Chapter 11

Lacey's was the kind of bar that wanted to be nicer than it was but couldn't quite seem to get there. The fir walls and floor were coated with Varathane till they were practically plasticized and there had been an attempt at one point to upholster some of the chairs around the groupings of tables, but the fabric was stained and ragged now and many wooden chairs had replaced the upholstered ones. There was a poolroom in the back, currently empty with a hanging faux Tiffany shade, the green felt glowing beneath the light. Strategically placed televisions hung near the ceiling, football players running silently as the sound was off, a nod to keeping things classy. Even with its failed attempts to rise to the level it seemed to want to be, Lacey's was several tiers above the Waystation.

Taft took a seat at the U-shaped bar. His stool was covered in faux black leather that looked fairly new. Above his head hung upside-down wineglasses in a matching U-shaped cabinet that echoed the layout of the counter below. The bartender was talking with a nice-looking woman at the other end of the bar and barely glanced at Taft.

The place was about half full. Taft was probably a bit early for the main crowd. It was Friday night, so he expected it would fill up. He knew it was a cop bar. He'd gone a time or two when he was with the department. Not a lot. Like the job itself, it hadn't quite fit him.

Another bartender came from the back—a tough-looking woman wearing a black T-shirt with white letters that read: I DON'T THINK SO, F**CKER .

So much for classy.

She took his order of a Stella, pulled the beer tap, then dropped the glass in front of him, leveling a narrow-eyed look at the other bartender as she headed to the back again.

Cooper Haynes had given him the rundown on Tim Knowles's homicide. Taft knew the basics, but he'd gained a window into the inside from Haynes's account over the phone . . .

* * *

"Tim was a regular at Lacey's," Cooper told him. "Couple nights a week. Not a big drinker. Just liked hanging out with other cops. Sometimes he might leave with a woman, most times not. He lived alone in an apartment about a mile from the bar, toward Gresham. We did a cursory search of his place after he was killed, but there was nothing that would suggest the kil-ing was anything more than what it was: a burglary that turned into a homicide that took Tim's life.

"He was at Lacey's when the call came in, a couple minutes before he was off duty, so he felt compelled to take it. He'd been at the place about ten minutes before then. Hadn't even gotten a beer yet. Told them he'd be right back and then headed out.

"The caller was Gena Colville, fourteen, calling from her bedroom closet, saying someone had broken into their home. She was alone. Her mother and boyfriend were on a date. Body cam shows Knowles went straight to the door. It was just getting dark. No lights on in the house. He rapped loudly on the door, called out, "Police," and shots were fired through the door, hitting him in the chest. He went down and a man, a penny-ante thief named Dale Kingman, burst through, knocking Knowles off the small concrete porch and pitching him into the yard. Kingman ran to a nearby church. He was in the vestibule and looking up at the ceiling as officers arrived on scene. He said one word, ‘Salvation,' before he shot and killed himself."

Taft had known most of that, but it was chilling to hear Haynes's objective reporting. "Pretty clear set of circumstances."

"It is," Haynes agreed. "Chief Duncan and the department see it as an arrest gone wrong. Kingman was high. Had just broken into the house for cash. Probably thought there was no one home. Panicked when he heard Knowles on the porch. Knowles's death is a reminder of how an arrest can go awry with deadly consequences."

"But . . ." Taft had encouraged when Haynes fell silent for a moment.

"Why that house? Kingman was a burglar, but not in that neighborhood.

"Gena's mother, Sally Colville, was called by Gena, after she called nine-one-one. Sally was nearly hysterical to find an ambulance and officers at her house and Knowles dead in her front yard. When she had time to look around, she said nothing was taken except for about four dollars in change. Gena had heard Kingman in the house, had seen the bobbing light from his flashlight. He'd seemed to be looking for something, muttering, ‘Where is it?,' or something like that. He'd stopped searching and was grabbing up the change when Knowles arrived and called out. Gena said Kingman yelled something back and just started shooting. When asked what he yelled, Gena said she couldn't hear. She'd covered her ears and it was just noise. She didn't know Kingman ran out of the house until much later. She was still hiding in the closet.

"Kingman usually burgled homes in Portland, where he lived. Never in River Glen. It's possible he stepped outside of his usual area to avoid police."

"You're not convinced of that," said Taft, listening to his skeptical tone.

"Kingman was a creature of habit. He didn't venture far from home. He kept buying old cars that were nearly ready for the junkyard. Undependable. He had a long list of petty crimes behind him, some jail time, some homelessness. Recently, he'd found God, and his friends and acquaintances had fervently declared he was a changed man. Then the Colville break-in."

"What do you think happened?"

"It feels like a setup. I don't know how." He exhaled heavily. "Kingman was never caught in possession of a gun before. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe this is my way of mourning Tim's death, like the chief thinks, maybe I just need further justice for Tim. In any case, I can't let it go."

Taft knew the feeling. He'd felt that way himself more than once. "Where do you want me to start?"

"With Tim . . . what was going on with him right before. Everything's been focused on Dale Kingman. I ordered a look into Tim's background and barely got started when I was shut down. Not that there was anything to find. What you saw is what you got with Tim. I wasn't trying to pin anything on Tim, but that's the way it was taken by his family."

"I've met some of the family recently," Taft admitted, Brighty Knowles's angry face glaring at Mackenzie still alive in his mind. "I'm in," he'd added.

"This is a nonpaying job," Haynes had reminded him.

"Understood." There could be no trace of Cooper Haynes's involvement if he wanted to keep his job in good standing. "I have my own reasons for wanting to get to the truth."

"Good. Thanks."

"Maybe you could do a favor for me, actually for Mackenzie Laughlin," Taft had rejoined.

"What would that be?"

"Gavin Knowles asked Mackenzie to look into Ethan Stanhope's car accident and she agreed. She said she's never seen the toxicology on Stanhope. She's heard conflicting reports about his sobriety that night and wondered what was in his system. You know the accident?"

"I remember it. You want the report?"

"Just to know what's in it."

"Stanhope wasn't the only victim. Both he and his sister died in that accident," Haynes reminded him.

"I wasn't around when it happened, but I remember hearing about it some. Maybe check a tox screen on her, too?"

"She was young. Nine or ten, I think," Haynes said carefully.

"I don't expect there's anything there. But if you're checking one, you might check both."

He'd waited while Haynes apparently turned that over in his mind. Finally, the detective answered, "I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Taft had then made plans to go to Lacey's and now here he was. The female bartender in the T-shirt had disappeared, but the guy had finished his conversation with the young woman at the end of the bar and was back at the beer tap, filling an order. He felt Taft's eyes on him and came over. "Never seen you here before," the guy said. "But you're one of 'em."

"I look like a cop?" Taft was a bit surprised. He was dressed more like the current crop of tech CEOs in a collarless shirt and casual jacket to ward off the rain.

"You have the eyes of a cop. Looking around, assessing."

"Maybe I'm looking for love."

The bartender swallowed a chuckle. "What do you want, man?"

"I want to know about Tim Knowles."

That got his attention. He was lanky and scruffy, with longish brown hair and a beard that needed trimming. He wore a T-shirt with a plaid shirt over it, a throwback to '90s grunge. "What do you want to know?"

"Who he saw. What he was doing. Anything."

"He was a good guy," the man said testily.

"That's not in question. He was a good guy," Taft agreed. "And good guys need good justice."

He frowned, still holding the pulled beer, looking at Taft.

"Hey, Jerry!" a guy down the bar yelled. "I'm dying of thirst down here!"

He turned away from Taft, handed the customer his drink, then came back to Taft. "Another?" he asked, indicating Taft's empty glass.

"Sure."

"You don't think Tim got good justice?"

"I want to make sure he did."

Jerry left to take care of several other orders. When he came back, he was looking thoughtful. "Tim was a chick magnet. Just one of those guys that didn't have to do anything and women were all over him. Hard to explain. Wasn't the best looking, wasn't the most ripped. Just a decent guy." He paused. "Not like his brother. He's an ass. Heard he's in the hospital, though. Sorry. Just the truth."

"Jerry! Jesus!" A different customer spread his hands. "Stop runnin' your mouth and get us some drinks. The lady here wants a mojito."

"Excuse me," Jerry said.

Taft thought about Gavin Knowles as he sat there. What would it be like to have everyone like your younger brother and no one like you? Would it make you become less of an ass or more? Guess we know the answer to that, he thought.

When Jerry returned, Taft said, "What about that night? Tim got the call and left. Anything unusual?"

"Only that it was right in the neighborhood. We don't have tons of crime around here and it was a surprise. Even Tim seemed surprised. Said he'd be right back. He only went because he felt guilty about leaving work early. That was kind of his M.O. The only slightly shady thing about him. He would leave his shift early if nothing was going on."

"So he took the call because he felt a little guilty and the crime was near here."

"Yeah, I know Sally Colville. Her house is only a couple of blocks over. She and Ham come in here sometimes. Ham's her boyfriend." He made a face.

"You don't like Ham?"

"He's not a cop, but thinks he is. Ask any of your brothers." He hitched his chin to include the other patrons. The place was beginning to fill up and the female bartender was back and taking orders, shooting Jerry resentful looks.

"I'm not a cop," said Taft.

"Sure."

"Was. Not anymore."

"What are you, then? Private dick?"

"Got it in one," said Taft with a faint smile.

He left Lacey's shortly thereafter as the place grew crowded and the music swelled, and headed back to his condominium through a dark night with a faint damp breeze. He thought about turning around and heading to Mackenzie's, but held himself back. She was fairly prickly since her sprained ankle and he wasn't sure exactly what was going on with her. Sometimes it felt like . . .

He shook his head. Didn't allow himself to finish the thought. Theirs was a working relationship. She'd made that clear and he'd agreed with her wholeheartedly. It was just sometimes he felt the air charge between them. If she felt it, she did an epic job of acting like she didn't.

He turned into his lot, parked the Rubicon, then walked rapidly toward his front door. He heard the pugs next door, Blackie and Plaid, barking at something Tommy was doing, their muffled yipping sounding through the front door.

He smiled as he let himself into his unit. He enjoyed being the pugs' unofficial godfather of sorts, remembering Tommy had tapped him for dog-sitting sometime this week.

Dropping his keys on the console table by the door, Taft headed for the cupboard above his microwave where he kept his liquor. He pulled out an unopened bottle of scotch, thinking of the bottle that was supposedly his from Mitch Mangella. No matter what Mackenzie thought, if it came into his possession, he would be loath to open it.

"Mangella," Taft muttered regretfully.

He opened the bottle, splashed several fingers into an old-fashioned glass before putting the bottle back on the shelf.

He sank onto his couch and lay his head back. What had he learned, if anything, at Lacey's? Tim was a nice guy with a less likeable brother, said brother currently fighting for his life at Laurelton General. Tim was a good man and a good cop who took seriously the "to protect and serve" credo. He also seemed to be a "chick magnet" without putting in any effort. Tim's parents were grieving and his mother was—and this was an opinion on Taft's part—a real piece of work.

Taft picked up his cell phone, holding it lightly in his palm. He wanted to call Mackenzie but for reasons he couldn't quite explain, it didn't seem like a good idea. He set the phone down and frowned at it, picked it up, then set it down again.

He turned on the television with the remote and forced himself into a mindless program that couldn't keep his attention no matter how hard he tried.

* * *

Mac jerked awake, gray morning light streaming through the half-open blinds in her bedroom. She looked at the bedside clock. Seven a.m. She did an internal check and realized she still felt tired, but better. And she was in her bedroom, which was a lot better than sleeping in her chair.

Throwing back the covers, she examined her foot. Yeah, well, still Technicolor, but if she got it wrapped again she should be able to move around better. Maybe even make it to the store for some groceries. Wouldn't that be a good idea.

And she felt less directionless. Ready to grab onto both of the investigations she'd been so lackluster on. She was going to check Mia Beckwith's online social media profile, find out if she was a regular user or more like Mac, with an account on several platforms that she rarely looked at. When Leigh called her back, she was going to ask questions she should've asked from the onset, although Mac hadn't been certain she was even going to take the case and the pain of her swollen ankle had derailed her a bit from work . . . and apparently made her more susceptible to fantasies about Jesse James Taft.

"Not today," she muttered, getting to her feet, testing her ankle. Still hurt, but she was going to power through.

She took a shower and dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck, then headed to her chair. She messed with the length of Ace bandage that wanted to maddeningly stick to itself and got her foot wrapped, sort of. Not nearly as good as what Taft had done.

The memory of his fingers on her flesh caused an internal thrill she could really do without. She clamped her mind down on anything but the present, put on her clogs, and headed down the outdoor stairway to her RAV. A sharp wind slapped rain at her face and she realized she'd left without a rain jacket. Too bad. She wasn't going back for it. Like a true Oregonian she didn't need an umbrella. She just walked through the shivering rain and slid herself behind the wheel.

Forty minutes later, she was home again with supplies. She'd also picked up a breakfast burrito from a food cart outside the Safeway parking lot. Fantastic. She ate standing up at the kitchen sink again, looking out her front window, watching as the clouds opened and poured rain down in wavery silver sheets. There was something about being inside and warm while everything beyond her window was drenched and cold.

Grabbing her cell, she sank back into her chair, went to the Notes folder on her phone, and starting typing in questions to ask Leigh. Did Mia join a real sorority at Stanford? Mac remembered hearing that was one of her goals. How long did she attend school there? Did she graduate? When exactly was the last time Leigh saw her, or talked to her on the phone? What did they talk about? Did she know what Mia's long-term goals were? Who were the people important to her in college, and who are they now?

After a moment she opened another folder in Notes and typed in: Get Stanhopes' phone number . . . or knock on their door .

Mac considered that. Just showing up at the Stanhopes and asking them all about their son's death . . . and their young daughter's. Bad idea. Leigh had said they'd become very religious since Ethan's death and she'd heard that somewhere before as well . . . ?

She thought about it hard, trying to recall where she'd heard that comment. It took a while but she remembered it was someone from the reunion committee, trying to get Mac to attend the ten-year, which she hadn't. It was Tawny Price, who'd spent her high school years riding horses and performing in rodeos and, like Leigh, her keen interest in her avocation had carried into adulthood as she lived on a ranch with her husband. Tawny had mentioned Ethan Stanhope and his parents as her family attended the same church, Riversong, a Christian church near the East Glen River, not all that far from Ridge Pointe Independent and Assisted Living where Cooper Haynes's sister-in-law, Emma Whelan, resided.

Tomorrow was Sunday. The Stanhopes would likely be at Riversong. As would Tawny Price, maybe, though she was married and her new name escaped Mac at the moment.

With her sprained ankle, she tried to imagine how she might slip into a pew unnoticed. Maybe she could keep from limping. Still, meeting the Stanhopes at church was a way to introduce herself as a classmate of Ethan's, ease into an introduction before she started asking questions and came off like Sergeant Joe Friday from Dragnet .

She shook her head and stared into space for a moment. Are you really going to do this? Is it worth the intrusion into these people's lives? Does Gavin really know what he's talking about?

She could picture how betrayed and hurt the Stanhopes would likely be when they learned Mac had an ulterior motive for meeting them.

. . . It was Kristl . . .

. . . If not Kristl, one or the other of them. Maybe all of them . . .

. . . They all had sex with him . . .

Even Leigh? Even Erin?

Mac firmly set her misgivings aside and picked up her cell to call the hospital to check on Gavin's status again.

Tomorrow she was going to church.

* * *

Leigh walked through the showroom looking for her husband. All around her were samples of flooring—tile, hardwood, carpet—all in removable squares with handles to lay out on the tables for prospective home buyers and remodelers to pore over. The business had been her idea, originally, conceived when she got fed up with waiting and waiting and waiting to redo her own kitchen. Parker had seized on the idea and somehow named it after himself, Parker Flooring, which was a better name than his original choice, Parker Flooring and Hardwood, a dumb name because hardwood was flooring, but as ever, he hadn't listened to any good ideas from his wife. It took Leigh's father to point out what she'd been trying to tell him before he smartened up.

Ray was helping another customer who couldn't decide on the color of her hardwood planks. Leigh itched to pick it for her. She could have designed the woman's home in half an hour. Natalie might be the television house renovator but Leigh knew without a doubt that she would be better at it. The few times she'd watched one of Natalie's shows—two, possibly three, out of that first season—she'd felt anxious and envious, and fully aware that Phillip, who was the host, was a know-nothing but did look good on camera. She'd watched Natalie's husband with fascination. There was something about him that drew her eye and it wasn't until the end of the last episode that she realized it was his mannerisms and resemblance to Ethan Stanhope. She'd switched off the TV with a dry mouth.

Because of Phillip, Leigh had been cautious around Natalie when they met after the funeral. She'd tried hard not to let her know that she was following her with her eyes, totally attuned. She was pretty sure Natalie hadn't noticed. She was too into being in charge and her bullish, take-charge ways were as evident now as they'd been when they were in high school.

High school. The only really great friend Leigh had made was Mia. She was the only one in The Sorority that Leigh really cared about. The only one she could really talk to, to really trust. She suddenly yearned for that Mia, the one she'd grown up with and shared secrets with. That Mia had pretty much disappeared when she hooked up with Ethan. Leigh had been bereft and then that terrible debacle when Leigh had been relegated to the ensemble while Summer Cochran stole the lead in Oklahoma! . . . Leigh could still feel the pain. She remembered how hard it hurt. How the only thing that got her through her misery was when an underclassman told her she should have won the part. Leigh could have kissed the girl, but she was a nobody so it really didn't count.

But Mia, her friend who did count, had been wrapped up in Ethan and getting into Stanford . . . and Mackenzie had been Ado Annie but was as independent and unreachable as ever . . . and Erin had just been too wishy-washy . . . Leigh's hurt had been bone deep and even now, when her mind touched on those last weeks of school, she felt anxious and miserable and wanted to cry or scream or do something self-destructive.

And that's where Ethan had come in.

It was the night she didn't get a callback. She checked her cell phone over and over again, waiting for a call or an email or something from the drama department. Nothing. When six p.m. came and went, she knew that Summer had won the part. Of course she had. She had that voice . Leigh knew that she was the better actor, but Summer could really sing. Even with all her voice lessons, piano lessons and choir and dance and special acting coach Leigh had spent so many hours on, she had been relegated to ensemble. Brenna DeSalt was Aunt Eller, but Leigh thought Brenna was built for the part. Big chest, squatty body, booming voice. Leigh hadn't wanted that part anyway. And she hadn't wanted Ado Annie, either. She'd wanted the lead.

The guys in the ensemble were drama geeks, like her. They were nice enough but they were basically talentless. Even the guy who played Curly wasn't much. It was a miserable time. So, so miserable.

She'd left the house in tears and driven around blindly. Driven like a maniac at times, pouring on the gas as she flew down Stillwell Hill, barely making the corner where so many accidents had occurred over the years. She'd stomped on the brakes and flipped around the curve, turning a U-ey without meaning to, lucky no car was coming the other way. She'd driven cautiously back up the hill with a hammering heart then down again into Laurelton, pulling into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven where she leaned over the steering wheel and cried her eyes out.

She didn't know how long she'd been there—an hour, maybe?—before she'd looked at her bleary, tear-stained face in the mirror and wanted to cry some more. But then she'd slowly grown mad. Everybody got everything they ever wanted, but not her. Poor little rich girl, they all thought because her parents had money that her life was perfect. If she ever complained, The Sorority generally dismissed her, even Mia!

She was still sitting in that parking lot when there was a tap on her driver's window that made her startle. She hadn't heard or seen Ethan approach. But seeing his handsome face, all she could think about was that she looked like a mess. She waved at him and gave him a sick smile. She just wanted him to go away, but he made the motion for her to roll her window down and so she turned on the vehicle and pushed the button.

"Hi, Ethan," she said. She didn't like him. He'd taken Mia from her. He was too charming and sure of himself and sometimes she wanted to just punch him out.

But that was when she had her armor on, her makeup, her Elayne persona. At this moment, though, she'd just felt small and broken.

"What's wrong?" he asked her.

"Nothing!"

"You were crying. What happened?"

"Go away, Ethan." Her nose grew hot and she knew she was going to cry some more.

"Hey, you want a Slurpee?" He hitched a thumb back toward the 7-Eleven.

"No . . ."

"You sure? I'm buying."

Why was he being nice to her? He was never nice to her, or any of The Sorority, for that matter. He only wanted Mia.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Oh, you know . . ." He half laughed. "Got too many speeding tickets and lost my wheels. Dad'll relent but I'm in that place right now where I have to wait for my parents to forgive me. I was with Gavin but he ditched me."

"So you need a ride?" she asked unenthusiastically.

"Nah, I can wait."

Leigh felt like a heel because it was obvious she didn't really want to drive him home. She said into the awkward gap, "Maybe I will have that Slurpee. But you'll have to bring it to me. I'm not going to be seen like this."

He snorted. "You look fine."

"No, I don't." But she was glad he said so.

He shrugged and left without asking her what flavor she wanted and when he came back he brought two slushies, one for her and one for himself, both red. He climbed in the passenger seat without being invited. She wasn't sure how she felt about that, but she didn't say anything.

"Wild cherry," he said as she tasted her drink.

"Mmm." They drank their Slurpees in relative silence. He drained his and she drank about half of hers.

When he looked at her his lips were red. Seeing her looking at him, he stuck out his red tongue. She stuck hers out back at him. He laughed, rolled his window down and tossed his empty cup outside. Driven by some craziness she couldn't credit to this day, she did the same with her half-full one. They started laughing like hyenas. When the laughter finally died down they were both looking at each other, and when he reached for her arm and pulled her closer she didn't resist. In fact, she leaned in and they were kissing and sucking on each other's tongues, laughing some more, but then it got serious and they broke apart only to climb into the back seat and before she knew it she was lying beneath him and he was humping against her and she was grabbing at the button on his jeans and pulling them down and then she was sucking his dick like she'd done it all her life.

Just thinking about it now made her place her hand on her forehead and close her eyes. She'd never told anyone. It had been on the tip of her tongue to tell Mia, after she'd confessed she wanted to break up with Ethan. He was gone by then, taking Leigh's secret to his grave, but even so she'd almost let her best friend know what she'd done in a moment of madness. Luckily, she hadn't said anything because she suspected what she'd done was irredeemable. But Mia had cooled off to her anyway.

Ethan may have told Gavin and maybe he blabbed? But nothing had come of it at the time, so maybe not.

Only now, years later, Gavin chose to get all weird about Ethan and the accident.

And now Gavin was currently in the hospital, fighting for his life. She'd called Laurelton General this morning, but no one would tell her anything.

"Elayne?"

Parker's impatient voice cut into her reverie. "What?" she asked him.

"What are you doing? Standing there?"

"Thinking. Is that okay?"

"Maybe you could think somewhere else. You're standing in the middle of the room and we, that are working, have to walk around you."

"Well, I'll let you, that are working, get back to it." She strode out of the front door and into the parking lot, walking through a misting rain to her black Tesla, pressing the keyfob and watching the gull wing rise. She climbed behind the wheel and drove to their home, pressing the button to open the wrought iron gates with the large S in the filigree. At least Parker had used the initial for Sommers instead of a P for Parker. He was fucking obsessed with his first name.

And she had been, too, when she met him. Parker Sommers. He was the name at musical theater camp. He had the most amazing baritone voice. He sucked at dance and wasn't much of an actor, but he could really sing. Leigh had a real weakness for someone who could sing, as her own voice was merely adequate.

Parker's parents had sent their son to the same summer camp year after year and he was a counselor by the time Leigh learned of it and signed herself up. She'd just finished her second year at the University of Washington and wasn't going back. Her own parents were beside themselves. She'd bombed her classes, even drama, and was home with nothing and no plans. They threatened to cut her off, but she knew they wouldn't. She was just so . . . miserable.

She had to squeeze money out of her stingy parents for the summer camp. Her father wanted her to work for the family business, which was investments, venture capitalism. She wanted to become a working actress. She asked for a five-year plan. She would go to Los Angeles and if she didn't make it within five years, she would come home. Her father denied her and her mother followed along with him, but they allowed her to go to the monthlong musical theater camp while they decided what to do with her. She was their only heir and unless they wanted to give all their money to charity, which Leigh knew they would never do, then she was it.

So she pushed everything out of her head and went off to camp. Her parents would come around. They always did. They would give her the five-year plan. They would support her.

She met Parker on the first day. How they'd never crossed paths when he was a student at Sunset West in Laurelton, a rival school to River Glen High, she couldn't imagine. But then Parker was more of a sports guy than an actor, and he'd just fallen into singing because he had a great voice.

Most of the other campers were younger than she was, still in high school. It was kind of embarrassing, but no one knew her exact age and she didn't tell them. Parker flirted with her, but he flirted with all the girls. He was cute and self-important and used to adoration and Leigh just Fell. For. Him. She told him about her family's money. He didn't seem that interested, which only made her double-down on trying to impress him with potential inherited wealth. Leigh didn't care that she was trying to "buy" him. Whatever leg up she could use, she would.

It wasn't till almost the end of camp that he seemed to finally show some interest in her. To her surprise, he told her that her wealth intimidated him, otherwise he would have made a move sooner. Leigh was so relieved and delighted that she didn't object when he invited her to his cabin and they both stripped naked and got down to business without much of a word spoken. When he was sliding in and out of her she thought of Ethan's red tongue probing her mouth and couldn't get the image out of her head. Sometimes even now, when she and Parker made love, she thought about Ethan. If things weren't going all that well, it helped bring her to a climax.

Now she pulled into her quadruple car garage. Parker's black Humvee and his Harley took up two of the spaces. Leigh's father had died of a heart attack shortly after the wedding and her mom had crumbled and let Leigh take over the finances. Parker helped. Parker Flooring began with seed money from Leigh's family. Both she and Parker were interested in residential building, so they worked hard to get their business off the ground. And it was a success! Sure, she'd had to inject more cash here and there, when there were temporary slowdowns, but overall the business was doing well. Leigh could have started paying her mother back for the "loan" she'd given them, but Mom didn't care so Leigh let that money just be absorbed in their flooring business. Parker had pushed for years to take over Mom's finances as well as Parker Flooring and, well, Leigh had ceded over a lot of control.

In hindsight, maybe that hadn't been the thing to do.

She walked into the kitchen and looked at the gleaming Wolf stove, microwave and steamer oven, the Subzero refrigerator, the dull gold kitchen faucet and pot filler, the light gray ceramic tiles and quartzite countertop, white with its faint gold veining, the black pendants with their gleaming gold interiors . . . and thought she would give up everything—every bit of it—for the part of Roxie Hart in Chicago.