“I’m thinking about it.”

He made an unintelligible sound, somewhere between a snort and a groan. “Whatever. I’ll take that as a yes. Pick you up at seven?”

“All right. Let me get back to my warm bed. Talk to you soon.”

“Bye, baby.”

I ended the call, halfheartedly attempted another return to Tatum-land, then gave up, swinging my legs out of bed and standing. Stretching, I headed to the shower, determined to wash away the day’s ugliness.

At 5:12 p.m., an email from Lisa Strong, Clarke’s secretary, titled “Broward Staff” hit my in-box. It was brief, listing the day and time of Broward’s funeral—Sunday, 3:00 p.m. It also stated that the Broward staff would be off on Thursday, but was expected to work normal hours on Friday.

I skimmed the email and then packed an overnight bag. A good dinner, sleeping late in Brad’s bed and a home-cooked breakfast sounded pretty good right now.

Twenty-Four

Over thirteen hours later, I woke up in Brad’s bed. The smell of bacon was in the air, and I was na**d, his thousand-thread-count sheets cool against my body. The shower was running, and I glanced over to the clock. Six-forty a.m. We had stayed up late, talking over dinner, and then, later, sweet, sensual sex, an incredible joining that had given me an emotional connection when I desperately needed one. I fought the desire for bacon and closed my eyes, feeling my body drift back toward dreamdom. The sound of the shower door halted my descent and I rolled over, propping a pillow underneath my head and watching the door swing open, steam billowing out. I smiled when I saw him emerge, butt na**d and utterly gorgeous, ripped muscles surrounding nine inches that had become my full-time obsession. I drank him in, his head obscured by a white towel, his hands rubbing it over his head and then down his body. He turned and paused, meeting my eyes, a smile creeping over his face. He dropped the towel and came to me, halting by the side of the bed, my eyes now in perfect eye level with his cock.

I rolled back, looking up into his face, a lazy smile spreading over my own. “Good morning.”

He leaned over, resting his weight on the bed and kissing me with a mouth that hinted of mint toothpaste. “Good morning, beautiful. Go back to sleep. I’ll be out of here in a few minutes.”

I frowned, propping myself up on one elbow, my face close to his. “Fine. If you absolutely refuse to join me.” I tilted my head up and he closed the distance, planting a soft kiss on my lips. Then I curled back into the sheets, my eyes closing before he even walked away, sleep beckoning me from afar.

I was wakened by a loud woman’s voice.

“I know you don’t think I’m going to clean around your lazy ass!” I cracked open one eye, then two. Martha stood at the foot of Brad’s bed, her hands on her h*ps and a glare on her face. I propped myself up on one elbow and held the blankets against my body.

“I wasn’t aware that you did clean, Martha.”

“What is that supposed to mean!”

“It means that I thought Helga cleaned, and you ‘managed.’ And it’s...” I looked at the clock. “Only eight-fifteen. Not exactly grounds for calling me a lazy ass.” Though I had planned on sleeping till at least ten. So much for sleeping in late with a home-cooked breakfast.

She threw up her hands and looked to the ceiling. “Lord Almighty, you test me with these women....” She stopped cursing whoever was above the ceiling and pointed a finger at me. “I’m not gonna have you talk to me like that!”

That did it. I threw my legs off the bed and stood, dragging the blanket off with me. “What is your problem?!”

“My problem?”

“Yes, your problem! You have been horrible to me since the first day I met you! I thought it was just ‘your way,’ but now I think it’s something you personally have against me!”

She pointed at me again and I wanted to reach over and break that finger off. “You’re just like all of his girls. You think you’re special, but you’re not. Why should I bend myself backward to kiss your ass when, two months from now, you’ll be back at home, crying over the man?”

I stared at her and pulled my own finger out from behind the sheet. “First, Martha, you don’t know a damn thing about me. I am f**king special, and I don’t cry over men. If I am back at home in two weeks, or two months, or two years, it’s because I want to be there, not because a man got tired of me and kicked me out. But while I am here, I’m not gonna tiptoe around your grumpy ass. I’ll treat you with respect, and don’t think it’s ridiculous to ask for it in return. Now, since you, as far as I know, don’t clean, how about you give me some privacy!” I turned on my heel, hoping I didn’t get tangled in the blankets, and flopped back down, throwing the covers over my head and praying to God, Martha’s God, that she wouldn’t throw something large and pointy at me.

I heard her laughing, a cruel, mean laugh that grew in volume, and I flung the covers off my head and glared at her.

“Next time you throw that high-and-mighty routine, don’t do it under a photo of another na**d woman. Just a tip there, Julia baby.” She sniffed, laughed again and sauntered off, slamming the door shut behind her.

I flopped back on the bed, glaring up at the gorgeous na**d beauty framed above my head. The life-size portrait was of an ex of Brad’s, something he told me he hadn’t had the time or effort to replace. I’d have to push that higher up on his to-do list.

I rolled over to the other bedside and grabbed my phone. Eight percent battery. Figures. I called Brad, hoping he was still in the house but knowing he wasn’t.

“Hey, beautiful.”

“Martha is a bitch, you know that?”

He chuckled, sounding way too sexy for 8:00 a.m. “I can’t talk now. What do you need?”

“I’m stranded here with your crazy excuse for a... What is her job title again?”

“Ruler of Everything in the House. Martha is part of the package, babe. You’re going to have to learn how to get along with her.”

“She’s the one who’s being difficult! She marched in here yelling at me this morning!”

“She’s being territorial, Julia. Take whatever attitude she gives you as a compliment. Most women she doesn’t even bother being rude to.” His soothing voice did nothing but irritate me further. Especially since I now realized whose side he was taking.

“Whatever. I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Just hang out at the house.”

“No, thank you. I hang out at the house any longer and me and her are gonna come to blows. And I’m positive I’ll lose that fight.”

“Julia, she’s not that bad.”

“To you! The one who pays her!”

“Look, if you want, I’ll have Jeff or one of the other drivers give you a ride.”

I slumped back. “Let me figure out my day, and I’ll let you know. Maybe one of the girls can give me a ride.”

He said something to someone else, then was back on the phone with me, dropping his voice now. “You sure you don’t want to just stay? I like the idea of having you there, and I can give you a ride at lunch.”

“I’ll think about it,” I muttered.

I hung up, lay back and stared at the ceiling. Damn Martha. Then I closed my eyes and fell back asleep.

Twenty-Five

The third time I woke up, it was to a quiet house. I lay in Brad’s bed for a minute, listening for Martha, but heard nothing. I got up, checking my phone. Two missed calls, Becca and Olivia. Becca never called before noon. Something was up. My three percent battery didn’t afford me the luxury of calling her back and I crawled out of bed in search of my phone charger. I dug through my overnight bag, not altogether certain I had packed it, and sent a silent prayer upward when my fingers closed around it. I plugged it in, then warily headed downstairs.

The house was empty, the kitchen wiped down and countertops empty, void of anything that could be considered breakfast food. I opened up cabinets, finding cereal, and poured a bowl, sitting at the counter and munching away. The day stretched before me, and I had absolutely no idea of what to do with it. I had lazed away yesterday, doing nothing but feeling sorry for myself, a hobby I was already sick of. I finished off the Frosted Flakes, hefted myself to my feet and washed my bowl, drying it carefully and placing it back on the shelf. Anything I could do to stay on Martha’s good side. I returned the cereal box, then headed back upstairs.

I killed two birds with one stone and conferenced Becca in as soon as Olivia answered.

“It’s Jules. Was it coincidence, or did you both call because you love me?”

“Ha. The police called me this morning,” Becca snapped. “At ten freaking a.m.!”

“Don’t be dramatic, Becca. It wasn’t the police, it was a detective. Detective Parks, right?” Olivia said.

“I don’t know what the damn man’s name was!” she retorted.

“Wait, he actually called you guys?” I interrupted their useless spat, my head hurting from the new information. I thought that the detective’s request for alibi verification was a line on a form of his, not a lead that he would actually follow up on. Didn’t he have more important things to check on? Like the Magiano family? Since when were college interns the most likely murder suspect?

“What happened, Jules?” Olivia’s tone was serious, her words cutting into the rant that Becca was starting back into.

“Nothing,” I mumbled, grabbing my cosmetics bag and walking into the bathroom. “Well, too much to go into now. What did you tell him?”

“We told him you were at the bar with us until around eleven.” Becca’s voice was unsure. “Is that okay?”

“Of course. Did he ask you anything else?”

“That was all he asked me,” Olivia said. “He just verified, several times, how long you had stayed at the bar.”

“Same here,” Becca said, her voice subdued.

“Good.” I exhaled a sigh of relief. “Then everything should be fine.”

“Except that we don’t know what’s going on, and I was woken up at ten in the freaking morning!” Becca’s fire was back, and I wouldn’t be able to avoid it this time.

“Fine. Meet me for lunch, and I’ll explain everything. Deal?”

“Deal. But you’re paying,” Olivia said, “in exchange for us keeping you out of the gallows.”

“The what?”

“Nothing, Becca. Mellow Mushroom, noon. Work for you both?” I asked.

They agreed, Olivia offering to pick me up, and I hung up the phone with at least one part of my life figured out. I stripped, piling my clothes in the middle of the floor, and turned on the jets of Brad’s shower, brushing my teeth as the room filled with steam. Then I stepped in and shut the door, losing myself in the gloriousness of hot water.

* * *

“TELL ME THIS isn’t about Brad.” Olivia had barely allowed me to get both feet in the car before she jumped on me, her tone that annoying level of nag.

“This isn’t about Brad,” I recited dutifully, digging through her glove box until I found a pair of sunglasses and sliding them on, checking my reflection in her mirror. “But I’m not telling you anything more till we get to lunch. Becca will hack me to pieces if I tell you what’s going on before I tell her.”

She glanced over, grinning at me, the open window whipping hair over her face. “You always tell me things before you tell Becca. Why change now?”

“I don’t always do that.” I searched my memory for a leg to stand on and, finding none, moved on. “This has jaw-dropping potential, and I don’t want your reaction to look fake. We all know your acting skills leave something to be desired.” I studiously avoided her gaze, opening my purse and digging around in it, needlessly organizing and reorganizing it until I felt the coast was clear. I sat back, glancing over at her, a small smile on her lips. Our eyes met and she rolled her eyes.

“I’m going to go easy on you because it’s obvious you are having a less than perfect week.” She reached over, turning up the radio, and I sat back, happy to avoid conversation, preparing myself for the interrogation that would meet me once they were both in front of me.

I came, I ate cheese pizza, I conquered and I left. Olivia dropped me off at my house, drunk on carbs and gossip, and I stumbled across the yard and through the front door, collapsing on the couch.

The girls had wrung every juicy detail out of me, save the juiciest of all—my walk down eavesdrop lane. They had different theories for Broward’s murderer, ranging from his secret g*y lover to Sheila, in the study, with a revolver. I hadn’t uttered the Magiano name, visions of severed horse heads and smashed kneecaps floating above the Parmesan cheese in front of me. My brooding was noticed, and the girls did their jobs, turning the conversation toward men and shopping, and the second half of the lunch passed by in a sea of lighthearted chatter.

I stared up at the ceiling, feeling the weight in my stomach settle. Maybe the mob wasn’t involved. Maybe the detective was right, and I had imagined the conversation. But just to be safe, I was going to keep the information close to my chest and see what Detective Parks discovered.

Speaking of which...I sat up, my full stomach protesting, and reached down, grabbing my phone and flipping through my wallet, till I found the detective’s business card. I dialed his number and waited, stretching out on the couch and staring at the ceiling.

He didn’t answer, and I left a polite but firm message, giving my cell number and asking him to call me. I stewed, my eyes roaming the spiderwebbed corners of the ceiling, going back over the words I had heard that day, the tension in Broward’s voice. There was part of the conversation I couldn’t recall, some name that had slipped in before the Magiano bomb had been dropped. I pulled deep within, trying to grab the words that had passed through that door. A takeover that had gone well, a name—something that sounded like lasagna. I thought, scrunching up my forehead, and no doubt creating three new future wrinkles in the process. Ugh. It probably didn’t sound anything like lasagna. It was probably Smith, or Jenkins, or something that had no correlation to the crusty TV dinner box that sat in our kitchen trash.