The sadness hit me like a blast of acid. It caused my eyes to sting. My chest to contract. I closed against it, shut down my ability to absorb emotion, and forced nonacidic air into my lungs.

Then she turned and kneeled in front of me. Kneeled. On her knees. Awkward. I tried to scoot away from her, but I was already at the end of my sofa—which might or might not go by the name of Consuela. My expression had to show the distaste I was feeling.

“It wasn’t even about me,” she said, her face glowing with awe. “It was about you. He was trying to tell me about you.”

“You’re in my bubble.”

“He was trying to tell me how special you are.”

“And you didn’t listen.” I tsked. “How surprising. But, no, really, you’re in my bubble.”

“Oh,” she said, glancing around in surprise. “I’m sorry. I’m—” She sat back on her chair and smoothed her slacks. “I’m sorry, Charlotte.”

I had no idea how her father had sent her a message about me from the grave, or how she made such a connection when it was apparently about blue towels. And, sadly, I didn’t much care.

“Is that all you needed?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s the only message I have for you today. Unless you want the one about how much work I have to do. That’s an important one.” I picked my bag up off the floor, replaced my sunglasses, and stood to walk out.

“Can you tell when someone is about to die?” she asked before I got far.

I knew it. With bowed head and gritted teeth, I said, “I’m not sure.” Sadly, I had the uncomfortable feeling that I could. That I always could. But it was one of those nagging little notions in the back of my mind that I ignored. Like when Cookie wore purple, red, and pink together. I just pushed it to the back of my consciousness. I didn’t know how to explain that to someone like her, so I didn’t try. “It’s possible.” I tilted my head to the side and looked her up and down. “Yep. I’d start looking at burial plots if I were you.”

She didn’t take me seriously in the least, which was probably a good thing, since I was pulling her spindly leg.

Standing as well, she stuffed her tissue in her bag and said, “If you notice anything of that nature, will you please give me a call?”

“Absolutely. I’ll put you on speed dial.”

She walked to the door, then turned back. “And just for the record, I wasn’t asking for me.”

I let her leave, waited a good five minutes, then headed out the door myself, dismissing her from my mind completely. Or doing my darnedest to.

* * *

According to their sign, the Veil Corporation was dedicated to the exploration and development of alternative fuel, and Harper’s stepbrother, Art, was apparently a big deal there. Since I didn’t have an appointment, I was told to wait in the lobby. Not a place I liked to wait. So I told the receptionist who I was and explained that if Art wouldn’t see me, I’d come back with a couple of officers and a warrant. I was shown up to his office in a matter of minutes. I loved it when that crap worked. Honestly, a warrant for what? Art must have something to hide.

He didn’t seem especially happy to see me when his assistant showed me in. He stood and offered his hand, but he wasn’t happy about it. Unfortunately, the guy was good-looking. He wore a three-piece suit and had a movie star face with short brown hair and naturally tan skin. But the pièce de résistance was his eyes: silvery gray with a hint of blue, fringed in long, dark lashes. Damn it! I hated it when bad guys were that good-looking. It was so much easier to think the worst of them when they looked the part: scraggly with a greasy smile and rotting teeth.

Though it did help that I could see hints of his mother in him. Oh, yeah, he was scum. And I would prove it the first chance I got.

After offering me a quick shake, he gestured for me to sit, then did the same. “Mind explaining why you felt the need to threaten me, Ms. Davidson?”

“Not at all. I needed to see you and I needed to see you fast. I’ve been hired by your stepsister—”

“I know, I know.” He held up a hand to stop me. “Mother told me all about it.”

I was the talk at dinner? Cool. I loved when that happened. But I had a personal bias against grown men who called their mothers Mother, so that was another strike against him. Maybe it would counteract the good-looking-as-heck thing.

“As I’m sure she did you,” he added.

“Me?”

“Yes. I’m sure you got an earful about how Harper just wants attention and how it all started right after my parents’ marriage.”

I assessed his emotions, but he wasn’t angry. Or particularly guilty. Until I said, “Harper said you set fire to her dog’s house. With him in it.”

“She said that?”

Guilt radiated off him, but something else was stronger. Anguish. His feelings were hurt. He stood and faced the window. “It was an accident. She knows that.”

“And she told me as much.” I could make out the faintest of smiles on his face from the reflection in the tinted glass when I said that, and realization struck. Hard. “Holy crap, you’re in love with her.”

“What?” He turned to me, his face a mask of indignation.

My mouth thinned. “Really?”

“Shit.” He came around his desk and closed the door to his office before continuing. “How did you—? Look—” He raked a hand through his hair as I tried not to grin. “Of course I love her. She’s my sister.”