“When do you get off? We could go to the Tipsy Falcon tonight, see who’s driving through our town on this lonely Friday night …” Carly’s brows jump suggestively. “We haven’t had a girls’ night where we play with a bunch of boys in much too long.”
“I wish I could,” I say, and I mean it. Ever since taking on Mrs. Stalinski, I haven’t been up for late nights of drinking and partying, and Carly can usually be called upon to help me forgeta tough day. With this patient, though, it’s different. “I’m pretty sure I’m staying here tonight.”
“Really? Overnight?”
“Uh-huh.”
Carly leans over the arm of her chair, her focus bouncing to the front door and back to me. She whispers, “Is it … time?”
I nearly choke on an ice cube. “No! Nothing like that. Mrs. Stalinski needs more help, that’s all.”
Carly raises an unconvinced brow. “Does Mrs. Stalinski know that?”
I raise my glass until it covers half my face. “Not until I magically appear next to her when she needs someone.”
“Hmm.” Carly rests against the chair, rocking softly. “You’re terrible at duplicity.”
“What’s wrong with it? I think it’s a good plan.”
“Yes, refusing to bend to the will of a terminally ill woman. Look at you, so rebellious.”
Carly winks. I smack her arm, then we both laugh.
It’s dark humor, but I learned long ago that finding humor in the worst of moments is one of the best ways to cope.
“Well, well, would you look at that?”
Carly’s curious drawl turns my head in the same direction as hers. A dark sedan turns into our cul-de-sac, but to have grabbed my friend’s attention, it’s not any old car. It’s sleek, fancy, black, and sticking out like a bigfuck youto most—no, all—of Falcon Haven’s residents. It would impress only one person with such a flashy show of wealth, and she’s sitting beside me, her red-painted mouth open in an impressed O of want.
I put two fingers under her chin, clamping her mouth shut.
“Probably some tycoon looking to buy up more land,” I say, crossing my legs and preparing to enjoy the show of whatever door this poor sod’s planning to approach. I hope it’s Mrs. Lu’s next door. She’s straight from the 1950s, using her gardeningshovel to shoo away trespassers and kids who dare to trample her gardenias.
On cue, I see her scowl emerge from between the lace curtains of her front window.
“Interesting.” Carly straightens. “Why’s it turning our way?”
“What?” My focus goes from Mrs. Lu to the drive leading to Mrs. Stalinski’s home. The car approaches us with the quiet stealth of a gorgeous black panther.
“I … don’t know,” I say, straightening my back away from the chair.
Even as I say it, a large, jagged rock lands in my stomach with aplop.
“Is Mrs. Stalinski expecting visitors?” Carly asks with forced innocence.
My ribs are actually calcifying over my heart. “She didn’t mention it.”
The car slows to a stop, close enough to see the driver if someone didn’t illegally tint all the windows to the point of opacity. It idles for a minute, then two, then three.
“Salesman,” I muse to fill the silence. “It’s gotta be Mrs. Stalinski’s insurance provider. Something.”
Carly wisely stays silent.
At last, the driver’s door opens. A man in dark clothing and black-tinted sunglasses steps out.
He doesn’t see me at first. His back is to us as he slides his glasses down his nose and surveys the landscape, his broad back rippling under his expensive custom suit when he moves. He runs a hand through his thick chestnut hair as he rests his other muscled arm on the roof of the car, and every part of me that’s held on to his memory quivers.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
