“Yeah, good luck with that. I thought the same thing about Matt before I first met him,” Paige replies with a smile.

I pause in front of the mirror and my jaw drops open.

“It’s okay; you don’t have to thank me. The look on your face is payment enough. You should go to dinner at your parents’ house looking like this. Maybe then they’ll take you seriously about not wanting to be a lawyer anymore.”

I couldn’t even speak if I wanted to. I look like Kennedy—like I could beat up a stranger in the street and not give it a second thought. Since Paige and I are roughly the same height, her skinny Seven jeans fit me like a glove. She gave me a pair of knee-high black Gucci boots with silver buckles on the side, a white low-cut T-shirt, and a body-hugging black leather jacket.

My normally poker-straight brown hair has been curled into gentle waves that frame my face and the smoky eye makeup she artfully applied makes my boring brown eyes pop.

The best part is, I don’t feel like a fraud in this outfit. I feel confident and sexy and like I could take on the world. And by the world, I mean my parents.

“Could you imagine if I showed up to dinner in this? They would have a heart attack,” I whisper.

“Now all you need are a few tats and a nose piercing,” Paige jokes.

My cheeks immediately redden at her words. A few weeks ago in a moment of complete self-pity and defiance, I got my first tattoo. I didn’t tell anyone, not even my best friends. I was driving home from the courthouse, exhausted and frustrated after a phone call with my father where once again he had asked me what I had done so wrong that the firm hadn’t announced me as partner yet.

The red neon sign for a tattoo shop caught my eye at a red light. When the light turned green, I stepped on the gas, cut across three lanes of traffic, and rushed inside.

It’s Paige’s turn to stare at me with her eyes wide and her mouth dropped open. “Oh, my God. Lorelei Warner, did you get a tattoo?”

My cell phone beeps loudly on Paige’s side table and I rush over to grab it, rescuing myself from having to explain. It’s a message from Candace with the address for Andrew Jameson.

“I have to go. I just got the address I was waiting for,” I tell Paige as I shove my cell phone into my bag. Before I walk out the door, I quickly grab on to her and give her a hug.

“Thank you for this,” I tell her softly before pulling away.

“It’s just a little makeup and different clothes. It won’t solve this case for you, but it sure as hell will give you some confidence. You look hot. And if you see Dallas, tell him to suck it,” she says with a laugh.

Dallas makes me feel small and insignificant, just like my parents. I don’t care how much he makes my insides flutter—if I never see him again, it will be too soon.

Paige’s voice stops me as I reach her front door. “Oh, and Lorelei, you better tell me all about this tattoo when you’re finished.”

Double-checking the address in Candace’s text and the location on my GPS, I stare at the house I’m parked in front of.

This can’t be the right place. Andrew Jameson was the CEO of Richard’s company. This house, if you can call it that, has boarded-up windows, a lawn that hasn’t been mowed in years, and pieces of blue tarp covering holes in the roof. I reach over to my glove compartment and pull out my Taser, checking to make sure it’s fully charged.

As I step out of my car, I glance around nervously at the neighborhood. I should have borrowed another vehicle to come here. My Mercedes sticks out like a sore thumb and I’m hoping it will be okay and still parked here when I come back outside.

I make my way up the rickety front porch steps and I forget about my car and just hope I’ll be okay when I come back outside.

Knocking on the door, I quickly stash the Taser in my back pocket. This isn’t the best neighborhood, but Andrew lives here and if I want him to answer my questions, I don’t want to offend him right off the bat by showing him I’m carrying a weapon out of nervousness.

The door swings open and a man wearing ripped jeans and a stained sweatshirt stands there glaring at me. His hair is greasy and he’s got the facial hair of a mountain man. This does not look like the former CEO of a multi-billion-dollar company.

“Andrew Jameson?”

The man grunts and brings a can of beer up to his mouth, taking a swig before belching with abandon.

“Who wants to know?”

I clear my throat and remind myself that I’m dressed to kill and get to the bottom of things. I stand up taller and take a deep breath.

“My name is Lori Wagner. I’m writing an article on the recent death of Richard Covington. I understand the two of you were friends and that you used to work together. Do you have a few minutes to answer some questions?”

Andrew crushes his empty beer can and tosses it somewhere behind him. “We were never friends. And as far as I’m concerned, that asshole got what was coming to him. I was there from day one. I helped him develop that fucking heart catheter tool, and after he marries that whore, he suddenly decides he doesn’t need me anymore. Every idea I ever came up with while I worked for him, Richard got the credit for. And it was okay with me at the time; I was making good money. Thirty years of my life and all my good ideas I gave him and what’s the thanks I get? A twenty-thousand-dollar severance package. I told him he could take his money and shove it up his ass.”

Well, no wonder he’s living in a hovel. It looks like he hasn’t showered in months. Was his anger with Richard Covington enough to make him commit murder?