By the time she stops searching to call me, she’s a mess of frantic tears, ready to call the police and the national guard. In the car, driving to the house, I’m the one who asks if they checked the third floor—Robert and Rachel’s room.

In a breathless rush, Chelsea says they didn’t—and she bolts up the stairs. There, curled up on the floor of the walk-in closet, wrapped in her mother’s robe, is Rosaleen, fast asleep. I get to the house a few minutes after the discovery, when Chelsea is still teary-eyed and shaking. Rosaleen feels bad but says she likes to go into her mother’s closet sometimes. To remember what she smelled like.

The explanation makes Chelsea cry more. And just about breaks my fucking heart too.

After an unusually long bedtime, when Chelsea can’t seem to pry herself away from her niece’s doorway, I broach the subject of the bedroom. It’s been months since Robert and Rachel died, and the room stands exactly as it did before.

I don’t know much about grieving—I know even less about kids—but it doesn’t seem . . . healthy to me. Chelsea is adamant—she claims the kids aren’t ready for the change, to have their parents’ most personal things boxed up and relocated. Or worse, given away. But I don’t think it’s the kids who aren’t ready.

I think it’s her.

She shoots the topic down, refuses to discuss it. And when those gorgeous eyes turn icy, I let it drop. Because it isn’t really any of my business, so it isn’t worth an argument.

• • •

Late on the Wednesday afternoon after Rosaleen’s Houdini imitation, Chelsea calls me at the office. “Are you free?”

“Depends. What do you have in mind?” I say, my tone weighted with suggestion about what’s exactly in my mind. It’s right along the lines of what’s in my pants.

“Don’t get your hopes up.” Chelsea sighs. “I’m on my way to pick up Raymond at school.”

I check my watch. “Shouldn’t he be home already?”

“He should be, but they kept him after. Apparently he got into a fight.”

A smile slides onto my lips. “Did he win?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Ah . . . the only one that matters?”

She chuckles. “I don’t know if he won. Principal Janovich would like to see me in his office to discuss it. Do you want to meet me there? I have a feeling your lawyering may come in handy.”

And I have a feeling she’s right.

“I’m packing up now—I’ll meet you there.”

By the time I arrive at the ivy-covered grounds of Raymond’s private school, the meeting is already under way. A secretary ushers me into a large office, where a dignified, gray-haired man sits behind a presidential desk—awards and accolades line the walls, and dark wood bookshelves are filled with important-looking, gold-leafed, thick leather volumes.

Chelsea sits on the opposite side, an empty chair between her and two very wealthy-looking—very pissed-off-looking—parents. The woman is blond, in a royal-blue suit and pearls, with long bloodred fingernails. The husband looks quieter, smaller—the remora to her shark.

“And you are?” the gray-haired guy—Principal Janovich—drones.

I hand him my card. “Jake Becker. I’m the family attorney.”

The blonde raises one scathing eyebrow. “I’m an attorney as well,” she tells me—like it’s a warning.

“I thought you might be,” I volley back.

Takes one to know one.

I sit beside Chelsea. She looks nervous, hands clasped on her lap tightly. “Where were we?”

“They want to expel Raymond,” she says in a strained voice.

I lean back and nod. “Interesting.”

Janovich clears his throat uncomfortably. “We have a zero-tolerance policy here for fighting, harassment of any kind. Raymond injured his classmate gravely.”

“Did he break his nose?” I ask casually.

The principal is a bit taken aback. “No . . .”

Too bad—better luck next time, kid.

“. . . but there was excessive bleeding. It was a frightening experience for all involved.”

Unable to stay silent any longer, the blond mother rises to her feet. “I do not pay thirty thousand dollars a year in tuition to have my child assaulted in the hallways. I demand this . . . delinquent be brought up on charges!”

“Let’s pull the tapes,” I suggest.

“The tapes?” Janovich asks, like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

“The tapes.” I nod. “I passed no less than nine hallway security cameras on my way in. There must be video of the altercation. And since it just occurred hours ago, surely the footage couldn’t have been recycled already.”

The principal’s eyes widen—and I almost expect him to say, Don’t call me Shirley.

“Unless . . . you’ve already seen the footage?” I narrow my eyes. “I see what’s going on now.” And it fucking pisses me off.

They won’t like me pissed off.

“What do you think you see, Mr. Becker?”

I address the blond viper. “You’re booster club people, aren’t you? Patrons? You donate money to the school on top of that thirty grand—for libraries, new wings, and things like that?”

The father at last finds his voice. “I don’t see how that has anything to do with this.”

My eyes swing back to the old man behind the desk. “It has everything to do with this is because Mr. Janovich here thought it’d be easier to hang this whole thing on Raymond—who has a legal guardian who may be too busy to put up a fight—rather than ruffle a benefactor’s feathers. Is that accurate?”