“Private investigation work typically focuses on key areas,” I explain. “Disappearances, fraud, evidence of coercion, legal violations. What you’ve described doesn’t meet any of those criteria.”
“But there’s something wrong,” Lucy insists.
And here, my colleagues would say that Lucy is subjective, that Amelia is an adult. If she doesn’t want contact, there’s nothing to investigate. I can easily hear Franklin’s voice in my head using just those words.
It stirs my irritation, my sense of right, but it doesn’t make it untrue. At least from a professional perspective.
“Let me give it some thought,” I hear myself say. It’s weak, a brushoff because I can’t bring myself to say no to her. Whether it will be any easier in the email I write her in a day or two remains to be seen.
“Thank you.” Lucy forces a smile, but I can see the expectation of rejection in her eyes. “Um… for what it’s worth, I do have money. My parents…ourparents died. There’s an inheritance.”
Well, damn. That just twists the knife. I know what it’s like to bury parents too young.
“I understand. Thank you for being so open today.” I lead the way to the front door and Lucy follows me, dejected. She gives me a nod, then walks out, making an effort to lift her head up.
I give her a moment to walk down the hallway before I quietly close the door.
Every fiber of my being wants me to take this damn case, because it’s the right thing to do.
But it’s not my skillset, not the work I’m trained for, and not even the remit of a PI. I wouldn’t know where to begin. And I’d probably fail.
I turn to meet Carol’s gaze, press my lips together, and shake my head, slow and final.
Nine
Vicky
Thursday afternoon I’m back from a face-to-face session with HM&L lawyers, feeling pumped because it went so well. We’re going to be talking to their client next week, and I’m ready.
But not ready to see Alex leaning against Carol’s door, all Brioni overcoat, impeccable suit, polished shoes, and white shirt bright against the warm tan of his skin. Lean, smart, perfect. Like he’s been waiting for a while.
Why the hell is he waiting here?
He looks up from his phone and has the goddamn nerve to smile when he sees me, slipping the phone back in his pocket.
“How do you keep getting in here?” I say, incredulous. “There’s a keypad on the door outside.”
I walk past him, rolling my eyes when he can’t see. At myself, not him. What the fuck did I ask that question for? I don’t even care.
“You don’t leave me much choice,” he replies. “My number’s still blocked, and I fear you’d ignore a postcard.”
“I wish I could ignoreyou,” I mutter, unlocking the door and stepping in. But of course he follows me, like I invited him. I suppose I could try and keep him out, but yet again, his foot’s already over the threshold. Whatever he has to say to me, I don’t want it happening in the hallway as I fight against him to close the door.
“Won’t you please come in,” I rattle off in a sarcastic tone. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.” He closes the door behind us.
I walk into the kitchen, put my back against the counter right next to the kettle, cross my arms and glare at him.
He shrugs his coat off, and drapes it over the back of the armchair.
If he sits down, I swear I’m going to…
But he doesn’t. He stands in the middle of the room in his tailored suit that emphasizes every plane of his broad shoulders and narrow waist, and regards me with amusement. “I had no idea you were such a firecracker.”
“Well, why would you?” I ask reasonably, ignoring the firecracker comment. “After all, I only lived in your house for eight months.”
“Almost nine,” he corrects.
