“Why am I just hearing about this?” I question out loud. Marian is my boss, but I am still a part of management. I should have heard about this; I should know about missing funds.

“We don’t want anyone to know. Right now, everyone is a suspect.” I feel my eyes narrow, and seeing my look, she continues, “Scott knows. I informed him about the missing funds and he asked me to keep it quiet while the situation is being investigated.”

“Do you have any suspects?”

“Everyone is a suspect,” she repeats, and I feel my muscles tense. I have worked with everyone at this agency for over five years. I trust each and every one of them. I know most of their families and friends and their histories. It’s not easy for me to believe that one of them would do something so horrible. “You cannot speak about this,” she says, her face going hard. “What I just told you is confidential. I shouldn’t even have mentioned it to you.”

“I won’t say anything,” I agree, and she nods once before leaving my office and heading across the open floor space. I keep watching until she closes her office door.

I go to my desk and take a seat, my mind spinning as I attempt to come up with a plausible explanation for the missing funds. Each month, we are allotted monies for kids in the system, monies that are used to pay for extra things, like sports uniforms, musical instruments, and such. That money is always accounted for; we have to write a report and explain in detail why we are using those funds. If money is missing, there has to be a paper trail. No funds are ever given out without written approval and the proper paperwork being filed. Not having a clue of what to do about that, I do what needs to get done.

I use my mouse and bring my computer back to life then type up the report for the Shelps’ file, after I finish with that, I call the McKays and inform them that both Shelp children will be with them until further notice. Mrs. McKay, who has been through this before, is understanding and promises to speak with both kids when they get home from school. She also tells me that since the kids have been staying with her and her husband, their grades have already improved. I’m not surprised; a loving environment, eating regularly, and having good people around tends to bring the best out of kids, even when they are going through a traumatic experience.

Before I get off the phone with Mrs. McKay, I set up another visit so I can see the kids for myself just to make sure they are adjusting to their new living situation. By the time I get off the phone and close down my computer, it’s after five. I saw Brie come into the office not long ago and know she will be shutting things down to head home soon too, so I gather my stuff and head toward her cubical in the center of the room. I see she’s on the phone, so I don’t approach, but she lifts her head and smiles at me, giving me a five-minute signal. I nod and head toward the kitchen, hoping to get a cup of coffee before it’s dumped down the drain.

I’m just in time. I get the last cup then spend a few minutes cleaning up the kitchen before meeting Brie. She tells me that she’s made us reservations at one of my favorite restaurants, a local Greek place that doesn’t only have the best fresh oysters around, but a Gyro plate that even thinking about makes my mouth water. After I agree to meet her at the restaurant at seven, we part ways and I head home.

Today has been surprisingly quiet. Not that my cell phone hasn’t been ringing every five minutes from unknown callers, but no reporters showed up at my job—something I was honestly worried about happening. Even my co-workers who know what happened have been quiet. Yes, they asked if I was all right or needed anything, but they didn’t badger me for information or question me excessively, which was a relief.

When I get home, I head right for my bedroom and change out of my heels, slacks, and button-down top I wore to work. I put on a pair of dark skinny jeans and a wraparound silver-gray sweater, just in case we eat outside on the patio, which is something we do often, and slip on my flats. When I’m finished getting ready, I stop in my kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge but pause when I see a note on my kitchen counter. The handwriting is neat but masculine. The words written are short and to the point.

I’ll be back tonight

It will probably be late

Cobi

My heart feels heavy in my chest as I pick up the note and read it again. I close my eyes and lean my head back against my shoulders, trying to figure out how I can feel relief and fear at the exact same time. Without an answer, I set the note back down, grab my bottle of water then my keys and purse, and leave.

One thing I know for sure—nothing can ever happen between Cobi and me, even if I want everything to happen between us.

Chapter 4

Hadley

“WE LOVE YOU, HADLEY,” Kenyon says when we reach my car, and my fingers wrap tighter around my keys. There is always a little pain involved when I hear those words, pain because as much as I want to believe that I understand the emotion of love, I don’t think I do. Not really anyway.

I look way up. At six foot seven, Kenyon doesn’t just tower over me; he towers over everyone. Even Brie, who is six feet tall and always wears at least three-inch heels, has to tip her head way back to look up at her man. That’s one of the reasons she told me she fell in love with him. Most men she’d dated were her height, or not much taller, so she never got to wear heels, and the men never made her feel feminine or dainty. Kenyon could make some of the biggest men I know feel feminine and dainty, with his giant size and presence. He’s a mechanic; he’s rough around the edges, and could probably crush someone with one flick of his wrist, though I doubt he’d ever do that. He’s too nice, probably one of the nicest people I have ever met. “We’re just concerned about you.”

“I know.” I lean into him when he wraps his arms around me, and my gaze locks with Brie’s, who is standing close to us, when I see her eyes start to fill with tears. Once more, I swallow hard and whisper, “Just a couple more days, and then I promise I’ll talk to whoever you want me to talk to.”

“Swear?” Brie moves in closer, holding out her pinky, and I step away from Kenyon and wrap my pinky around hers before our thumbs press together.

“Swear.” With our hands still locked together, I wrap my arm around her.

“Are you sure we can’t talk you into staying with us, just for a few days?”

I smile and lean back to look at her. “No.”

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes then Kenyon’s arm wraps around my shoulders, squeezing me into his side before he lets me go and grabs Brie’s hand. “Are we still on for tomorrow?”

“When have I ever missed one of our Saturdays?” I ask back. For years, once a month, we go get our nails done, have lunch, and go see a movie. It’s our day.

“True. I’ll be at your place at ten to pick you up.”

“Eleven,” Kenyon states, and Brie tips her head back toward him.

When she reads the look on his face, she smiles then looks at me. “Eleven,” she says, and I giggle.

I open the door to my car and slide in behind the wheel. “See you tomorrow.”

“Call when you get home.”

“I will.”

“Also, tomorrow, we are going to have a serious talk about Cobi,” she says over her shoulder as Kenyon starts to lead her away.

“Great,” I mumble, and she laughs. At dinner, she brought Cobi up more than once. She also watched me closely, and looked at me like I was lying every time I told her I’m not interested in him.

I slam my door and watch through my front window as Kenyon walks her to his SUV and helps her in before going around to the driver’s side. They don’t pull out of the parking lot until I do, and I hear their horn honk as we take off in opposite directions.

When I make it home, I notice the street is empty, no news vans or media outlets in sight. Maybe the story of what happened is already old news, or maybe the media realized I had nothing to do with what happened to Harmony while she was working at the hospital.

I grab my mail from the box at the end of the driveway then glance to the left to see Tom standing on his front porch smoking a cigarette. Seriously, he has to be a mobster. What other kind of guy wears tracksuits when they are hanging at home? I give him a wave when our eyes meet, not surprised when he doesn’t wave back, but his chin does lift in greeting. With a shake of my head, I walk into my house, turning on all the lights as I go. I drop the mail and my purse on the island, then head to my bedroom and change into one of my nightgowns, throwing my robe over it. I wash my face, then settle on the couch to watch some TV for a couple hours before going to bed.