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  She ran her hands through damp hair, rose up and padded down the hallway and stopped in the doorway of the child’s bedroom. She was prepared to make an apology and bid them goodbye, probably never to see either of them again. In the darkness, she saw mother cradling her child, speaking soothing words against the sounds of the softening storm. Between pressing kisses on her daughter’s forehead, Kathleen’s eyes momentarily flicked to Shel. She didn’t address her, only continued comforting the child from her apparent nightmare. Shel lingered a moment before returning to the living room.

  Still trembling from the disruptive screech as well as the almost-sex, she sank onto the couch covered her eyes with one arm. She wondered what had gotten into her. Fortier was her client; Kathleen was his wife. Or not. Jesus, the lies…

  The sound of soft footsteps drew her out of her confusion and she felt the weight of Kathleen’s body as she sank onto the couch next to her. Without moving, Shel said, “Tell me what’s going on with you and the kid.”

  After a brief silence, Shel took her arm away and turned to face a drowsy, tearful Kathleen.

  “Maybe you should go,” she softly suggested.

  “You don’t want that.”

  “I do. I think you should go.” But Kathleen’s voice lacked even a hint of conviction.

  “Your ex is after you.” It was the prelude to an all-out confession Shel was prepared to make on the spot. She’d tell Kathleen why she was really there; warn her there was trouble. She’d do the woman a favor, then cut and run.

  To her surprise, Kathleen cut her short with her own admission.

  “He is after us. We’re in a protection group, but I know it’s only a matter of time before he finds us.”

  Shel sat up, suddenly alert. “A group?”

  “An underground railroad of sorts for battered women.” Kathleen said the words with difficulty. “They brought me here and gave me a chance to start over. I’m not to speak of it. It’s the only condition of their help.”

  Shel blinked and started to speak several times, but lacked the proper words. Her eyes invariably went to Kathleen’s neck so she could gauge her perceived truthfulness. It was blotch-free, peachy, beautiful…

  Shel went after it, encouraging the confession. “Who the hell is your ex that you’d have to run away?”

  “A bad man,” Kathleen said, wringing her hands. Her voice was monotone. “It’s best you not know…”

  “Wait—stop.” Shel was confused. “How can I be incriminated for trying to protect you from your controlling abuser?”

  “You don’t understand—it’s not me he wants.”

  “It’s your daughter, right?” At the risk of scaring Kathleen off, Shel attempted to remain vague now that her own confession was off the table. She felt relief at the strong possibility that Richard Fortier’s tales about his wife were wrong. She wasn’t even his wife. Hatred for the man flared within Shel. And to think she’d been prepared to help him in his abusive plot. “It’s a power play. The son of a bitch wants Harper to get to you.”

  “He’s even worse than that. He wants Harper to get at his money,” Kathleen said.

  Shel looked puzzled. The storm had calmed and now only leftover intermittent flashes of light lit the room, giving her infrequent glances of Kathleen’s terrified expression. In a whisper light voice, Kathleen said, “He wants his ten million dollars back.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Shel sat, mouth gaping.

  “You have ten million dollars?” she asked when she finally could.

  “No.”

  Shel felt a headache creeping up on her for reasons that had nothing to do with bad wine. With some impatience she said, “These cryptic answers are making me crazy. Can we talk here, please?”

  “My ex—”

  “Name,” Shel firmly requested.

  Kathleen looked conflicted. “Richard.”

  Shel was overwhelmingly satisfied to know that without a doubt, Kathleen had told her the truth, if only in the way of a first name. She nodded, prompting her to continue.

  “He carries himself off as an art connoisseur, but he’s nothing more than a con and a thief.”

  “Explain that.”

  Kathleen plainly stated, “He sells fake art.”

  She hesitated. “You mean to tell me people don’t know any better?”

  Kathleen shook her head. “He’s fooled people and companies…”

  “Must be damned good fakes.”

  “It’s hard to detect a good fake without X-ray and carbon dating. Particularly lesser known works.” Her slurry words and dazed look had her appearing downright woozy. “It’s a hit-and-run operation fronted by a longtime gallery with a nice little reputation.”

  Shel knew exactly which gallery. She studied the woman sitting beside her and tried not to let her soft skin, the faraway look in her eyes, or the fact that she’d nearly been inside her only minutes earlier, ruin her objectivity. It was…hard.

  “You’re telling me your guy is good enough to create art and pass it off as being something by one of the greats?”

  “No. He only handles the business end.” In a near monotone, she quickly added, “And please don’t call him my anything.”

  On that point, Kathleen was firm.

  “Where does he get passable phonies like that?”

  Kathleen hesitated and when she answered, her voice was a mere squeak. “Me.”

  Shel blinked several times, trying to decide if she’d heard correctly. “You create fake masterpieces?”

  “Some.” Kathleen’s eyes flitted upward momentarily. Her eyes flicked toward the ceiling as she proceeded with her recitation, as if by rote. “Nothing too obvious; nothing too obscure. Stick to household names—Monet, Chagall, Renoir—the market is flooded with fakes. Good accompanying documentation is everything.”

  Shel stared at her in disbelief, whispered, “How do you do it?”

  “Re-creating the artist’s signature style or brush strokes.” She made a pantomime of a sweeping paintbrush. “A little light treatment process for aging and it’s hard to tell the difference. Deals brokered under the table, referred to an expert—”

  Shel was quickly coming up to speed on the process. “And the expert is an associate of yours.”

  She nodded, obviously feeling the full weight of her shame. At that moment, every welled-up emotion appeared to surface and Kathleen sobbed, looking as though she could easily fall apart right then and there.

  “Okay, hold up,” Shel said, unnerved by the sobbing woman. She started to move toward her, but abruptly stopped. Sex she could do; physical comfort was not her strong suit. Not by a long shot. “Stop, already. This isn’t helping anything, honest to God.”

  “He will find us, he’s done it before. I was stupid to think we’d be safe…”

  “Stop it,” Shel told her, softly at first. When the woman showed every sign of falling into full-fledged hysterics, she captured Kathleen’s face between her hands and forced her to look into her eyes. Utilizing a far more forceful tone, she repeated herself, “Get a grip now.”

  A few sobs escaped, but she had Kathleen’s otherwise undivided attention.

  “Tell me, is Addison really your name?” Shel asked her, almost hopeful that she would receive a lie for her answer.

  “No,” she whispered. “It’s Kathleen.”

  “You’re telling me the truth.”

  “Yes.”

  “It wasn’t a question,” Shel muttered. She released her hold, but remained staring at her. “When you say he’s found you before, what do you mean?”

  “I ran before, when it was only me, years before the baby.” She snuggled bare feet beneath her, appearing suddenly chilled as she repeatedly ran hands along her bare arms. “Right before the big hurricane he was arrested on fraud charges. As soon as he was gone, I ran. But he came back.”

  “He got out?” Shel was missing something. “He escaped? What are you saying?”

  “Hurricane Katrina was
such a confusing time.” She shrugged and swiped at her tears with the back of her hand. “I never asked. I didn’t want to know too much.”

  “You said you ran. How did he find you?”

  “He’s very good.” She stared at Shel a moment, as if deciding how much information to entrust to her. She quietly said, “He paid a visit to my relatives—the ones who took me in as a child.”

  “Oh no,” Shel said, grimacing, hardly wanting to hear the outcome of the tale. It was hard to imagine what he’d done to convince them. “Did he threaten them?”

  “I truly believe he killed them.”

  It was a sobering accusation. Shel was taken aback. “That is a very strong allegation, my friend.”

  A hard look of mistrust came to Kathleen’s eyes, but almost immediately her shoulders sank and she shook her head, a look of utter hopelessness coming over her. “And I don’t have any proof. After Katrina, my relatives were the only ones in their neighborhood unaccounted for. Their bodies were discovered across town, which also made no sense. Blunt force trauma was listed as cause of death. Their bodies were…” She shuddered, quieted even more. “It was hard to tell. The authorities contacted me and I went back to bury them.”

  Shel supplied the inevitable finish. “He was waiting for you.” Kathleen nodded. “Did you contact anyone about this? The police?”

  “It would have come down to my word against his. Many records were destroyed in the storm. Even digital became a hacker’s paradise. Add that to the special relationship Richard had with the local cops.”

  Shel fished for confirmation. “Payoffs?”

  “Many were on his payroll.” Kathleen looked haunted. “To this day, Richard continues to boldly live where he always has, right in the Quarter.”

  The rain had completely stopped and the room was quiet.

  “No wonder you think no one can help you.”

  “No one can.” Kathleen wore a dazed look, her voice slightly cracking when she said, “It’s just a matter of time. I’m afraid I’ll never be free of him…”

  Her desperation felt contagious. Shel wanted to talk about the stolen money and the extent of Kathleen’s involvement, but her need to calm and comfort was overpowering.

  “It’ll be okay,” she softly told her.

  “Harper has seen so much. She has nightmares about him—I don’t know how much more we can take…” Addison buried her face in her hands.

  “It’s okay.” Shel hesitated only a second before again slipping an arm around her. She scooted her close, tightly encircling Kathleen’s body. She wondered if she could physically keep the woman’s world from falling apart all around her.

  Shel ignored visions of Fortier dollar signs sprouting wings and flying away. She held Kathleen close, stroking her back. The comfort that she’d initially only mandatorily provided had changed, softened, and segued into something that felt inexplicably natural. She felt like she could hold Kathleen forever.

  “It won’t happen again, Addison,” she whispered. “I promise you he won’t get you.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Shel awoke with wisps of a pixie haircut tickling her nose and slowly came around to her surroundings. She was still on the couch in the living room of the yellow cottage, a bit of sunlight pushing through the shutters. Shel studied Addison’s beautiful form for a while before kissing her awake.

  “Addison,” she whispered, softly at first. She repeated the name several times to get used to the sound of it and decided it was a better fit than her old name anyway. As far as she was concerned, Kathleen Fortier was forever gone. The woman tensed in her arms, as if the memory of the night and all its meaning were catching up to her. Shel held her firmly, but gently. She stroked her back, spoke reassuringly. “Hey, how are you this morning?”

  Addison squinted against the daylight, rubbed her temples. “I feel…funny.”

  Shel knew it was the medication, and blew past it. “You had a rough night.”

  “I had some bad dreams,” she admitted without looking at her.

  “A few.” Shel thought it was the understatement of the century. All night long Addison had tossed and mumbled. In light of all she’d learned, Shel felt more than a little guilty about having unnecessarily drugged her drink. She vowed never to pull such a ridiculous stunt again. She checked the woman’s eyes this morning and felt assured that they were good and clear. Still, Addison was edgy. Shel reached over and brushed hair from the woman’s eyes. “I want to make sure you’re okay about everything we talked about last night. It’s safe with me.”

  “I don’t remember much, to be honest. I’m not much of a drinker.” She bit her lip. “I told you everything, didn’t I?”

  “You told me a bit. I’m sure there’s more.” Shel pressed a kiss on her forehead, gave her a squeeze. She glanced at her watch. “What time do you have to be to work?”

  Addison turned Shel’s wristwatch so she could see it. She gasped, suddenly moving quickly. “Harper has to be at preschool in fifteen minutes!”

  “It’s okay.” Shel was about to offer her car but quickly remembered that it was a rental on Fortier’s card and likely easily traceable. No reason to boldly park it in front of the art gallery. Plus, there was still an Addison James painting hidden in its hatchback. She decided she’d properly ditch the painting and turn the rental car in today. Maybe she’d go so far as to book a bogus flight out west. Anything to temporarily throw him off their trail… She reined in her thoughts, said, “I’ll drop you girls where you need to be today.”

  “But we won’t—”

  “And then I’ll pick you up when your day is done,” Shel said, cutting short any protest. She smiled at her. “I’m persistent. You might as well say yes.”

  “That’s a lot of running around for you.” That Addison’s stance had notably softened told Shel that she liked the plan. A puzzled expression came to her face. “What do you do for work that you have so much time on your hands?”

  The question would have arisen sooner or later. Addison had come clean; it was now her turn. “I’ll tell you about it tonight, how’s that?”

  “But your job is nothing illegal, right?”

  She thought about her shady undercover operations, the fact that she’d drugged the woman standing before her, the same woman whose ex’s money was supporting her present lifestyle. In spite of it all, she shook her head. “No.”

  It was a backward step in her new life, but a necessary one, she felt. She didn’t want to risk the trust that had been extended to her thus far. Lying to protect trust. She internally cringed at the horrible concept.

  “I’m sorry. That was a dumb question,” Addison said with apology, further adding to the guilt that Shel was already feeling. “If you seriously don’t mind taking us, you’d save the day.”

  “I insist.” She released Addison so that she could get ready. Addison rose from the couch and started away, but quickly doubled back and kissed Shel. When lips parted and eyes opened, Shel was left smiling, and muttered, “Good morning.”

  Shel stood and stretched, happy that her back wasn’t protesting her every move this morning despite sleeping upright on the couch. She looked down at her attire—or lack thereof—and took a step toward the hallway.

  “Uh, I’m going to run across the street real fast, get dressed and meet you back here in five.” In the daylight she took a second look at the thin robe and again noted its pink shawl collar. She pulled it together as close as possible, mumbled, “Really, really fast.”

  She scooped her still-damp wad of clothes off the mat, unlocked the door and bolted across the street to the safety of her own house. Inside, she pitched the clothes onto the floor, then unfastened the sash and prepared to wriggle out of the robe.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in.” The voice jarred her, and despite its familiarity, Shel loudly cursed. Clutching the collar of the pink robe she’d nearly slipped off, she spun around to see Naples’s favorite cop. “You left your door unlocked.”r />
  Milford was seated casually on the couch dressed in her full uniform. She blotted a dot of jelly from her lips with a paper napkin and brushed a few crumbs off her lap leftover from a pastry she’d been eating.

  Breathing hard, Shel clutched the robe lapels together.

  “Jesus Christ, Milford—you trying to give me a heart attack or something?”

  “That’d be bad considering you’ve apparently already suffered some kind of brain damage. Anyway something’s gone wrong up there.” Milford thumped her index finger against her own temple to demonstrate. She gave Shel three long head-to-toe looks, smirked. “Nice threads, hotshot. You mind telling me what the hell you’re doing?”

  “What are you doing inside my house?”

  “I fed your cat.” She stood and brushed the last of the crumbs off her hands, then rolled down the top of a paper bag she’d brought with her. “I brought you breakfast, but it looks like you already ate out.”

  “That’s rude. Very rude.” Shel wagged a finger at her regarding her wrong assumption.

  “Anyway,” Milford shot her an extremely annoyed look, but got on to matters of business, “I came bearing news about that Winston guy, the property owner, but you were out gallivanting around with the pretty neighbor.”

  Shel ignored the remark, nodded. “I’ve got some information, too.”

  “I’ll go first. Winston’s got a bunch of money thanks to a lawsuit about thirty-some-odd years ago.”

  “Over his mother’s death,” Shel supplied, hurrying things along.

  The cop looked taken aback. “Ms. Hot-to-Trot tell you that?”