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  “It just fires me up.” She sat down to her own soup, wagged her spoon in the air. “That woman living like some queen after what she did. Even that rich asshole can’t buy her into a hit movie, but doesn’t she still swan around in them? Straight-to-video, made-for-TV, but she’s still doing them, with a face so full of plastic she can barely blink her eyes.”

  “Rich doesn’t mean happy, Mom.”

  Maggie spooned up soup. “It’s a lot easier to be unhappy sleeping on silk sheets than it is sleeping in a cardboard box—which is what she deserves.” She took the bread Julia sliced for her. “Don’t worry, I won’t say all this to that girl. I’m getting it out of my system.”

  She tried the bread. Chewed, considered. “Good consistency, nice flavor and texture. Damn it, this may be better than mine.”

  Holding back a smile, she pointed at Dillon when he just ducked his head. “It’s a smart man who knows better than to agree with me.”

  “Here’s what I have to say. Not about the bread,” Red added. “Charlotte Dupont looks like what she is. A fake and a fraud. I know, because I’ve heard from Hugh, and Aidan when he comes around, that she pays to plant stories that take a poke at them, Cate especially. Still, after all these years, she can’t stop taking those shots at them. She can sleep on silk in a bed of diamonds, she’s never going to be anything but what she is. She’s never going to have what she wants. She’s never going to be happy.”

  He shrugged, ate more soup. “She paid her debt to society.” Ignoring Maggie’s hiss, he plowed on. “But if you ask me, she’s still in prison. Her own making, and I get some satisfaction from that.”

  “What about the other two, Sparks and Denby? You keep your ear to the ground,” Dillon added.

  “All right, to clear all this out. Because he had the firearm, Denby’s got another five years before any chance of parole, and his chances are slim there. Sparks? He’s made himself a model prisoner from what my ear to the ground hears. He may get early release. That’s a solid year off,” he added as Maggie hissed again. “Prisons are crowded, and he’s nearly served his minimum. It’s possible they’ll spring him in another year. Eighteen in so far, and that’s a long stretch.”

  “It’s hard to believe so much time’s passed.” Julia looked back toward the kitchen. “Sometimes it seems like yesterday Dillon brought me downstairs, and that little girl sat there.”

  “There’s one more thing, because it might just happen. There’s a true crime writer who’s been interviewing him for months now. I don’t know who else she’s talked to—my ear doesn’t reach that far—but I know she’s talked to Denby. But she’s spending a lot of time talking to Sparks. Since she’s got a law degree and he’s listed her as his attorney, I can’t tell you what they talk about.”

  “Another bloodsucker,” Maggie decided. “Who is she? I want to Google her.”

  “Jessica A. Rowe.”

  Sparks groomed himself for his visit with his lawyer/biographer. He worked some product into his hair, still thick, to add a sheen (subtle) of silver to the gray. He practiced his sad but adoring looks in the mirror.

  He still had it.

  Then again, Jessica proved to be one of the easiest marks in his long career. At forty-six, stout, saggy, plain as a plank of wood, she’d been ripe for a little illicit romance. Desperate for love.

  He’d started her out with the repentant routine, shared details—some real, some fabricated—that hadn’t gotten into the public trough as yet. Shyly, he’d confessed he’d tried to write his story himself, as a kind of penance, but he couldn’t find the words to express himself.

  He expressed himself with her, maneuvered her into using her very rusty law degree to represent him so they could talk confidentially.

  Over weeks, then months, he’d primed her, reeled her in, wooed her.

  Through the years, he’d had letters from, visits from, women drawn to men in prison. He’d considered many as liaisons to the outside. Rejected many as either straight-out crazy or simply unreliable.

  But Jessie, oh, Jessie was another type altogether.

  The rule follower fascinated with rule breakers. Because, his instincts told him, she wanted to be one.

  The lonely middle-aged woman who believed herself—rightfully, in his opinion—unattractive, undesirable. The naive-to-the-point-of-stupid mark who thought of herself as insightful.

  The first time he’d taken her hand, held it, looked into her eyes as he kissed her fingers in gratitude, he knew he could, and would, play her like a violin.

  Now, after months of preparation, after stolen kisses, fraught embraces, after promises and plans to marry upon his release, came the true test.

  If she failed it, he’d wasted his time. But she’d passed all the small ones. Reporting back to him on everyone he intended to pay back. He had other sources, and every bit of information she gave him matched. Right down the line.

  And since she worked hard on getting him that early release—and might pull it off—it was time to act while he still had an ironclad (literally) alibi.

  She was waiting when the guard took him into the conference room. They no longer shackled him. They would subject him to a search after—unless he bribed the handpicked guard.

  But no need on this visit.

  She’d changed her hair from the first time they’d met. Shortening it, coloring out the gray, trying to add some style. She used makeup now, though never lipstick. If they managed to kiss, there would be no telltale smear.

  He knew she worked on exercise and diet, though her body, in his opinion, would never be anything but stubby.

  Still, he gave himself full credit for her efforts, for the more stylish suit she wore—so much better than the brown bag she’d had on during that initial meeting.

  “I’ve missed you. Jessie, I’ve missed you so much. All the years before you, I could deal with them. I deserved them. But now? It’s torture just waiting until I can see you again.”

  “I’d come every day if I could.” She opened her briefcase, took out a file, as if they had something legal to discuss. “But you were right. Too often and they’d wonder. I feel like I’m in prison, too, Grant.”

  “If only I’d met you all those years ago. Before I let Denby and Charlotte use me, manipulate me. We’d have made a life, Jessie. Had a home. We’d have had children. I feel . . . they stole all of that from us.”

  “We’ll make a home and a life, Grant. When you’re free, we’ll be together.”

  “I think of the kids we’d have had. Especially a girl, with your eyes, your smile. It breaks my heart. I want to make them pay for what they took from us. For that little girl who’ll never be.”

  She reached across the table for his hand. “They need to pay. They will pay.”

  “I shouldn’t ask you to get involved in this. I—”

  “Grant. I’m with you. You’ve given me more in these few months than anyone has in my whole life. I’m with you.”

  “Can you take this next step? Can you call the number I give you, say the words I tell you to say? Even knowing what it means? If you can’t, I won’t blame you. It won’t change how I feel.”

  “I’d do anything for you, don’t you know that? What they took from you, they took from me. A little boy, with your eyes, with your smile.”

  “Be sure, my darling Jessie.”

  Tears sparkled in her eyes. “For what they did to you, what they took from us, I’m sure. I love you.”

  “I love you.” He kissed her hand, looked into her eyes. Gave her the number, gave her the words to say.

  Twelve hours later, a guard found Denby’s body, the shank still in his belly, in the showers.

  When Sparks got the word, he smiled at the ceiling of his cell and thought: One down.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  After making a delivery—eggs, butter, cheese—to the main house, Dillon walked down to Cate’s. Maybe returning her bread cloth equaled excuse, but it was her cloth. Besides, he had a little ti
me, and wanted to see her again.

  Nothing wrong with that.

  Plus, he’d waited nearly a week—and he’d had to deliver the dairy anyway.

  He glanced down at his dogs. “Right? Am I right?”

  They appeared to agree.

  The November wind brought a bite with it, and a light, steady rain. He didn’t mind that. Not when it made everything on the peninsula look like a storybook.

  The sort where witches lived in enchanted cottages and gnomes lurked among the denuded, twisted trees. And maybe mermaids with sinuous bodies—and sharp teeth—lurked under the waves crashing at the cliffs.

  The ranch might be only a few miles away, but this was a different world. He liked visiting different worlds now and then.

  And in the gray gloom, with the wisps of fog, smoke trailing up from the chimney, and flowers—still bright—in the window boxes, the guesthouse did look like an enchanted cottage.

  It made you wonder, if you played around with the theme, if the woman inside was a good witch or a bad witch.

  Then he heard her scream.

  He bolted the rest of the way, the dogs racing with him, growls low in their throats.

  When he burst through the front door, ready to fight, to defend, he saw her standing at the kitchen island, her hair scooped up, her eyes wide and shocked.

  And bread dough in her hands.

  He said, “What the fuck?”

  “Back at you. You may have heard of this traditional gesture called knocking.”

  “You were screaming.”

  “Rehearsing.”

  Funny, he thought, his heart hadn’t started hammering until after he’d run in and seen her. Before that it was just fight mode.

  “Rehearsing what?”

  “Screaming, obviously. Can’t pet you,” she told the dogs. “Hands full. Close the door, would you? It’s cold out.”

  “Sorry.” He closed it, changed his mind. “Not sorry. When I hear somebody let out a bloodcurdling scream, I react.”

  She kept kneading dough. “Did it hit bloodcurdling?”

  He could only stare at her.

  “Is that my cloth? You can put it down there. If you want coffee, you’ll have to make it yourself. I’m a screamer,” she added.

  “I heard that. Loud and clear.”

  “Not all actors can scream realistically or pull off the type of scream the scene and character call for.”

  “There are types of screams?”

  “Sure. You’ve got your heartbroken scream, your I’ve-just-stumbled-over-a-dead-body shriek—which could also be a caught-in-the-throat type—there’s your I-just-won-the-billion-dollar-lottery scream, and the wet scream—filled with tears and vibrating—among scores of others. I need a bloodcurdling.”

  “Well, you hit it if I’m any judge.”

  “Good. I’m doing a quick job later, dubbing for a thriller. The actress and I share some tonal qualities, and she just couldn’t hit the right pitch on the screams.”

  He decided he could use a shot of coffee, and since her machine was the same as the one Lily had given Gram, he could handle it.

  “They pay you to scream?”

  “Damn right. Three varieties for this job. I have to hit the pitch, the timing—as in six-point-three seconds for the bloodcurdling. I need to match the facial expressions of the actress for a good, clean dub. The director—I’ve worked with him before—likes three takes on each scream.”

  “Do you want coffee?”

  “No, I stick with water before I work, and during.”

  “So you’re screaming and kneading bread.”

  “Rehearsing,” she corrected. “And making Italian bread because I’m having my grandparents over for dinner tonight. A pasta dinner. I don’t have a deep culinary well, but I learned to make this meal in New York because it’s one of Lily’s favorites.”

  He leaned back against the counter with his coffee while she greased a bowl, turned the dough into it. She covered it with the cloth he’d brought back, then—just as he’d been taught—put the bowl in the oven with the oven light on to rise in the warm.

  He studied the work island. “You’re messy.”

  “Yeah.” She went to the sink to wash dough off her hands. “And if I don’t clean it up to Consuela’s standards, I’ll hear her clucking her tongue when she comes in to clean tomorrow.”

  He watched while she dealt with the excess flour first, dumped tools in the sink, put away canisters. Then got out a counter spray and wash rag.

  She wore those leggings things, the ones that molded to—in her case—really nice, long legs. Over it a long blue sweater with the sleeves shoved up.

  She’d let her hair grow long, had it pulled back into a tail.

  Yeah, he thought again as she worked, she looked damn good.

  “My mom’s working on an organic cleaner.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, like all-purpose to start, then laundry detergent and so on. You can’t tell Gram to slow down on the physical work on the ranch. I mean you literally can’t tell her, because she’ll kick your ass.”

  On a laugh, Cate glanced back. “Experienced that, have you?”

  “Oh yeah. So the connection between cleaners and ass-kicking is, if—no, when, because there’s no ‘if’ with my mother—when she has it down, she’ll turn it over to Gram. Like we expanded the goatherd, added a couple dairy cows a few years ago.”

  Frowning, Cate rinsed out the cloth in the sink. “That sounds like more physical work.”

  “It is, that’s a trade-off. It also means butter and cheese, which are mostly Gram’s areas.”

  “I’ve got your butter and cheese along with your eggs, milk in my refrigerator. My grandparents stocked me up. I’ll be using your goat cheese on tonight’s salad.”

  “I just delivered more up at the house.”

  She hit the counter with the clean cloth. “Are deliveries part of the service?”

  “For special customers.”

  It fascinated her. The life the Coopers and Maggie lived had always fascinated her.

  “Do you sell right off the ranch? Farm? Dairy?”

  He smiled. “Sure. Something you need?”

  “I will eventually. I’ll be using a lot of those eggs later when I make a soufflé. I’m a little terrified as I’ve never made one before, and they’ve got to be tricky. But my grandfather has a real soft spot for soufflés. I want to—it’s not pay them back. It’s . . .”

  “I know what you mean.”

  She rinsed out the cloth again, laid it out to dry before picking up her water bottle. Twisted the top off and on, off and on. “They’ve got their kid gloves on again, and I hate that. Frank Denby—he was one of the men who took me—somebody killed him. In prison. Stabbed him. And you already knew,” she realized, reading it on his face.

  “Red spends a lot of time at the ranch.”

  “They don’t think I know, so we’re not talking about it.”

  He’d already stayed longer than he’d intended, had a list of chores to start and finish, but she stood there twisting that damn bottle cap.

  “From what Red said, Denby wasn’t a popular guy in San Quentin. He had more than a few dustups that landed him in the infirmary, more bullshit that landed him in solitary. Hearing all this, well, it’s bound to take you back, upset you, but whoever shanked him most likely did it because he was, in general, an asshole and, according to Red, was suspected of being a snitch.”

  She finally uncapped the bottle, drank. “I don’t know how I feel about him being dead. I can’t quite reach in and find what I feel about that. But I know I hate my grandparents giving off the worried-about-Caitlyn vibe.”

  “So you’re showing them you’re fine by making Lily’s favorite pasta and Hugh’s soufflé.”

  She tipped the bottle toward him. “Nailed it.”

  “If you want my opinion, which I’m giving anyway, that’s productive and healthy.”

  “Since I like that opin
ion, I’m taking it. And I’m coming by next week. I was going to come this week, but dead kidnapper threw me off. Is any day better than another? I can juggle my schedule.”

  “Any day’s fine. I’ve gotta get back. Thanks for the coffee.” He added it to the dishes in her sink. “And you’ve got to scream.”

  “Yes, I do. Which reminds me, thanks for the rescue. The fact it wasn’t needed doesn’t negate the action.”

  “You’re strangely welcome.”

  He crossed into the living room where his dogs piled together for a nap in front of the fire. He gave a short whistle that had them scrambling up and following him.

  “Good luck with the soufflé.”

  “Thanks. I’m going to need it.”

  She moved around to watch through the wall of glass as he walked away through the whispers of fog, the thin curtain of rain.

  She hadn’t intended to bring up Denby, had done her best to lock even the thought of him away. But she supposed the odd bond forged when they’d both been children made it easy to say things she said to no one else.

  “We don’t even know each other. Not really.”

  Bits and pieces, she thought, from Julia’s emails, from something her grandparents might mention.

  Not altogether true, she realized, and took her water with her into the studio. Turned the RECORDING IN PROGRESS sign over, shut and locked the door.

  She knew he loved the life he’d chosen because it simply showed. She knew he inspired loyalty—at least in dogs, as his clearly adored him. She knew he was the kind of man who’d rush through a door to help someone without thinking of his own safety.

  All important aspects, even admirable aspects of the whole. Still a lot of blanks, she admitted. She’d have to decide how many blanks she wanted to fill in.

  But right now, she had to scream.

  With a successful family dinner and the beginning of a solid workweek behind her, Cate walked to the main house. She wanted to drive to the florist for some flowers, then to the ranch, finally.

  She went in the house first, learned from the day maid Consuela supervised that her grandfather was in his office, door closed, and Lily had gone down to the home gym.

  She went down the main stairs, turned away from the movie theater and toward the blast of grinding rock and roll. Inside the gym, Lily grunted her way through reps on the leg extension and curl machine.