I decided not to push her, but my gut told me her gut was not far off the mark.

“He’s a monster, Charley,” she said, her voice breathy with suspicion, “and I would bet my life he had something to do with his wife’s disappearance.” She frowned hard. “If he couldn’t control her one way, he’d find another.”

Maybe he’d found out about Teresa seeing her sister every day and realized he couldn’t control her as well as he thought. Clearly, his answer to that was murder.

“Anyway,” she said, shaking off the sadness, “I knew I had to come talk to you, to warn you about him.”

“I appreciate this so much, Yolanda.”

“I think it’s so great what you’re doing.” She offered me an excited grin, apparently able to block pain and switch emotions in the blink of an eye. We were more alike than I’d ever imagined. “I mean, a private investigator? That’s like the epitome of cool.”

How sweet. Perhaps I shouldn’t have thrown spaghetti sauce in her hair that one night she was out with my sister and a group of their friends. “Thanks,” I said, all smiles.

“By the way, did you throw spaghetti sauce in my hair that one night I was out with your sister and a group of our friends?”

“What? No,” I said, feigning offense.

She snorted. “You’re not a very good liar.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. It was meant for Gemma. She’d stolen my sweater.”

“Then clearly she deserved a little marinara in her golden locks,” she said with a giggle.

“I know, right?”

* * *

I left Yolanda with a hug and a promise that I’d do everything I could to bring Dr. Nathan Yost to justice. But first, I simply had to find Teresa. Whatever he’d done with her, to her, it couldn’t be good.

As I walked back into the building, I looked again to my left, trying to figure out who had been in the shadows before. It couldn’t have been the intruder. I felt no resentment or desire to slit my throat with a big-ass hunting knife. Normally, I might have tried to discover the shadowy spy’s identity, but I was too tired and didn’t much care.

By the time I walked back up to my apartment, Cookie was standing smack-dab in the middle of it, her pajamas askew, her eyes wide in astonishment. She’d probably come over to discuss what happened in Corona and walked right into the war zone. I had no choice but to accuse her.

“Seriously, Cookie,” I said, walking up behind her. She jumped and turned toward me. “Was the cupcake remark really that offensive?”

“I didn’t even hear an intruder,” she said, gawking at the surroundings. “How did I miss this? What if Amber had come over to watch your TV?”

She had a point. “I’m sorry, Cookie.” I started picking up papers off the floor. “Being close to me is sometimes a very dangerous place to be.”

“What?” After my meaning sank in, she said, “Don’t be silly.”

I stood with an armful of notes and magazines. “Okay, but you’re raining on my parade. Being silly is kind of what I do.”

She bent to help me.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I said, scolding her. I took what she’d already gathered and led her out the door. “I’ll do this. You get some sleep.”

“Me?” she said, protesting. “You’re the one who’s taken up insomnia as a hobby.”

Since my arms were full, I nudged her out the door with my shoulder. “It’s not so much a hobby as a burning will to hold on to every ounce of self-respect I have left.” When she frowned, I added, “Admittedly, that’s not saying much. Oh, and tomorrow I want you to check out a Xander Pope.”

“Xander Pope. Got it,” she said without taking her eyes off the chaos. “Wait, why?”

“Because I think something very bad happened to his daughter, and I need to know what it was.” Yolanda only had one brother, so the niece she spoke of must be his. I wanted to know what happened.

“Ah,” she said, nodding. “Do you think Yost had something to do with it?”

“Yolanda does, and that’s good enough for me.”

17

Cleverly disguised as a responsible citizen.

—T-SHIRT

After convincing Cookie I was fine and that I had every intention of getting some sleep—not—I spent the rest of the night straightening and cleaning the war zone. I found a book I’d been looking for that I’d given up on finding and bought again. Then I found that copy, as I’d lost it as well and had to buy the book a third time. But I never found the third copy, apparently gone forever.

Mr. Wong was a mess as well. He still hovered in the corner with his back to me, saying nary a word, but he just seemed a bit shaken up by the whole ordeal. Either that or I was projecting.

Even though it seemed nothing was taken, unless the culprit took that third copy of Sweet Savage Love, I felt strangely violated, as if my apartment was no longer the safety zone I’d imagined it. Like when I found out Santa wasn’t real or that candy was fattening once you got past the age of nineteen.

The little girl with the knife looked on as I cleaned. I’d never considered that she could have been the one who had slashed my tires. I might owe one Mr. Big Fat Liar an apology. Then again, could a spirit slash tires? I tried to talk to her, but she’d have none of it. She watched what I did but never looked directly at me. I considered pushing my luck, trying to find out who she was and convince her to cross, but I felt the need to avoid a stab wound imperative.

Somewhere between three thirty and get-your-ass-to-bed, I slipped into the shower, wondering where Reyes was, what he was doing, where he was sleeping. It must be hard to be an escaped convict with your picture on every television set in three states.

My cell phone rang, and I reached around the curtain for it.

“Ms. Davidson?” a man asked.

I didn’t recognize the number or the voice. “That’s me.”

“This is Deputy Meacham with the Corona Sheriff’s Department. We spoke earlier.”

“Right, my slashed tires.”

“I’m sorry to wake you, but can you come in today?”

I took a mental step back. “If I have to. I actually needed new tires anyway, so it’s not that big a deal.”