our proximity made action equally idiotic and instinctual. My decision was made for me the moment he spun to flee the room. That intensity of attention I was lost in showed me in slow motion his falling hand, his divided scrutiny, the lowering gun no longer pointed at anyone or anything it could cause permanent harm.

I blame my fathers that, at that moment, their training kicked in.

Literally. My weight shifted effortlessly to my right foot, planted firmly on the floor, left leg rising as my fists formed a defensive posture in front of my heart, toe lashing out at his hand and hitting him hard enough the pistol went flying. My follow through didn't land as I expected, though, the second kick barely clipping him or slowing him down, but I was satisfied that at least I hadn't been shot and neither had Everly and wait, was my heart really beating that fast and I was still alive and not having a stroke?

Cool. No stroke. No bullet wound. Dad would be happy I was in one piece. Because Dad would be hearing about this side adventure over my dead body.

Get a grip, Petal.

Speaking of which, Everly made a dash for the gun, cradling it like a gift in the palms of her shaking hands, tears streaming down her face while she held it out to me as though I wanted it or something. I pointed at the desk and watched her drop it, heart skipping when I had a thought about impact and whether the safety was on and if I should duck and cover. Instead, the gun made a dull thunk on the wood surface, lying there like a threatening creature now dead but possibly a zombie that might rise and wreak havoc regardless.

"He did it!" I could barely make her out through her sobbing, already rather shaken by what I'd done, but my empathy in full force thanks to the surging adrenaline that got me moving and hugging her while she shook as though she'd break into a million pieces.

"How do you know?" Way to question the girl he almost killed. Chances were, she wasn't handing me a story here. Why else would he be pointing a gun at her?

"I caught him in here," she said, shivering, voice vibrating with it so she was a little hard to understand at first. "He was going through Aiden's things." She coughed softly to clear her throat, pulled away from me. "I know it was stupid, but I wasn't thinking so I confronted him."

I grinned shakily. "Sounds like something I'd do," I said. "He took it badly, I guess?"

She managed her own faint smile, regaining control of herself, nodding and her voice settling into a smoother tone. "I didn't have real proof or anything, but I figured he was down here for a reason, and when I heard him on the phone..." she choked on a breath, went on. "I accused him of the murder." She shook her head at herself, dazed, shocked. "I still can't believe I did that. But he confessed!"

"You must be very persuasive," I said. Wait, was I annoyed she solved the case before I did because she blurted an accusation at a killer only out of opportunity and not skill or talent? Right, because I was so skilled and talented in the crime fighting department.

She seemed utterly floored by his confession. "He said he found out Carson was stealing from their bosses. Did you know they worked for the _mob_?" She whispered that before forging on. "He wanted in on the deal with Gary and Carson but they cut him out and he was furious. He said he deleted the footage from the feed to set up Reggie, doctored her financials. Got rid of Carson and plans to kill Gary. Gary!" She gasped the man's name, though he'd dumped her, hadn't he? Clearly she still had feelings for him. "I need to warn him. Daniel is going to kill him and run away with the money. The mob will kill Reggie and Gary both." She was clutching at me again, tears renewed but totally audible. "We have to stop him!"

"Why did you accuse him?" I didn't disbelieve her or anything, but that was a leap, wasn't it?

"I overheard him talking," she said. "He hired someone to kill Carson. An _assassin_." Obviously subterfuge was not her strong suit. She sounded like she was in a B movie and was the next one to die. "He caught me eavesdropping." She groaned at that, sagging a little. "Why did I come back downstairs? I have the worst luck ever." Everly flinched as she looked out the open door. "What if he comes back?"  
"I don't think we need to worry about that." If Daniel was the murderer—and behind everything—he had the money and was halfway to a non-extradition country by now.

"Petal." Everly was visibly pulling herself together, though her hands still shook. "There's more."

Of course there was because she was the hero of this story and I was her sidekick.

"I'm listening." Grumpy much? I hated it when things didn't turn out the way I wanted. Forget the fact I was well aware solving the murder and Reggie's problems came in far ahead of my poor little ego, but there you go.

Everly paused so long I wondered if she was in a trance. When she finally spoke, it was low and soft and full of fear. "I know who the assassin is. We have to talk to the cops."

My mind flashed to Luke, Dante, personal failures put aside in favor of burning curiosity. "Who?"

"Aiden," she said. "He's not who he says he is."

I gaped at her, though it made so much sense, even as she handed me a plain, white card with two words in the middle in bold uppercase writing, raised in gold.

THE CHAMELEON.

On the back? A phone number. And that was it.

"I found it in Aiden's desk," she said. "He's only worked here for a month, keeps to himself, has access to everything, including Reggie's books." I knew that already. "We have to go to the police. Tell them about Daniel and Aiden."

She was right. Which was why I pulled out my phone and, rather than calling Elle Gordon, did the one thing I shouldn't have and dialed the number on the back of the card.

_Leave a message after the tone_ , said a lovely, professional, female voice in a British accent. An invitation my inner smartass simply couldn't pass up.

"See you soon," I said, hoping I sounded ominous. And hung up.

***

# Chapter Twenty Four

Just another day at the office ended with me dropping Everly off at her apartment, already on my way home. I should have been feeling something more than annoyed curiosity after having a gun pointed at me. But it wasn't actually like the gun was aimed at me on purpose. Daniel held it on Everly. So it was more just a situational mishap rather than any real threat to my wellbeing.

Keep talking, Petal. You can convince yourself of anything if you really try hard enough.

I was expecting a conversation with Dad, of course I was. Distracted by the past few hours, however, the reveals about Reggie and her own father, Daniel's lies and subsequent attempted murder of the dancer I'd come to like despite myself, took the edge off my wariness, blunting the grip I had on my self-protection and temper when it came to having this particular talk with the opinionated and rather over-protective person that was my FBI dad.

What I hadn't expected? To walk into my apartment, head down, thoughts on other things, only to be corralled by my scowling brother, of all people, and marched back down the steps to the back door and the kitchen where, pale and clearly unhappy, the three men in my life proceeded to glare at me where they perched me on a kitchen stool at the peninsula like I'd mortally offended the three of them.

"We need to discuss what you've been up to," Dad said.

"Discuss?" So, Pops was usually the calm and sweet one. That was, unless Jordan or myself was in some kind of dangerous situation. Then he went all upper register with his vocal stylings, that high-pitched denial of Dad's attempt to downplay the beginning of the talk instantly hitting my _hell no_ switch and raising my hackles despite myself. "There's nothing to discuss, Andrew. Petal has been putting herself in a terrible position, just terrible." Pops shook his head, almond eyes bugging out a bit as his fear got the best of him. "Murder and serving drinks at a bar and burlesque dancers." He held one hand to his throat like that was the worst part of it. " _Burlesque_." He heaved a sigh that was part sob. "She might as well be stripping, Andrew."

He was kidding me right now. "Pops," I snapped. "I'm not dancing." Like that was going to help. "I took a job for a friend who needed me. The rest of it is just a smokescreen. Besides, I'm done. Okay? Happy now? The cops asked me to step out and I did." Yeah, wasn't telling them about what just happened because if Pops was on the ballistic border now? Fireworks would light this place up and no one would bring him down until he'd burned it to the ground.

I loved my Asian father, but he had a hysterical streak that made me want to shake him sometimes.

"Do you mind telling us just what is going on?" Dad had to poke the bear. Jordan, at least, looked a bit contrite for being party to this interrogation, but my FBI father wasn't about to let things go without a full and exhaustive—and I was already tired—cross-examination of all the freaking facts.

Didn't they know I'd just kicked a gun out of a thief's hand and saved a damsel in distress while uncovering an assassin who murdered the guy I couldn't stand? Sheesh, give me five minutes and a round of applause, not the third degree.

Wasn't going to go that way, though. "I have it handled," I said, the worst possible words that could meander out of my mouth at that moment. I knew it, they knew it, Jordan snorted his amusement over it. Bratty little brothers weren't allowed to judge without retaliation later.

As for Dad, well. His slow burn had clearly been sizzling all day because whatever was left of his fuse had lit up and was so close to setting off the blaze I could smell smoke.

"Young lady," he said, the worst possible words that could make their way past his parted lips at that moment and triggering my very own pending blowup/meltdown/bridge burning extraordinaire.

"If moving in here means you have the right to treat me like a child," I said, standing slowly and deliberately, knowing I was digging a ditch I'd never fill in again and unable to stop myself despite my inner child shrieking at me to shut up, just shut up, Petal, "I won't be staying long. Thanks for the hospitality. But this is my life and I'm living it the best way I know how. Like it, lump it, get your heads wrapped around it, fathers mine. I have a job, be grateful. One that pays very, very well." At least, the last two nights had. "I'm good at what I'm doing." Sorta. Was getting better, maybe. "And I'm taking responsibility, like you wanted." For other people's safety. Yeah, not what they meant. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm tired, I'm battered and I just saved someone's life while avoiding getting shot." Damn it, Petal. "I need a shower and a snack and maybe a nap before I can even consider continuing this little talk."

They let me go, bless them. Not one of the three chased me down or yelled in my direction or even attempted to stop me as I exited the kitchen and headed back to my apartment, head up, shoulders rigid, the picture of a woman with her crap together in one basket and carrying it like a champ.

That was, until I made it into my messy and barely habitable abode and collapsed in a heap on the bed to cry a little, just to let out the tension I'd been holding since, well.

Since forever. Leaking from the eyes was great therapy as long as I didn't let it go on too long.

A faint sound distracted me from the hiccups. I stood, crossed to the door, opened it, not sure what to expect. Certainly not the large, orange tomcat, his stub of a tail raised, those green eyes watchful but ears perked and that deep and gravely voice of his demanding something I couldn't translate.

"What?" I wasn't polite, but he was a cat.

"Meow." Why did he sound like he'd just overheard everything I told my fathers and brother and was giving me the piece of his mind they hadn't had a chance to hand over?

"Yeah, well, none of your business," I said, tempted to just close the door and be done with it.

The cat grumbled, licking one paw and cleaning his cheek with it before glaring. "Meow."

Mouthy, huh? I reached over beside the door, grabbed the bag of treats I'd bought, thinking I could lure him in and now wondering why I'd ever want such an opinionated creature in my circle. He sniffed the offering as though debating whether it was worthy before crunching his way through the little pile. I stood there and watched him, weary, worn out, not noticing until he was almost done we weren't alone.

It was the cat's notice that clued me in, the way his head half turned to take note of our visitor, how he grunted his dissatisfaction at being interrupted before he did a rather portly and yet stately sashay down the steps and past Reggie, out of sight around the corner of the garage while I gaped at her and she grinned back.

I waved for her to come upstairs, which she did, hugging me at the top, looking just as tired as I felt, still in her shiny dress from the night before, pulling off her heels and sitting on my bed when I closed the door.

"Nice place," she said. And burst into tears.

I sank down beside her, arm around her shoulders, just sat there and said nothing while she let out her own demons. When she was done, I handed her the box of tissues, noting she looked gorgeous even when she sobbed like a banshee while I always seemed to get that blotchy ugly that made me vow never to cry in public.

Jealous? Yup.

"I'm here to thank you, not cry on your shoulder." She made no move to get up, however, seeming at ease and, to be honest, about ready to keel over. "They let me go because of what you uncovered."

"Everly," I said, winced. Reggie's throat worked, more tears in her eyes, but she nodded.

"You brought the information to them," she said, so firmly it was clear what she chose to believe. "So I'm thanking you, my friend." And would never, ever, express gratitude to the woman who had been sleeping with the husband of the year.

I totally understood.

"I feel like such a fool, Petal." Reggie's hands settled in her lap, expression empty and vocal tone flat. "I trusted so many people and I knew better. Daddy raised me to be smarter than this." She sighed softly, blew her nose. "You know about Daddy?"

I nodded. "Enough," I said. "You didn't tell me he was involved in organized crime."

She laughed out loud, amused enough but with hints of bitterness that had to stem from a lifetime of dealing with a father in the mob. "I'm sure you wouldn't have held it against me," she said.

"I wouldn't," I said.

I think that surprised her, no more than it did me. But I meant it.

Reggie's expression softened to sadness, but without the desperate hurt that had been there a moment before, hidden behind her need to be accepted, I guessed. "Maybe I'm just not cut out for business after all," she said. "Daddy was humoring me. And I lied to myself, thinking I was smart enough for this. What a disaster." She rubbed at her face with one hand, but when she was done, she was smiling. "At least I got to hang out with you a little. You know, I was always jealous of you when we were in high school."

Jealous of me? "The girl whose father murdered her mother in front of her and was adopted by two gay men who kept it in the closet so she couldn't bring anyone home just in case someone found out? You were jealous of that?"

Reggie shrugged, smile soft. "From the girl whose dad was climbing the ladder in organized crime, selling drugs to kids, running prostitution rings and getting shot at on a regular basis."

Right. Fair.

"Listen," I said, hating that she was being so hard on herself, knowing it was a mirror for how I was feeling right now and refusing to let either of us go down any kind of dark and despair-filled hole, the contents of which was likely a lot of alcohol and junk food and depression. "This isn't your fault. You run an amazing place, Reggie. The theater, the bar, all of it. Awesome." She didn't comment as I went on. "The patrons love it, you target the perfect audience and the staff are happy. If it wasn't for Gary—"

Shut up, Petal.

But Reggie shook her head when I stumbled to a halt. "I know," she said. "It's okay." I worried for his health, suddenly, and not due to her father's profession. "I was a fool about him, too, but no more. I'm done. And so is he."

I really wanted to ask her if she was going to have him killed, but we were bonding and I didn't want to ruin our friendship over justifiable homicide.

The guy cheated on her. Likely more than once. Justifiable.

"If his body's in the trunk," I said, "I'll borrow a shovel from my fathers. I'm sure between the two of us we can find the perfect place to hide the body."

Reggie seemed startled by the offer and then laughed out loud, peals of humor that sent her back onto the bed to shriek her gaiety at the ceiling while I fell back, too, giggling with both hands over my mouth like we were twelve and talking about boys.

Well, we were talking about a boy. Just not in a way that was conducive to his continuing existence. That qualified, right?

Reggie finally snorted her way to a halt, sighed deeply, sat up. I joined her, the two of us grinning at each other as she spoke again.

"Detective Gordon and that boy wonder partner of hers are looking for Daniel," she said. "And Gary." She winked. "Don't worry, he's not in my trunk, though if I was him, I'd be running and never stop. Daddy's not a happy man right now."

Either way they'd both be off the streets, arrested or otherwise. "And Aiden?" I thought of the business card Everly handed me.

Reggie seemed surprised by that. "Why Aiden? He wasn't part of this, was he?"

I fished out the card the dancer had given me, handed it over. "Have you ever heard of the Chameleon?" Funny, I just realized Elle Gordon used that same term to describe my current job as a deception specialist. I guess lying about who you were for a living could go either way.

Reggie blanched, cheeks ashen, eyes huge. "I have," she whispered. "Petal,  
Daddy's been chasing the Chameleon for years. Everyone says he's the best assassin in the country." She met my gaze, card limp in her hands. "Aiden?"

I shrugged. "One way to find out."

Time to call Elle Gordon again and show her how good I was at following her advice.

***

# Chapter Twenty Five

After Reggie left, I had a sad realization, despite our parting good friends, which should have been enough. I wasn't going to get paid. Everything I'd put myself through amounted to nada, despite having a gun pointed at me, finding a dead body, confronting a professional assassin, making my fathers angry and worried. So much for yet another failure to launch in a long line of diddly squat.

I did perk up when I remembered the $2500 I'd made in tips over two nights working at After Hours. Okay, so not a total wash. That money would be a huge help, don't get me wrong, but I'd been hoping for a happy financial ending since the happily ever after kind wasn't in my cards now or ever.

Making a real friend would have to be the moral of this particular story. Besides, it's not like anything would have come from her payday offer anyway. Even if the missing money had been recovered, it wasn't hers to share with me, ultimately. I was pretty positive the mob wouldn't be handing over five percent of laundered gambling funds to satisfy their boss's daughter and her promise to me.

Nor would my FBI dad be okay with me accepting said money. Not that he would have had to know where it came from, right? Oh Petal. This was a steep and rather slippery slope of excuses I was sliding down and picking up speed with every breath.

Which meant I needed a moral checkpoint, a guiding light, some intercedence by those who didn't struggle with right and wrong. Sighing to myself, but resolute in my decision, I chose to face the musical part of the show and take my medicine like a grown woman.

There was only one way I knew of to end this day that had sort of worked itself out to a decent wrap up, if not the jump up and down for joy resolution I'd been hoping for.

I returned to the kitchen with firm and unhurried steps, walked in the door without knocking, found my fathers and my brother talking quietly amongst themselves, likely about me from the guilty looks that crossed all three faces at my appearance. I took that in stride, choosing to ignore their hasty cover up, observing them silently while they sat back from each other, further proof of their collusion. They fell still when I joined them, sat on the stool I'd vacated a half hour before, hands tucked between my thighs and body stiff to keep from softening in my resolve.

"You know how much I love you." And I was choking up already. Excellent. There went Pops, teary himself. I hated making my father cry, but this was necessary and the bandage was coming off. "I've made so many mistakes." Really, voice? You had to betray me with vibration and a faint cracking like that in just that instant when I really needed you to have my back? I was going for collected, cool, calm. Not little girl on the verge of a breakdown. Nice job. Do better. "But they are mine to make. You raised me to be stronger than that." Dad didn't acknowledge that fact, but Jordan was smiling faintly, looking back and forth between our fathers, and I knew from that look he gave me I finally found the right attack plan to make this work. "If I'm going to live here, I need to know you're not going to be watching every move I make. I know it's your house." I held up one hand. "And that I'm here because you're kind enough to let me stay."

"Petal." Wow. Was that a thickening in Dad's voice? Sure sounded like it. "You're here because we love you."

No, I would not sob and hug my daddy and go all to pieces. This had to get sorted out and _now_. "We need rules," I said. "On both sides. That we can all live with."

"You know I don't agree with compromise." Pops didn't, either. As an ethics professor, he despised it, said it only led to both sides being unhappy.

"So, we collaborate." His favorite word. Pops beamed at me then, leaned over to take my hand and squeeze it. His fingers were hot, warmed my cold ones.

"Agreed," Dad said. "But."

Here it came. I clenched tighter, ready for the restrictions and curfew demands and all the boxes and protections he enforced when I was a teenager because, frankly, I'd needed them.

Instead, Dad sighed, shoulders slumping a little. "I just need to know you're safe."

Wait, what? That was it? The sum and total of Dad's needs and desires?

"I am," I said. Flinched. "This job was an exception. I swear." I exhaled, feeling the tension in the room lighten, though Dad's blue eyes lit with humor and sadness both.

"We'll see," he said. "It seems you have a hidden talent for investigation you never told me about." Was that pride in his voice? Had I succeeded in making him proud of me? "Which means you may end up breaking that promise, Pet."

"Not on purpose." I shrugged, sighed, leaning forward on my elbows. "I'm sorry I hid this from you. I didn't mean to. I'm just trying really hard to figure things out and this fell in my lap after I couldn't find a real job." That wasn't as hard to admit as I thought it would be. "Who knew I'd be good at it?"

"Your mother was a famous actress," Jordan said. "And you were always pretending to be someone else when we were kids, remember?" He grinned at me. "I loved playing with you. We had the best adventures."

We had. Nostalgia for the win. I felt it bind the four of us, draw out the last of the hurt my sneaking around had caused, my failures had embedded in my heart, soothing the sharp bits and letting us all breathe, relax, love. Be a family again.

"Just tell me you're not going to be a dancer," Pops said, expression puckering as though he knew he was pushing his limits. "At least, not that kind."

I almost laughed. "Don't worry, Pops," I said. "My talents lie elsewhere."

"You really should try acting again," Jordan said. "You were always such a chameleon, Petal. And you've got tons of skills, now, right? From all that school you're not using."

I stared at him, a wheel turning over like a cog making a connection, a spark of understanding hitting me hard in the gut and driving me to my feet. Because there was that word again and it finally made sense to me.

He stared up at me in surprise, they all did, and maybe I should have stayed put, made a phone call, instead of running from the kitchen to my car, firing up the engine, driving off toward the city.

Knowing in my heart, without a shadow of a doubt, who the real mastermind of this entire fiasco really was. And who murdered Carson Carrigan.

***

# Chapter Twenty Six

I wasn't entirely stupid about it. The gun was still on Aiden's desk so I helped myself. Dad made sure I knew how to handle a firearm. Daniel hadn't even disengaged the safety, so there had been no real threat earlier it turned out.

Now? Threat imminent.

I went upstairs, not surprised Luke and Dante were missing from their posts, nor that the door was unlocked. I heard a soft groan from behind the bar when I entered the main room, checked on the two fallen bodyguards, both passed out from blows to the back of the head. A heavy whiskey bottle had enough blood on it to be the weapon of choice, though I highly doubted there would be fingerprints for the detectives to find.

The Chameleon was far too careful for that.

I could only hope Reggie wouldn't show up at random, though I knew once Elle Gordon got my hasty phone message she and her partner and half the D.C. police force might show up. Would be good to have backup, but I had to know.

Stupid, impetuous, ridiculous. What was I thinking, crossing to the back hallway, slipping into the darkness, EXIT sign still not fixed, though I now understood its demise was by design, a plan I walked right into. The bit of light wavering through the crack in the entry to Room B wasn't from an overhead within, but more like the flickering pass of a flashlight giving the occupant illumination.

She was on her hands and knees under the table, pulling a panel off the wall, a black canvas bag bulging with what could only be the missing cash already beside her.

"Couldn't just leave it behind," I said. "Could you, Everly? Not when everything had gone the way you planned."

She looked up at me, the flashlight's glow casting creepy shadows over her smiling face.

"Petal," she said, all pretense gone, black-clad body gloved and long hair tied up in a smooth bun. I wondered if she had a gun, held the one I'd retrieved on her, safety off. She took in the barrel pointed in her direction, sat back on her haunches, still smiling. "How did you figure it out?"

I shrugged. "My mother was an actress," I said. "She was one way with me, but on camera, she was anyone they wanted her to be. I was reminded of that fact, that I'm a lot like her, not so long ago. Made me think about someone else I'd met that had talents maybe she wasn't sharing." I circled a little, keeping me between her and the door. Surely Elle would arrive any second and I could pass this over to the detective with a triumphant wrap up to a case that was way more than I'd bargained for. "And the name, chameleon. It fits what I was doing as much as a possible assassin. Aiden just didn't fit the profile. But you? You reacted twice. Out of character." That flash of anger she'd shown, the blank mask hiding rage. They'd felt out of place, and now I knew why. She hadn't been hiding infidelity. She'd been playing a role as the Chameleon. "You've been orchestrating everything, including my discoveries of evidence, my interactions with everyone." It was really rather remarkable when I put it all together. And discouraging I'd been that easily played and so naive. "Even the buzzing EXIT sign that annoyed me. If someone hadn't called it out, would you have just shut it off in complaint?" Of course. "You probably caused the damn noise in the first place." Naturally. She was ten steps ahead. "Thanks for the education. I'll put it to good use." Cheapest school I'd ever gone to, if the dead guy didn't count. And tips. Right. The bright side of murder.

Everly stood slowly, second bag of money slipping out from under the table. "Very good," she said. "Actually extraordinary."

"You seduced Gary," I said, knowing I was right. "You used him to get to your real target. Carson Carrigan."

She didn't move, but she did answer. "It's how I operate," she said. "You should understand that by now. After all, Reggie hired you to do the opposite of what I do."

True enough. "We know who offered to pay me," I said. "So who's writing your check?"

Everly's smile tightened. "This one was all mine," she said. "The money, at least. Carson made enemies. I'm just taking advantage of the situation." She shrugged like honor among thieves, killers and fraudsters was blasé and overrated. "Anyone would do the same given the right opportunity."

Anyone like her, maybe. "Did you set up Reggie?"

She shook her head, eyes narrowing further. "That was Gary's idea," she snarled. Hmmm. "You're welcome, by the way. I saved your friend when I found out. She didn't deserve to pay for his crimes."

Problem with human beings of the male persuasion, Everly? Certainly seemed that way.

"You must realize her father won't let you get away with all that money." I gestured at the bag with the gun. "He'll hunt you."

She laughed, clipped and crisp. "Morgan Nolan has been hunting me for years. This won't change a thing. Though perhaps a nice vacation might be in order until he stops throwing people around and frothing at the mouth." She sounded like she was enjoying this a little too much. Made me wonder about personal vendettas and what history she might have with Reggie's dad.

Not that it mattered. "Why bother setting up Aiden? Why not just hang it all on Gary?" Again, didn't matter, and yet. I found myself fascinated and she answered, so why not give Elle Gordon enough time to get here already?

"The footage," she said. "I managed to delete my part in it, but Aiden suspected and when I realized Gary was caught on camera at the time of death, I had to improvise." She winked, the bright and intense flashlight illumination giving her a demonically playful air. "He was easy. And by the time they figured out he wasn't the Chameleon, the theater would be burned to the ground, the dancers gone and myself just another unemployed burlesque girl forced to move on to her next gig."

Burned to the... "You were going to set fire to this place?" With Luke and Dante knocked out behind the bar?

Everly tossed her head, body settling into a relaxed stance that instantly made me nervous. I knew what that felt like because Pops had encouraged it every time he'd led me in my deep breathing exercises just before he kicked my butt on the mat.

She was planning an attack, the crazy woman. Did she think she was bulletproof?

"I underestimated you, and I don't do that often." She sounded impressed, oddly, like she was amused and delighted by the interaction. "I have to say, it's been a real pleasure, despite the subject matter. I've enjoyed our back and forth immensely." Good for her. "But, the truth remains, I have a job to do and a reputation to uphold. One that relies on my identity remaining a secret." I just bet. "The only people who have ever figured out who I really am can't tell anyone about it."

That was a pretty clear threat. "I have the gun," I said.

She laughed. "The one from Aiden's office? That Daniel threatened me with?"

"He knew who you are," I said. "He knew you're the Chameleon."

She nodded. "He was so terrified, he ran rather than try to follow through. The coward. I'll deal with him shortly. But you first, Petal. A shame, really. Under the right circumstances I may have considered taking you under my wing. But the daughter of an FBI agent just isn't the sort of protégé I'm looking for."

She'd lost her freaking mind. "You sound like you think you have the upper hand. But I might reiterate, Everly, I'm the one with the pistol."

She flicked her fingers at me. "You checked to be sure there were bullets?"

Oh, crap.

I wasn't expecting her next move, her foot lashing out, but not at me, while I fumbled to check the magazine. Her heel came down hard on the flashlight, crushing out the illumination and plunging the room into darkness.

I lunged toward where she'd been, but too late, cursing softly under my breath, spinning at the sound of light footfalls heading away from me. I gave chase, reaching for the light switch but flicking it to no avail. She'd obviously thought ahead, cut the power, damn it, just like she'd orchestrated the death of the EXIT light, right? I heard a door open, ran toward the sound, almost impacted the surface as it slammed in my face.

Audibly locked to the sound of her laughing.

"See you again, Petal!" And then, while I growled my frustration, spinning to stumble my way down the blackened hallway to the main bar, terrified at any second the place was going to go up in smoke, knowing she was long gone and I'd lost her, I heard the approaching sound of running feet, Elle Gordon calling my name.

If this was the part of crime fighting that made people quit, I totally bought it.

***

# Chapter Twenty Seven

Elle Gordon sipped her coffee, sunlight streaming through the kitchen window as Pops handed her a plate of cookies. She accepted one with a smile while I did my best not to shoo my over-eager father out of sight. He was adorable and got the hint on his own, but only when Jordan appeared and guided him away.

"You have a cute family," she said. "They care. I can tell."

I shrugged, a little uncomfortable, though she was right. What was it about this rather hard-bitten but kind detective I really wanted to impress? "Pops makes great cookies. Careful, he'll turn you into an addict and you'll never leave."

She stuffed the whole chocolate chip confection in her mouth and grinned around it. "Sold." She chewed thoughtfully, chased the cookie with coffee white enough and sugar-laden enough to feed a family of four. "You think about my offer any further?"

She'd suggested, rather blatantly, at the crime scene two nights ago after her team uncovered Everly hadn't escaped with both bags of money, that maybe I should freelance for her department now and then. I still hadn't admitted to her this deception thing wasn't really something I'd been trained for, so I figured coming clean now was the best option.

When I informed her of my deceit, she shrugged, ate another cookie.

"Kid," she said, "I could tell you had no idea what to do with yourself. But your kind of talent can't be learned. It's natural. You follow my rules, don't do stupid stuff," she eyeballed me so much like Dad's best glare I laughed, "and we'll see what happens." She sat back, sipping. "No promises, the captain isn't a fan of private investigators, but I find people like you useful under the right circumstances."

"What about your partner?" He'd been cold to me, clearly still holding a grudge after Elle's quiet and efficient takedown at the station. Not my fault he chose then to confront her. It was clear he didn't like me, though, warranted or not.

Elle didn't seem worried. "You leave Rick Danone to me," she said.

I would do that, no question.

"Are Daniel and Gary in custody?" Daniel might not have been the bad guy Everly tried to convince me he was, but he'd taken part enough in the laundering—had been complicit and an accessory—that they were both wanted men.

"Yes, barely," she said. "I have a feeling they were both happy to see us. Though, if what you said is true, the Chameleon's identity is burned so her value as an assassin is gone with her secret."

Sucked to be Everly Hunt. Not even her real name. Not bitter, nope. Uh-huh.

Elle fished a card out of her wallet, set it on the counter. "Figured you'd like to have it as a souvenir," she said. "The number's been disconnected, account was paid in cash. Whoever she is, she's gone back underground, though we do have the tech guys dipping into the dark web to see if they can track her." The depths of the internet were home to lots of illegal activities. I had no doubt Everly would find something to do that suited her personality.

Yeah. I had to get over it. But she got away. And there were bullets in the gun, the magazine full when I handed it to Elle that night and she checked.

I could have shot her.

Oh, Petal. But would I have?

The jury was still out.

Elle left shortly after that, taking the dozen cookies Pops pressed on her as she did. She waved herself out, munching, while I hugged my father and left to return to my own apartment.

Found Reggie sitting on the stairs, waiting for me. She waved, hesitated while I joined her, sitting next to her.

"I figured you'd rather Detective Gordon didn't know I was here," she said.

"You're my friend," I said, feeling suddenly protective of her. "I don't care who knows it, Reg."

She beamed a smile at me. "Daddy's pissed." She tsked softly, laughed. "Wants me to sell the theater and club. I refused."

"Good for you." We girls needed to stand our ground.

"You saved my business," she said. "And, in a way, my soul. I'd be in prison right now if it wasn't for you." She paused long enough to clear her throat, swallow, pat my knee. "I can't thank you enough, Petal. But I can try." She fished an envelope out of her purse, the thickness of it making me stop and wonder what could possibly be inside. "Daddy was able to access the account Gary and Carson siphoned the laundered money into. All five million." She laughed softly. "That's what really made him mad. I demanded twenty percent." The envelope settled on my lap and she ignored it then, looking out over the back yard with a small, dreamy smile. "He relented, eventually. I think he was proud of me, actually." That made her giggle. "Doesn't matter. I'm not the crime boss he wanted me to be. I just want to run my bar and my theater and live my life."

I purposely did not look at the envelope, now positive I knew what was inside and fighting a giant internal battle over accepting it. Reggie didn't give me the option, standing and descending the steps, stopping to beam up at me. "Come by the bar tomorrow," she said. "We'll have too much to drink to celebrate my newly single status and have someone else serve us for a change." Without waiting for confirmation I'd be joining her, Reggie left, waving at Pops through the kitchen window, leaving me with a moral battle of ethics I was sure my father would find as fascinating as he would terrifying.

I sat there a long time, the weight of the envelope growing heavier and heavier while I hugged myself and struggled with the implications. On the one hand, I'd earned this money, right? I did what I promised and while it might not be clean, it was honestly earned. Then again, this was blood money. A man died for it, died stealing it. And people's lives were ruined in the laundering of it, gamblers and their families suffering. Okay, so I was creating scenarios but the likelihood was strong that I was well on the way to hell if I accepted what was in that envelope.

The ginger tomcat joined me on quiet feet, settling next to me with his fur slightly puffed against the cooler evening air. I didn't try to pet him, figuring it was way too early for that in our relationship, though I did ask his opinion on the matter.

"Keep it or give it back?" I watched his ears flicker, how his big eyes blinked slowly, closing as he released a deep sigh and settled into his own cat thoughts like my problem wasn't his.

I guess it was inevitable, considering my moral dilemma, that Dad would appear. While he'd become my compass for such things, well needed considering my upbringing in a life of too much money, adults without compassion or conscience, surrounded by alcohol, drugs and not much in the way of parenting to be had the first eight years of my life, it was really a wonder I turned out despite Dad and Pops and their seemingly unwavering ethical codes of black and white, right and wrong.

The cat looked up when Dad sat on my other side, then went back to ignoring both of us. Dad leaned into me a little, elbows on his knees, white shirt sleeves rolled up like always, big hands clasped before him. He glanced at the envelope, didn't comment right away, but I could tell he knew exactly what was in it.

"I'm proud of you, Pet." Did he know how much I needed to hear that? I rested my head on his shoulder, feeling empty despite my success. Dad leaned back, arm around me, cheek on my hair. "Sam and I worry because we love you. I know life with us hasn't been easy." This was far from his fault. Since when did he blame himself? "We've done our best to make sure you knew you were loved no matter what." I nodded, couldn't speak because I'd be bawling if I tried. "It's been so hard, watching you find your way. Knowing there was nothing I could do to help. You need to sort your own life out, but I'm your father. By choice. I chose you, Pet." He needed to stop right now, because the fat tears trickling down my face had a lot of friends waiting their turn and I was too tired to rein them in. "No matter what you do, what you choose, I love you. You're my daughter." And, the flood was now inevitable. I snuffled a little, vision blurry, chest tight, throat on fire, but I didn't fight it, let the tears come as he went on, probably the longest string of words I'd heard him put together at one time since he'd found me in the closet in my mother's bedroom, lifting me out of the nest I'd made of her clothes, blood on my hands, on my cheeks, in shock and broken by what I'd seen.

I'd loved him instantly and that never changed.

"I know you're struggling with your conscience right now." Dad leaned away, fingertips wiping tears from my cheeks. "And that the money in that envelope has a history." I nodded, again incapable of speech just yet. "I'm not going to tell you what to do with it, Pet. And I'm not going to tell you who you can and can't be friends with." Like the daughter of a mob boss? My relationship with Reggie hadn't really crossed my mind until now. But as it did, I suddenly worried about Dad and Pops and Jordan. Not just their safety, but what about Dad's job with the FBI? Could I be putting him in a bad situation at work? "All I ask—all Sam and I ask—is that you're careful and think before you act. Please don't take risks just to pay a stupid student loan, Pet. Money's not worth your life."

"Dad," I whispered, "you're an FBI agent. You literally risk your life for money for a living."

He chuckled, but shook his head. "No," he said. "I risk my life for justice and truth and to make the world a better place. I just happen to get paid for it. I hope you can see the difference, Pet." Now he sounded worried and you know what? He had reason.

He was right. Dad was a freaking superhero, his motives altruistic. Mine? Not so much.

Maybe my formative years _were_ the real problem.

Dad hugged me, kissed my forehead, left me there to ponder my next steps. For a brief moment, I almost called him back. My mind, for some reason likely to do with deflection and avoidance, flashed to the folder I'd found in his desk, LUCILLE written across the tab. I'd stirred the pot sufficiently for now, thanks. Whatever Dad was investigating or had information on, if it was about Mom, so be it.

I was too tired at the moment to care one way or the other.

The cat watched him go as if he had no intention of leaving anytime soon, snuggling down a little more, nose dipping toward his paws while I finally reached for the envelope and, in a surge of choice, opened it.

Counted the hundred dollar bills until my heart skipped. Held my breath, wondering if the surge of relief that I'd calculated properly in my head meant I was a bad person, because I was keeping it. Well, paying off debt, that was. Because five percent of twenty percent of five million dollars?

Fifty grand. Plus, I noted, the promised bonus. Another ten thousand. Which left me with a cool sixty to save my credit score. While selling my soul?

Listen, my soul was already crusty around the edges, cracked and broken. And a few more jobs like this one? I'd be debt free and could start again.

I stood at last, money firmly grasped in one hand, reaching for the door. I didn't notice until I'd opened it that the cat had risen when I did and the moment I opened the way, he sauntered into my apartment like he'd always lived there. I watched in astonishment while he sniffed a few things before hopping up on my bed, turned twice on my pillow, and settled down for a nap with his chin on his paws.

"Make yourself at home," I said. Grinned. Laughed out loud.

For better or worse, it was time to take my own advice.

###

Want **more** Petal Morgan?

**Preorder** book two of the **Masquerade Inc. Cozy Mysteries**!

_The Hothouse Deception_ is coming January 20th

Here's a sneak peek into what to expect...

# The Hothouse Deception

# Moment de la Mort

It's grown cold since the sun set and she shivers as she hurries to finish the job. She can't be caught out here, not now. Things are moving faster than she wanted and any slipup could mean the end of her enterprise.

She's sacrificed too much to fail now.

The tractor engine quits before she's through and she curses its faithlessness. All attempts to restart it meet with the ruh-ruh-ruh of fruitless effort.

Fine. She'll finish by hand. She's running out of time, so it must be quick.

She lands hard on the ground, both feet taking the brunt of her leap from the tractor seat, a faint groan escaping as her bad knee buckles. She'll deal with it later, when she's sipping champagne on a Costa Rican beach. Until then, she'll just have to tolerate it.

She's tolerated worse up to now. Time for her to win for once.

The spade is familiar in her hands, as it should be. She's spent her life wielding one. But this is the last time. She catches herself in a bark of a laugh, the hole she'd begun with the tractor almost deep enough. A few heave hos and this will all be over.

If only she paused to look up, paid attention. Noticed she isn't alone. Instead, she shovels with enthusiasm born from impatience and confidence, while the dark figure climbs into the tractor seat. Turns over the engine now restored on purpose, with purpose.

She turns in shock, the bright headlights shining in her eyes. She shades her face, squinting, confused. "What are you doing here? I told you, I'm taking care of this."

No reply. Except for the groan of the hydraulics. The rise of the bucket digger. The slow approach. She staggers back, falling into the compost heap, so startled by the turn of events she doesn't even think to run.

Or ask why as the bucket's controls release and it falls, fast and deadly.

She's made one last sacrifice. And it's a doozy.

***

# Author Notes

My very dear reader,

When I started writing murder mysteries, the first voices that came to me were three incredible friends in an imaginary city on the West Coast. I still adore the girls from the **Nightshade Cases** and will finish their serial first season eventually.

But the siren song of cozy mysteries has been more powerful than I expected. Begun with Fiona Fleming and her thirteen volumes that brought me no end of pleasure, I realized I'm enjoying myself far too much not to go on.

When Fee's series was wrapping up, I knew I wanted to continue, thought I'd found the right voice in a side character of hers, only to discover maybe paranormal wasn't where I was meant to be writing right now. Don't get me wrong. Alice Moore is dear to my heart and I will continue to produce her books as well, but at a slower pace.

Because this woman I've just begun to get to know? The irrepressible and incredible, unconventional, rule breaking millennial I already adore? Petal Morgan is quickly becoming a favorite—and I do my best not to play favorites.

I hope you enjoyed _The After Hours Deception_. Book two, _The Hothouse Deception_ , is scheduled for release January 20th, 2020. I'm literally vibrating thinking about moving on to her next book, with so much unfolding about her life—including her continuing moral struggles despite her very good heart, interactions with her ex-husband and reveals about her past she's only now uncovering—I can barely contain it.

AND. I know you love Fee as much as I do, which is why I'm also returning to the cutest town in America. Fee's first book in her new series, _Patent Pending and Death_ (Fleming Investigations Cozy Mysteries) lands January 30th, 2020. She's already surprising me, and we know how that tends to go when Fee is involved...

So, there will be lots of murder, mayhem and personal evolution coming up! I'm off to explore a new part of the world, escape winter and find my own path for the next few months, but I'll be working hard, with the goal two books per month. I'm also hoping to have preorders available for all of them, so keep an eye open for them in newsletters and on my Facebook page.

For now, as always, thank you for reading. You make all of this worthwhile.

Best,

Patti

# About the Author

Everything you need to know about me is in this one statement: I've wanted to be a writer since I was a little girl, and now I'm doing it. How cool is that, being able to follow your dream and make it reality? I've tried everything from university to college, graduating the second with a journalism diploma (I sucked at telling real stories), am an enthusiastic member of an all-girl improv troupe (if you've never tried it, I highly recommend making things up as you go along as often as possible) and I get to teach and perform with an amazing group of women I adore. I've even been in a Celtic girl band (some of our stuff is on YouTube!) and was an independent film maker (go check out the Lovely Witches Club at www.lovelywitchesclub.com). My life has been one creative thing after another—all leading me here, to writing books for a living.

Now with multiple series in happy publication, I live on beautiful and magical Prince Edward Island (I know you've heard of Anne of Green Gables) with my multitude of pets.

I love-love-love hearing from you! You can reach me (and I promise I'll message back) at patti@pattilarsen.com. And if you're eager for your next dose of Patti Larsen books (usually about one release a month) come join my mailing list! All the best up and coming, giveaways, contests and, of course, my observations on the world (aren't you just dying to know what I think about everything?) all in one place: http://smarturl.it/PattiLarsenEmail.

Last—but not least!—I hope you enjoyed what you read! Your happiness is my happiness. And I'd love to hear just what you thought. A review where you found this book would mean the world to me—reviews feed writers more than you will ever know. So, loved it (or not so much), your honest review would make my day. Thank you!

