Chapter 15

She braced herself for impact, aware she was going to be broadsided.

The screech of the pickup's brakes blasted her ears. The engine roared. Tires squealed and the truck shimmied wildly under the pressure to stop. Inhaling, she thought of Taft, pierced with regret that she might not see him again.

The dark gray truck stopped inches from her driver's door. A car slowed going the opposite direction, then picked up speed again when they saw that the driver of the truck had put his flashers on and was getting out to help.

Mac was flooded with relief. Damn, though. Who was that? Their car was going to show the effects of the hit, too.

In the next instant she was wary of the man suddenly at her window. The last time she'd been on this stretch, her "savior" had meant her harm. But no . . . this man was older and concern was written all over his lined face.

She lowered her window with a shaking hand. Adrenaline rush. She was feeling both its impact and slightly sick at the same time.

"You okay, ma'am?" he asked in a gravelly voice, eyeing her beneath bushy gray brows.

"Yeah . . . I . . . dropped my cell phone." It had been in its holder on her dash but the impact had spun it to the floor. She took several deep breaths and realized the RAV was still running. Switching off the engine, she leaned down to collect the cell, hit by a wave of nausea. She clasped the phone, but it took her a moment to get her stomach under control and straighten up again.

"I'll call nine-one-one," the man said.

"No. No. I'm fine." She tested her limbs and could move them all. "I just need to call a friend."

Traffic was slowly working its way around the stranger's truck, getting into the opposite lane to make their way around his pickup and her SUV.

"You hit your head?" he asked.

"I don't . . . think so." She touched her forehead and came back with blood, then remembered the impact against the steering wheel.

"You sure you're all right?"

"Yes," she said. "Yes. Did you see the car that hit me by any chance?"

"The Accord? Sure did."

"Was it blue? Did you see the license plate?"

"Was no license plate. I looked. Mighta been one on the front. You need a tow truck. Mebbe you should get outta the SUV."

Her heart clutched. The RAV could slip backward, once more off the road on this stretch of county highway, her personal Waterloo, apparently.

"But your vehicle ain't going anywhere," he allayed her fears. "You're high-centered. I'll stick with you till you get through."

She pushed open her door and stepped from the SUV, feeling vulnerable on the side of the road even though the man's truck with its flashing red lights in the gray afternoon was a warning in both directions.

She called for a tow, and after securing that, phoned Taft. He didn't answer and she left a message, explaining what had happened. Now that the initial shock was dissipating she was starting to feel better and the questions were circling. Who was driving the car? Had they targeted her? They'd charged up on her car and hit her on purpose. Dangerous move. To them as well. They were lucky they'd managed to keep going.

She then realized that it was very like a PIT maneuver, Precision Immobilization Technique, used by law enforcement to slow down a car and spin it 180 degrees. Was that purposeful, or had it just happened?

"Thank you so much," she said to her Good Samaritan. "I've got this."

"No, ma'am. I'm not leaving you till the cavalry comes."

"I just called my . . . boss. He'll call back. The tow truck's on its way."

The staccato flickers from his emergency flashers warned the traffic as they stood at the edge of the road, behind the very small space left between his vehicle and hers.

"You left him a message. I'll wait for a while. I'm Marv, by the way." He stuck out a hand and Mackenzie shook it carefully. She was feeling a little lightheaded.

"Mackenzie," she said.

* * *

Prudence Mangella was more than happy to have Taft agree to come to her house to "go over the estate." She invited him into the den/bar area where they'd met with Martin Calgheny and Veronica Quick and she went behind the bar and pulled out the hundred-year-old bottle of Macallan still held by thin leather straps inside its presentation box. Its value was in the hundreds of thousands. Taft looked at it and thought about Mackenzie's urging him to drink it.

"Here," Prudence said, setting the box on the counter and spreading her arms. "It's yours. Take it."

"Okay," he said, but he made no move to even touch the bottle or its wooden case.

"Something wrong?"

"I'm not ceding the proceeds of the estate to you. I'm giving it all to several drug rehabilitation programs around Portland in the name of my sister."

Her eyes widened and her lips parted. "No, you're not. You're giving it back to me. I'm his wife! I'll take you to court!"

"Well aware."

"And I'll win!"

Oregon was not a community property state, but she could end up being right. As far as Taft was concerned, she could do her damnedest. He'd made up his mind and felt the least Mangella could do with his ill-gotten gains was give it back to the people whom his choices had ruined large parts or all of their lives.

"You came out here just to tell me that," she accused, her eyes cold with fury.

"You asked me to meet you," he reminded her.

She suddenly swept her arm across the bar and sent the box and bottle of scotch flying off to Taft's right. Taft leapt sideways and caught the box in his outstretched arms like a football, glad the thin straps held the precious liquid as he stumbled into one of the leather chairs, managing to juggle the box and keep it from crashing to the floor.

By this time Prudence was screaming obscenities and crying. "Get out! Get out!" she shrieked and he tucked the box under his arm and left. Since Mangella's death, Prudence had lost her veneer of cool, calm respectability. Maybe it was because she really missed him, or maybe it was guilt because she'd somehow caused his death.

Either way, he was glad he'd crushed her vain hope that he would give it all back to her. That wasn't what Mangella had asked for.

He'd switched off his cell for his meeting with Prudence and now he saw he had a call from Mackenzie. He listened to the first few sentences and then frantically hit the call button.

* * *

"You hit your head. You need that looked at," Marv said for about the fifth time. He'd taken a real interest in Mackenzie's welfare. He wore a gray-and-white flannel shirt over a gray T-shirt, jeans, and work boots and looked like the salt of the earth. Nice as he was, Mackenzie really kind of wished he would just move on.

Her cell rang at that moment. She glanced at the screen and answered with relief, "Hey, Taft." She heard the weakness in her voice. Oh, God, she wasn't going to do something like cry , was she? No. NO.

"Where are you? Where you had your last accident?" Taft demanded. "Are you okay? Do you need anything? An ambulance?"

Taft's questions came rapid-fire and she could hear the tenseness in his voice.

"No. No." She managed to hold herself together. "I'm fine. A tow truck's coming."

"I'm fifteen, twenty minutes away. Be careful. I'll be there."

Marv insisted on staying. Mac went around to the passenger side of the RAV and pulled out her messenger bag from where it had flown into the footwell. She stood up a bit too quickly and felt dizzy.

"Ma'am, you need to get checked out," Marv said again.

"Maybe so," she finally agreed.

Taft made it in fifteen minutes, parking his Rubicon on the other side of her RAV. He had to wait a moment to open his door as another car was passing them, faces gawking out the window. One look at him and Mac's knees trembled. Oh, shit. Reaction. She leaned against the side of the RAV and he moved quickly to grab her as if expecting her to slide to the ground, though she tried to wave him off.

"I'm fine," she insisted.

"You don't look fine," he stated fiercely. "There's a knot on your head that's bleeding. Maybe concussion."

He wasn't letting go of her and she had to fight the urge to simply lean into him and stay there. He smelled good, his own faintly spicy scent that she associated with him. Before she completely lost it, she turned to Marv and said firmly, "Thank you, Marv. Really. Thank you."

"You get her looked at," Marv told Taft sternly, clearly reluctant to cede authority over Mac to Taft.

"On it," Taft answered tersely.

Marv nodded and went back to his truck just as the tow truck arrived with its winch. Taft worked out the details with the tow truck driver and Mac eased toward the passenger door of the Rubicon and got herself inside.

"I don't think we need a trip to the hospital," she said. "The auto body shop will be waiting for me."

"I'll call them. We're heading for Laurelton General."

She dropped the argument. It wasn't worth pursuing. She said instead, "It was that blue Accord. It just came at me. I'm pretty sure I saw it, or one like it . . . cruise through my parking lot, and then I thought I saw it again and then this."

"You're saying this was no accident?" he demanded fiercely.

"No accident," she agreed. "I saw a flash of a car coming at me and then I was spinning around."

Taft swore under his breath.

She half laughed. "Guess I can't drive that stretch of road anymore. It's too dangerous."

"When did you first see the Accord?"

"You were at my place, bandaging my foot. Friday? Saturday? I just noticed this blue Accord come in and turn around and leave. And then I thought it was following me Sunday after I went to Riversong Church, but it turned off . . . Marv said it was a blue Accord without back plates. And now it's got damage to the right front side. You know, it was really a PIT maneuver, whether they meant to spin me around or not."

"I'll talk to Haynes. We need to report it."

Mac nodded. "Who would want to deliberately run me off the road?"

"Gavin Knowles was run off the road last weekend." He was grim.

"So you think it's because of my questions on the Ethan Stanhope accident? Someone who doesn't want the fentanyl angle publicized? No," she answered herself. "I was being followed before I even knew about that."

"But you'd been contacted by Knowles," he said. "You were already investigating. Maybe they wanted to stop you. Different car. Same m.o."

She felt cold all over. "I haven't learned anything of import."

"Yet."

He made good points. Whoever had smashed their car into hers couldn't know exactly how much she knew.

"Know anyone with that make and model of car?" he asked.

"Nope."

"They were reckless enough to have made the vehicle too noticeable to use again . . . unless they're crazy."

"That's comforting," she said, trying to scare up a smile, lighten the mood.

It didn't work as Taft was grimly focused on the road to the hospital. After a few moments of silence, and knowing that his phone only went to voice mail when he couldn't talk, she asked, "Where were you when I called?"

"Picking up the scotch from Prudence."

"You said you weren't going to see her."

"I decided it was best to make my intentions clear about the estate." He then tersely explained about his decision to give the money to drug rehabilitation efforts.

"I'm glad to see you're still alive."

That finally earned her a sideways look and faint smile, which dropped off his lips immediately. "We need to figure out who targeted you. It's just as well you'll get a rental car. One no one knows."

"I'm supposed to meet Mason Beckwith and Sam Stanhope tonight at the Waystation, and Mason's giving me Mia's phone number. I haven't had a chance to talk to them yet. I've hardly had a chance to talk in depth to anyone so far."

Taft clenched his jaw. She could tell he wanted to tell her not to go. She also knew he wouldn't dare tell her what to do. He said, "I'll come with you."

"You know that's not going to work."

"You need to be extra careful."

"It's just killing you not to tell me what to do, isn't it?"

"Yes," he admitted.

And then they were circling the lot outside the Emergency. An ambulance had just pulled up so Taft chose to park in the hospital's main lot. "I can walk," she assured him. She was feeling all right, better than all right now that the shock of the accident had passed. Yeah, her head was sore, but if Taft hadn't been with her, with Marv's order still ringing in their ears, she would have skipped the hospital entirely.

She didn't have to lean on him on the way in, but he insisted on holding onto her arm to steady her, and she was past arguing about it with him. They walked in together and ran nearly straight into Brighty and Leland Knowles. Brighty's face was gray and her eyes were wild and Leland looked like the world had caved in.

"Oh, no," said Mac.

Taft tightened his hold on her.

Brighty fixed her eyes on Mac and Mac braced herself for another attack, especially if what she thought was true turned out to be true: Gavin was dead.

"He's gone," Brighty said to her, confirming her fears. Leland reached out a hand as if to stop his wife from whatever she planned, but it was a feeble move that seemed to take the last of his strength. If he didn't get himself into a chair soon, he was going to topple over.

Mac made a move toward him, but Brighty got in her way. "Leland . . ." murmured Mac.

"Gavin's gone," she said. "Both of my boys are gone."

Mac realized she sounded more surprised than horrified, but grief took people in different ways, so there was no way to judge Brighty's feelings. "I'm sorry," she said, meaning it.

Taft suddenly darted toward Leland, catching him as he staggered and leading him to one of the reception area club chairs. Brighty turned to look at them. "They're both gone," she said again.

Mac could tell the news hadn't completely made the circuit into the center of Brighty's brain for processing. She was having a little trouble in that regard herself. Her chest was heavy with sorrow and she felt guilty for all the hard thoughts she'd had about Gavin.

Mac asked, "Brighty, do you want to sit down?"

Taft was back in a flash, grabbing Mac's elbow again. "You okay?"

"Yeah, don't worry about me." She felt fine. Yes, she was still going to have herself checked out, but the cobwebs had cleared. She kept her eyes on Gavin's mother, who apparently hadn't heard her.

Brighty swayed a bit and Taft and Mac both moved forward, but she seemed to come to herself and held up a palm. "Stay back. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want any of you around." Then she moved on shaky legs to where Leland was sitting and sank into the chair next to him.

"Is someone coming to get you?" asked Mac.

"Go. Away." She turned her head from Mac. Brighty blamed The Sorority for all crimes against Gavin and maybe Tim, and lumped Mac in with them.

Mac and Taft left them. She walked down the hall to the ER on her own power, checked in, and waited while others ahead of her were being attended to before she could go behind the counter and through the double doors to be seen by the overworked ER doctors who swooshed in, took a look, ordered tests, and swooshed out. Mac's head and neck were X-rayed but apart from a wrenching of muscles, she was ordered good to go. Her neck muscles were sore, as was her ankle, but all in all she was fairly sound. No concussion. She thanked Taft a bit awkwardly for dropping everything to come help her.

"Not a problem," he told her.

They drove to the auto body lot and Mac checked with her insurance. After that was settled Taft took her to Enterprise for a silver Ford Focus. She hoped she wouldn't have it too long but her poor RAV had now been in two accidents in the last few years.

Neither your fault , she reminded herself.

"I'm going to follow you back to your apartment," Taft told her and though she protested, he did just that. He rolled down his window as she parked and suggested she call Mason and move her meeting. She pretended to acquiesce, but she had other ideas. As much as she appreciated Taft's help, she was going to push forward. The "accident" had made her angry.

She had some time to kill before that meeting and considered calling her mother or her stepsister, but she wasn't ready to reveal what had happened to her. They would just tell her to stay home and rest.

She walked into the bathroom, her ankle faintly twinging, and looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was a tad pale and a knot had formed beneath the skin break on her forehead that had caused the bleeding. No wonder the rental car guy had shot her sideways glances whenever he thought she wasn't looking. Good thing Taft had been with her otherwise he might not have rented to her. She looked like she'd been in some kind of fight.

As she examined herself, she thought about Gavin and Brighty and Leland, and the solemn people at Tim Knowles's funeral, and the icy and broken Coral Stanhope and the simmering anger beneath Lynda and Charles Beckwith's exteriors and the three members of The Sorority she'd seen on Thursday . . .

She decided to take a bath, something she rarely did as she preferred showers, but as she lowered her body into the steaming water she felt a lot of little bumps and bruises she hadn't first noticed. Closing her eyes, she let her mind wander from point to point, touching on bits of information she'd learned over the last few days: Ethan and Ingrid Stanhope had died of fentanyl poisoning . . . Gavin Knowles had been run off the road, vehicular homicide now . . .

Her heart squeezed painfully. She realized now that she'd believed Gavin would make it. His death had come as a surprise and fueled her growing anger. Whoever had killed him needed to be caught.

Whoever killed him may have just tried to kill you.

She needed to think about that, about all of it. Gavin believed Kristl Cuddahy was responsible for Ethan's death and Kristl was a close friend of Stacey Colville's . . . and Stacey's house was where Gavin's brother, Tim, had died of a gunshot wound after confronting an armed burglar, Dale Kingman, who'd subsequently been killed in a barrage of police gunfire, crying out, "Sanctuary!" inside the church where he'd fled after shooting Tim. Was Kristl somehow involved in Tim's death, at least peripherally? Was Gavin right to finger her for Ethan's death? Mackenzie thought about Kristl and shook her head. She didn't know what that all meant.

Beyond Kristl, Mia Beckwith was presumed missing and was last known to be living with a man named Ben whose family was involved in California's marijuana business. Mia's brother had withheld information about his sister's whereabouts from Mac, but now wanted to meet with her, along with Ethan's brother, Sam Stanhope, to pass on that information. And, come to think of it, it really felt like as soon as Mackenzie began looking into Mia's disappearance, Gavin, his parents, and the Stanhopes began blaming The Sorority for all the bad things that had ever befallen their two families. The deaths and Mia's disappearance were tied together, and the link was The Sorority. . . and, well . . . Sam Stanhope.

Mac opened her eyes. Her thoughts were a disjointed jumble of pieces of information in somewhat overlapping investigations, but Sam Stanhope's sudden insertion into the equation was new. Was he just using Mason as a means to harass Mac about the laptop?

She stood up in the bath, water falling off her, and grabbed a towel, testing her balance, more determined than ever in meeting with Mason. She dressed in jeans and a black sweater and strapped on the clogs. Lastly, she examined the bandage on her forehead over her right eye. Her bangs partially covered it. Thank God.

* * *

Taft tucked the box of Macallan under his arm as he unlocked the door to his condo and let himself inside. He flipped on a lamp to push back the creeping afternoon darkness, then headed into his kitchen. He hadn't wanted to leave Mackenzie alone. Someone had purposely rammed her RAV and spun her off the road, right at the place she'd been pushed out before. Had they known that, or was it just a convenient stretch of highway that could ensure a vehicle would go off the road and away from any chance of caroming across traffic and possibly causing an accident that might harm the perpetrator as well?

He placed the box that held the bottle of Macallan scotch on the counter, thought about it a moment, then opened the cupboard above his refrigerator and placed it inside.

Mackenzie had basically shooed him out, so he'd had nothing to do but acquiesce. He thought about her friend/acquaintance /classmate, Kristl. He'd promised her he would call today. He'd planned to go over a plan with Mackenzie in further detail before that "date" but the day had gotten away from him.

You should have walked her up to her apartment.

Yeah . . . but no. He'd sensed she didn't want him around, which convinced him she was still going to meet up with Mason Beckwith and Sam Stanhope. He wasn't sure what he was going to do about that. She was right that his being there would only complicate the interview, but . . . Pulling his cell phone from his jacket pocket, he walked back toward his front door, which hadn't completely shut. He started texting Mackenzie when the door swung all the way open, revealing a black-cloaked figure. He immediately tensed, ready for an attack.

Anna DeMarcos lifted her manicured hands in defense, then crossed them over her heart and gasped, "It's just me!" her glossy red nails gleaming in the soft lamp light.

"What are you doing here?" Taft asked. He'd lost the ability to be polite with her. She was poisonous and dangerous and responsible for the death of her husband—Carlos DeMarcos, a damn good cop—whether there was enough evidence to prove her guilt or not.

"Well, I came to see you, obviously. See if I could knock some sense into that thick skull of yours." She dropped her defensive posture and smiled. Her red lips matched her nails and her dark eyes looked at him with false innocence.

"You can talk through the lawyers." He didn't invite her in, but she tentatively took a step inside anyway, shifting around his solid form and moving into his living room.

"Has Prudence's money turned you into a mannerless boor? Where's your sense of humor? Your parry-and-thrust of conversation?"

Now Taft was completely on alert. Prudence had a way of teasing and flirting and manipulating but Anna had never acted that way, at least in his experience. She wasn't known for wordplay; she acted. "I lost it when Mitch was murdered."

"Murdered." Her eyes flashed and he saw the true Anna underneath, angry and resentful. "You're so melodramatic."

"Have you talked to Prudence today?"

"Yes. I know all about your choir boy decision to leave all her money to the druggies."

Taft bristled, even while he told himself not to let her get to him.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I forgot about your sister."

Like hell. His cell silently buzzed in his hand. He hadn't gotten his text out, but the incoming one was from Mackenzie: Will call you after my meeting.

Damn. "What do you want, Anna?" he demanded, clicking off his screen.

She'd flopped herself into a chair beneath his front window and now spread her arms over its back. "Okay, fine. Bring me a glass of that fabulous scotch you were gifted from Mitch and I'll get to the point."

Taft looked at her, then wordlessly turned back to the kitchen, opening the cupboard above the refrigerator and pulling out the bottle of scotch. Did he want to open it? Not really. But somehow it had become the symbol of all that was wrong with his relationship with Mitch Mangella. He was almost sorry he'd been given the bottle.

He cracked it open and poured two fingers of scotch into a glass for each of them, feeling only the smallest twinge of regret. Mac's accident . . . the idea that someone was after her left him cold and hollow inside.

He walked back into the living room. Anna had given up her draped pose on the couch beneath the front window and now was looking pensively through the pane. She turned her head, her eyes widening at sight of the scotch. "Is that really . . . ?"

"Yes."

"My, my," she said, accepting her drink. Her lips quirked and she touched the rim of her glass to his with a soft clink . "The last thing Prudence and I want is to fight with you," she said before taking a long sip that must have burned a trail of fire down her throat. She coughed a bit and said, "Whew. That's good."

"What you want is for me to just say it was all a joke and refuse Mitch's gift."

"This should be enough for you." She held up her drink and moved it back and forth in front of him, as if luring him, the amber liquid gently swaying inside.

"It's more than enough."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "But . . . ?"

"But I'm not returning the rest of it."

She looked at the scotch, then tossed the rest back. Her jaw twitched as she set the empty glass down on the side table with a sharp smack. "That's it? That's all? No further negotiation?"

"That's it."

She got to her feet. "Well, fuck you, Taft. Fuck. You."

She turned and yanked open the door, flinging it behind her as she stormed out. The door banged against the doorstop and shuddered, and he slowly closed it behind her, making sure it was securely shut.

"Well," he muttered with a shake of his head, sipping at his own scotch. He looked at the time, thought about going against his own rules and crashing Mac's meeting at the Waystation, then forced himself to put the rest of the Macallan away and open his phone to text Kristl.

* * *

Mac was scrolling through Ethan's laptop, once again having typed in "waterpolo" to gain access to all his information. Last night she'd only glanced through the latest pictures and had read a few of his school assignments and one half-finished attempt at a résumé that played heavily on his sports accomplishments, not so much on academics, though she knew for a fact that he'd gotten pretty good grades throughout the years. He'd been one of those guys who barely cracked open a book and yet managed to do above-average work.

Ethan Stanhope was a contradiction, Mac thought. Whereas Gavin had been the guy who always pushed, Ethan had held back and allowed some mystery. He'd been shallow, swearing he truly cared for Mia while cheating on her with Roxie and maybe others. Still, he'd been likeable, whereas Gavin had been hard to take.

Gavin . . .

Mac sighed and looked through more of Ethan's pictures, starting with their senior year and scrolling backward. There he was at prom, putting his king crown on Katie Ergon-Smith's head as she gazed up at him adoringly from her wheelchair. Mia was beside him, stiff and unhappy beneath her own crown. Was it in the moment? Ethan showing someone else attention, or stealing the spotlight, like he was wont to do? Or was she unhappy because of her relationship with her parents?

There were a number of pictures of Ethan in his swim gear and goggles. He had a lean swimmer's body with defined abs and wide shoulders.

And, well, what do you know? Here was a picture of Roxie coming out of Gavin's pool house. And then another of Ethan doing the same. And then a third of The Sorority standing in a group and staring to one side of the camera, focused on Ethan, who was lounging in a chair at the side of the pool.

"Who took the pictures from that night and gave them to you?" Mac murmured. Most likely it was Gavin. Or was it someone snapping pictures with Ethan's phone?

She scrolled further back through senior year and was surprised to see a picture of herself and Summer Cochran on stage with the cast of Oklahoma! She realized that the camera's focus was on a group of attendees seated in the first row: The Sorority sans Leigh, as she'd been one of the many light-brown heads of the ensemble that all blended into one.

There was nothing in the laptop she could see that offered any clue to how Ethan and Ingrid ended up with fentanyl poisoning—nothing other than the usual photos, papers, and assignments of a high school kid. Maybe Sam Stanhope just wanted the laptop for his own use. She would have to ask him when she saw him.

* * *

Holy shit . . . holy shit . . . Natalie could kill Leigh for bringing Mackenzie Laughlin into their problems.

She heard her own thoughts as if she'd spoken them out loud and grimaced. This wasn't the day to talk of killing anyone. She'd learned through Kristl, who'd been all over Gavin's accident and Tim's death and all that, that Gavin had died.

But now Mackenzie had left a voice mail, asking to talk to her. What the fuck?

She'd punched in Leigh's number, but Leigh hadn't answered. This was her m.o., apparently. She screened all her fucking calls.

So do you.

She called her again and this time left a terse voice mail. "We need to all get together again, maybe at Kristl's. I'm back. Can we make it tonight? Call me."

She left a similar message on Erin's phone and Kristl's. Jesus. Did no one answer their phones anymore?

It was Leigh who called back first and Natalie launched right in, blaming her for siccing Mackenzie on them. Leigh defended herself by saying that Mac just wanted to reconnect with them.

Natalie snorted. Sure. That's what it was. She just managed not to shriek over the phone at her, and instead ask—rather politely, she felt—that all of The Sorority gather at Kristl's tonight. Leigh squelched that idea right away, saying she was busy and adding that she was pretty sure Kristl wasn't home anyway. "Maybe tomorrow," Leigh bit out, still apparently pissed that Natalie had dressed her down.

Natalie pulled back her anger with an effort and reluctantly agreed to postpone meeting with everyone until Tuesday evening. Maybe she needed a little time to settle herself anyway as she'd just spent a long weekend trying to convince Beatrix that she could do the series by herself, to minimal success, and trying to talk some sense into Phillip, who had barely listened on the phone to her pleas as he was in Sedona and already wishy-washy and distracted.

"Fucking beige soul," she muttered, heading back to the massive floor-to-ceiling window where she had a nighttime view of Portland's Pearl District with its restaurants and converted warehouses and upscale living spaces. Traffic moved steadily down below and she inhaled deeply, drinking in the urban flavor though she heard very little noise and the only scent she picked up was a light lemony aroma from the set of three candles on the coffee table.

I could live here , she thought, suddenly wanting it very badly. Maybe there was someone in Portland who could share her vision and drive to get Rose City Ren-o off the ground.

Her brain twinged her, nagging, always nagging. She couldn't let anyone or anything ruin her future over some silliness from her past. She gazed blindly into the darkness outside, ignoring the bustle on the street below, lost in memories of those last few weeks of high school.

She plucked up her phone from where she'd set it on the coffee table, held it in front of her, and then scrolled through her contact list. She was kind of mad at her other "sisters" for not being available tonight and for bringing Mackenzie Laughlin into their problems. Sometimes you needed to act on your own.