“Did you know? Before Stephen died, I mean?”

“No.”

He had a dozen questions bouncing around in his head, but he didn’t ask any of them. His antenna, finely tuned after God knew how many interviews, told him to keep his mouth shut and wait. It wasn’t easy, but eventually she dropped into one of the café chairs.

“They pulled her out of the car,” she said quietly. “Naked from the waist up. They asked if I could identify her body.”

Bloody hell.

And yet he wasn’t as shocked as he should have been. Perhaps because Stephen had stopped shocking him years ago. His widow, however, was another story. Her husband’s betrayal had clearly rocked her, perhaps even more than she knew, and for an instant, he found himself tempted to reach for her hand.

“Is there any chance it isn’t what it looked like?” he asked instead. “That Stephen and this woman weren’t actually . . . involved?”

“No. I don’t know who she was, but there was a photograph in Stephen’s study, and a bunch of unexplained bank drafts, every month just like clockwork. I haven’t had a chance to dig through it all yet, but I’m pretty sure I know what I’ll find. The police don’t even know who she is. At least they didn’t when the morgue photos surfaced a week later.”

“Leaked?”

She nodded. “Front page of the Star Examiner.”

Wade closed his eyes briefly, wishing to God he didn’t know what he knew. He could imagine the celebration only too well, the inevitable strutting and chest bumping that came with that kind of score. And with photos, no less. He’d seen Simone bask in the glory of an especially juicy takedown piece, never once considering the people on the other end of those stories. It had sickened him then, and it sickened him now.

“A celebrity. A tragedy. And a half-naked mystery woman,” he said, recapping. “That certainly explains the driveway full of reporters, but not how a tabloid got hold of morgue photos.”

“Stephen had a friend on the force, a detective by the name of Connelly. He promised to do what he could to keep it out of the papers. Apparently someone had other ideas.”

“Who?”

Christy-Lynn shrugged. “They’re working on it. Or so they say. To be honest, I haven’t called in a while. They don’t seem very eager to talk to me.”

“No, I don’t suppose they would be. It had to be someone inside, probably someone in the ME’s office. They don’t want the public knowing that.”

She sighed and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“Stephen’s dead. And so is his wife as far as I’m concerned. I’m Christy-Lynn now.”

“Except, I just blew your cover. I really am sorry about that. I wasn’t expecting to see you, and then there you were. What are the odds?”

“Yup. Today’s my lucky day.” She flashed a brittle smile as she pushed back her chair and stood. “I knew someone would recognize me sooner or later. I just hoped it wouldn’t be a reporter.”

“It wasn’t.”

“So you say.”

“It’s true,” he said, holding up three fingers in a kind of scout salute. “You have my word of honor.”

She eyed him squarely, ignoring his attempt to lighten the moment. “We’ll see. I’d like you to go now. We’re closing soon, and I’m going to have to explain you.”

Wade pushed to his feet, still trying to get a bead on the emotions she was struggling to keep under wraps. Fear. Anger. Those were easy. But there was something else too, something he couldn’t put a name to, despite being keenly aware of its pull. “It was good to see you again,” he said, extending a hand. When she didn’t take it, he withdrew it and stuffed it into his pocket. “Right. I guess not.”

He turned and headed for the door, leaving the unpurchased copy of A Fatal Franchise on the table. He would read it, of course, at some point. Just like he read all of Stephen Ludlow’s novels. Not because they were great. Or even good. They were neither. He read them because he was still trying to figure out what all the fuss was about.

EIGHTEEN

Christy-Lynn held her breath as she watched him go, releasing it only when she saw him climb into a dusty black Jeep and pull away. It was almost closing time, the store empty. Behind the counter, Aileen and Tamara stood whispering, their heads bent close. Tamara took a step back when Christy-Lynn’s gaze settled on her. Aileen turned her attention back to the register, eyes averted as she cracked open a roll of dimes and spilled them into the cash drawer.

It was Tamara who finally spoke. “You okay, boss?”

“Yes,” Christy-Lynn said quietly. “I promise I’ll explain all that eventually, just not right now.”

“Why don’t you take a break?” Aileen suggested, handing her the takeout container Missy had brought by. “Eat your salad.”

“Or I could make you a nice chai,” Tamara offered. “We’ll be closing soon. You could just hang out in the café and, you know, collect your thoughts.”

Christy-Lynn managed a grateful smile. She appreciated their concern, but at the moment, collecting her thoughts was the last thing she wanted. “Thanks. I think I’ll just go straighten the shelves.”