KATRINA

Katrina

FOUR DAYS BEFORE

The building that housed Aidan's Veritas Productions had always been way too nice for a company that had never come close to turning a profit. Even the huge freight elevator screamed bohemian chic.

Every time I came here, the unearned luxury of it got under my skin. I was the one paying the inflated bills, after all. The office was so Aidan: all that surface charm—never mind the reality that his movies cost us money. And Veritas ? So grandiose. Aidan had chosen the name in all seriousness, too. He saw himself as some great hero. In the meantime, his movies had only been sold to the most obscure streaming services. The last one lost its distribution partner altogether after some of its representations had been "called into question." Turned out people who made documentaries needed to be good with things like verifying sources and checking facts. Details. Aidan was terrible at details. Veritas, indeed.

But I was relieved that Aidan had texted back after I'd left Advantage Consulting. Okay. I do have some real intel on Cleo and the money. Meet at my office at noon? I assumed he wanted another in-person meeting in order to bring up the loan again—or rather, my inheritance, which he now seemed intent on claiming.

Over my dead body was I giving him that money without a fight. I wanted to be sure it was there for Cleo someday. I would respond calmly and politely—matter-of-factly. I might even lie and agree to give him the money in order to get him to tell me what was going on with Cleo. But it was time for me to stop feeling responsible for solving problems of Aidan's own making. In fact, it was time for me to start seeing Aidan as the problem. And solving problems was something I was very, very good at.

The elevator chimed as the doors opened onto Aidan's floor. The funky earth-toned wallpaper in the hall looked more expensive than what we had in our home. Maybe once we moved on to actual divorce proceedings, I'd make Aidan leave this ridiculous office for something more affordable. After all, I did pay his company's bills. I could draw all sorts of new lines.

As I approached Aidan's office, I noticed that the lights were off. I checked the time: 11:45 a.m.—I was early again. God only knew how long I might be waiting. Flipping the switch as I stepped inside, I found myself facing Bella's empty desk. Aidan had fired her right after I saw the texts. It had been a lucky accident, too. I'd been prepping dinner when Aidan asked me to hand him his phone. It was on the kitchen counter and her text lit up the screen as I reached for it. Can't stop thinking about what your mouth feels like on me.

I hadn't suspected a thing, either. I'd been too busy doing what I had done for the past twenty-odd years—taking care of everything—when Aidan's affair jumped up and hit me square in the face.

As I'd crossed the room that night and handed the phone to Aidan, prone on the couch, I braced myself for an emotional fallout that never came. Even in the days and weeks that followed, what I'd felt most was relieved. Like the texts had blown my cage apart, leaving me no choice but to make my escape.

But I did know that a divorce court wouldn't care about his infidelity. It certainly wouldn't care that Aidan had used my past to manipulate and take advantage of me. The only thing that would matter to the court would be when and by what means our joint assets were acquired.

"Aidan!" I called down the hall toward the conference room at the back.

When there was no answer, I pulled my phone out as I made my way over to his private office—door open, light off. Standing in the doorway, I looked over at his absurd Roche Bobois desk. "Melt"—that was the name of the style, and it did indeed look like molten wood and steel had been poured to form the rounded abstract edges. Hideous, if you asked me, especially for the insane $13,585.00 it had cost. I remembered the figure exactly. It was the kind of thing that stuck when you were footing the bill.

I'm here?

The ellipses appeared instantaneously. Oh, you're early … Got stuck at a meeting with HBO I forgot I had on the calendar. But I'm right around the corner. Be there in a second.

A meeting with HBO? I wasn't buying it. And so there I stood alone in Aidan's empty office, his desktop computer only steps away. Booted up and locked, but I knew Aidan's password—it was always the same. His birthday. Sure enough, the computer opened right up. Emails and texts right there within reach.

I started with the messages. Her was up at the top, under the message I'd just sent. Couldn't he at least have had the courtesy to change it back to Bella? There was something so insulting about the pseudonym.

She really cannot leave that kid alone, can she? Doesn't she realize she's in college!!!

I know. That's what I said!

Kat is the one who needs a good therapist.

Agreed. But it's not like I can suggest that!

You can't let her push you around, Aidan.

I'm only trying to stay out of harm's way!

I took a step back from the computer, hand to my chest as if to physically shield myself. It was so much worse than I'd expected. I hadn't imagined they'd be talking about me. And as if I was a regular topic of conversation. But there was no way I was going to confront Aidan about the messages. They were too humiliating.

My phone vibrated in my bag. I stood, closed out his messages, and sent the computer screen to sleep before digging for it.

Did you really think you'd get away with it? That you'd get to keep all that money? That no one would find out about the blood on your hands?

I dropped down onto the couch. No, I hadn't thought I'd get away with it. But I also hadn't intended to kill him.

"So sorry!"

Aidan rushed into the office, coffee in hand, sunglasses still on. His hair was messy and he was unshaven. I stared at him. He laughed in a burst as he put his things down on his desk, took off his sunglasses. He seemed nervous.

He sat down on the other end of the couch, took a long sip of his coffee.

"Cleo," I said.

Aiden nodded. "Oh, she's trying to have a positive impact. That's the good news."

"I don't understand."

"The money was for an environmental activism group she's a part of," Aidan said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Environmental activism?" I asked, not trying to hide my skepticism. "Seriously?"

"Yep." Aidan seemed pleased with himself—I couldn't tell if that was because he'd gotten answers or because the explanation dovetailed with his own work. "Cleo's trying to make a difference. And I think she wants to do it on her own."

"Why would being a part of an environmental group cost her two thousand dollars?"

"Come on, Kat, activism isn't free." He leaned back a bit and crossed his arms. "You should know that by now."

I thought about the stairs I'd seen Cleo descend. Was it possible there'd been some kind of environmental meeting going on down there?

"It doesn't seem at all suspicious to you that out of the blue Cleo suddenly happens to be involved in an environmental group?"

"Suspicious?" he asked. "What, because it's something I care about? Kat, seriously, that's …" He shook his head. "You honestly think Cleo is that calculating?"

"She was dealing drugs, Aidan."

He sighed dramatically. "I'm sorry, Kat, but I really think this is sad. That you have so little faith in your own daughter. I mean, given where you came from, it's understandable you have trust issues. But have you ever thought about maybe seeing someone yourself? I mean, we sent Cleo to a therapist …"

My hands were balled into fists so tight, I was sure my fingernails were going to draw blood. Wordlessly, I rose from the couch.

"Where are you going?" Aidan asked.

"I'm leaving."

"You can't leave. We need to talk about the money."

"No," I said, calmly. " We don't need to talk about money. You want to talk about the money, and I need to leave."

"I've spoken to a lawyer, Kat," Aidan said as I reached for the doorknob. "I'm going to file."

Bastard. I turned back. "We're waiting until the end of the school year. It's only another month. We agreed."

"No," he said. His tone was icy now. "You decreed. And I've been reasonable. The least you can do is treat me fairly. I don't want to have our lives ripped apart in court, Kat. But I'm also not going to sit by while you take advantage of me."

"Don't do this," I said, struggling to keep my tone even. "Don't." It sounded like a threat. It felt like one.

"Or what, Kat?" he asked with an angry laugh. "Or what? You've already left me."

Or I'll kill you. It was just in my head.

"Don't do it, Aidan," I said one last time before opening the door. "Or you'll regret it."

As I reached the top of the West Village stairs I'd seen Cleo descend on Christopher Street a day ago, my mind was still racing. What if my past was unearthed in the midst of some lengthy divorce proceeding? Aidan's lawyer would surely try to dig up all the dirt he could on me, and with enough effort, he could strike gold. The more I'd thought about it, the clearer it seemed that my mystery texter had to be the person who had helped Daitch the night of the murder. Male, I was pretty sure, remembering the way Daitch spoke to that person, and I had my theories about who it was, of course. It would simply be a matter of Aidan's lawyer tracking him down and finding out his price, and I'd be done for.

My phone rang and the sight of Mark's name on my caller ID jolted me back to the here and now. I had a job. A consuming one, with lots of clients clamoring for my attention. I'd been juggling calls and buying myself time for the last twenty-four hours. Mark had left a message early this morning, before I'd visited Advantage's office—I'd been so distracted that I hadn't even listened to it yet. I thought about sending the new call to voice mail, but it wasn't like Mark to hound me without a good reason.

"Sorry, I've been tied up on another matter," I lied. One advantage of my "don't ask, don't tell" arrangement with Mark was that he really never knew how I made use of my time. Also, almost all of what I did—clandestine interviews, private meetings—was conducted outside the office and far from prying eyes. "If this is about Vivienne, I assure you that I—"

"It's not about Vivienne." Mark sounded uncharacteristically stressed. "Will you be in … tonight?"

From his tone, this didn't exactly sound optional.

"I'll be there by five at the latest," I said, as if this had always been my plan. "I'll go straight to your office."

"Thanks, Kat," he said. "And I do apologize for the fire drill. But you know better than anyone how these things can be. Just want to be able to assure the powers that be that we've taken this new matter in hand. And this situation is … a bit unusual. You should vet it before we agree."

Mark was always adamant that I had veto power over any of my projects. Naturally, my default position was yes—to keep the clients happy and thereby keep Mark happy. I had refused only once, a situation involving a COO who'd been caught with an underage prostitute. He claimed that he didn't know she was underage, but looking at her, that was hardly believable. I wanted no part of it, and Mark had declined without hesitation. As it happened, the client huffed off, taking his corporate business with him.

"You know I always appreciate that," I said to Mark. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

As I put my phone in my bag, a horn blasted nearby. A huge eighteen-wheeler was trying to squeak past a double-parked black sedan. Squinting at it, I could make out the outlines of two figures inside the car. Figures that could have been looking right at me. When I took a step forward, the engine turned on and the car accelerated past me before I could read the license plate.

Walking down the stairs, I reminded myself that New York was filled with impatient assholes and terrible drivers, not to mention black sedans. The anonymous texts had me jumpy, no doubt, but it was a mistake to get distracted by imaginary threats lurking around every corner. Inevitably, you missed the ones that mattered.

The basement level was occupied by a fancy boutique gym called the Box. The equipment was old-school, rudimentary, but set off by a stark black-and-gray palette, the overall effect was deliberately, expensively retro—simplicity meets edgy high design. The sole color pop came from piles of fluffy lemon yellow towels dotted around the space. The only person exercising was a very tall, very thin supermodel type with a high blond ponytail, stepping up and down on a raised box—like the ones from aerobic step class, except this was an actual wooden box.

"Can I help you?" A petite and very good-looking blond man in his twenties was perched on a round brown leather stool with elaborate stitching behind a sleek ash-wood reception desk. He eyed me up and down and appeared to find me wanting. He turned back to his computer. "Do you have an appointment?" He seemed confident I did not.

"No, I was—my daughter was here last night," I began. "She's at NYU, so I don't think she could afford to belong here."

"I would think not." His eyes were still on his screen.

"You're not affiliated with NYU in any way?"

His eyes flashed up. "Do we look like a student facility?" I gave him a blank stare in response. "Our memberships are by invitation only and start at eight thousand dollars, annually."

For a wooden step?

"Were you working last night? That's when my daughter came in."

"Yes, I was," he singsonged with obvious irritation. "I am always working."

I pulled up a picture of Cleo on my phone. "This is my daughter. Did you see her when she came in?"

He glanced at my phone, ready to dismiss me before he'd even looked. But I saw the moment he registered Cleo's face. He definitely recognized her, and he was definitely going to pretend that he didn't.

"Sorry, I can't help you," he said more sharply. He leaned over to smile at the Kendall Jenner look-alike who'd walked in behind me. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get a member checked in." That's when I noticed the slight tremor in his hands, the beads of perspiration on his forehead, the way he kept scratching the inside of his left forearm. Could be he was a client of Kyle's that Cleo had gone down to meet.

I stepped to the side but didn't leave. I waited until he'd swiped the woman through, exchanged effusive hellos, then handed her a bright yellow towel and sent her on her way. When he saw me still standing there, he frowned. I approached the desk again. This time I leaned over forcefully and pushed my face in very close in to his.

"Tell me what my daughter did when she came in here or I'll tell your employer you're a drug addict."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Except there was a nervous twitch to his lip. He was using something for sure.

"They'll be obligated to give you a drug test. All this access to member information, their lockers …"

He glared at me.

"I need to know what my daughter was doing here. No one will know you told me anything."

He leaned back and crossed his arms.

"She wanted me to leave a package for a member in his locker," he said finally. "And before you go around threatening to tell my employer that—I called the member and asked first. He said she could leave it. I would never open a client's locker without permission."

"What member?"

"I can't tell—"

"What member?" I leaned closer.

"Kyle Lynch," he said. "I left the package in his locker. Just like he asked me to. And that was it."