26

Trent set Maisie down at the bottom of the small footbridge. Stars shone through the domed glass ceiling. Normally she would have found the sight calming, but not tonight.

She stared at the massage tables near the hot tub. They’d probably never been used. She hadn’t tried the pool or hot tubs yet. She continued looking around the room, searching for anything that might distract her from Trent and his inevitable disapproval.

It was jarring, the freedom of having told them, of finally owning up to all the bad things she’d done.

And yet she was paralyzed, crushed by her fear of the consequences. How could she possibly fix it now?

“Maisie, I want to discuss the envelope with you. I’ll meet you in your room in a few minutes.”

She nodded numbly, then walked across the footbridge. The wood was smooth under her bare feet, but she deserved splinters.

In her bedroom, she pulled on panties, a pair of jeans, and a soft sweatshirt. There was no need to get prettied up—no one was interested in sex with her. And she didn’t bother with a bra, either, because as soon as the conversation was over, she planned to go to sleep. Or try to, if she could slip free of the dread.

Beneath the dread, though, the freedom, the lightness, was still there.

It was relief.

And not just relief at the confession being behind her. She was relieved that she’d been capable of doing it. It meant she wasn’t an awful person, not completely.

She wasn’t Heather.

So that was something.

Spending a full day in abject fear had been exhausting. And even though she hadn’t eaten since breakfast, she was too worked up to be hungry.

However, she filled the teapot with water and pulled out two mugs and her assortment of tea. Sipping it would at least give her something to do while Trent informed her of what would happen next.

Trent walked in and looked around. The envelopes were tucked under his arm. “This place needs an interior designer,” he said.

Her heart stuttered. Did that mean she wasn’t getting kicked out?

But she didn’t have the courage to ask directly, so she said, “Ouch. Some of this furniture is antique.”

“Outdated,” Trent said with an easy smile.

A smile was a good sign, right? Unless he was just being nice.

“Um, would you like some tea?”

“Sure. Earl Grey.” He dropped into her armchair. “It’s comfortable, I’ll give you that.”

She was so anxious that she spit out the first thing to pop into her head. “It was free from a neighbor who was moving cross country.”

“Ah.”

To busy herself, she looked through all her teas before choosing a chamomile-lemon for herself. It was supposed to be calming. Though in her current state, she needed elephant tranquilizers.

“Uh, do you want milk?” she asked as she poured water into Trent’s mug.

“No. Thanks.”

She carried both teas over and set them on her coffee table. “They’re hot.”

A stupid thing to say, and she was grateful that Trent didn’t point it out.

They stared awkwardly at each other. Maisie felt her eyes filling with tears.

“How about a snack?” She sprang into action without waiting for an answer. She unearthed a red box of imported Scottish shortbread cookies in one of the cabinets.

“This is painful,” Trent said.

She arranged some cookies on a chipped plate and carried it to her mismatched seating area.

“Yeah.” She laughed nervously. “Very painful.”

“Not for you. Half of what you did, we already knew about. The thing with Heather… She’s a nasty piece of work. You might be interested to learn that she’ll be leaving Lotani shortly.”

Maisie would have thought that news would make her happy, but she felt nothing. All she cared about was her relationship with the three men.

She tried to sip her tea, but tonight it tasted like dirt. “I’m sorry to have ruined everything.”

“You didn’t ruin everything.” He took a swig of tea and demolished two cookies. “We already knew about some of your escapades, but you don’t yet know about ours.”

A lot of things raced through her mind, mostly to do with Heather, a late night at the office, and a cheap porno soundtrack. Thanks to that damned photo, she knew what Heather looked like naked, so it was disturbingly easy to imagine.

Trent picked up the two envelopes. “I don’t know anything about this one,” he said, handing her the newer one.

“Huh?”

He also handed over the original envelope, the one that had been driving her crazy.

“Do you know what that is?” he asked.

“No. I didn’t steam it open or anything. I swear.” If he didn’t believe her, she was screwed.

“I wasn’t really asking… I meant…” He ducked his head and ran his fingers through his hair, then peered at her from beneath his dark eyebrows. “You could see the envelope as a get out of jail free card.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s proof that we’re not saints, either. Which I would have thought was obvious by now. I mean, you know enough to send us each to jail ten times over. But… Let me stop talking around it.” He jabbed a finger at the envelope. “That was my idea, but it wasn’t difficult to convince the others to agree. Open it.”

She turned the envelope over in her hands a few times. “I can’t. It feels wrong.”

Trent laughed softly. “The irony is astounding. Just open it already.”

She stuck her finger under the flap and ripped it open. Inside was a series of photos, enlarged to 8x10. She shook them out.

They were of Trent, standing over a man.

He was holding a gun to the man’s temple.

“Oh, shit.” She froze. “Oh my gosh, Trent—”

“Before you freak out, you should know that I wanted to be an actor. I made one movie, and I played a gangster. Those are stills that Raphael had made as a joke. They’d been in my desk for months. When I had the uncharitable idea that we should test your honesty and loyalty, I remembered the photos and thought, well, if she opens the envelope against our orders, she deserves to think I’m a killer.”

For a moment, she felt sick to her stomach.

She’d been torturing herself over a joke?

Though if she’d kept her promise, it wouldn’t have been torture. She never would have seen the photos. Still. She was surprised. It wasn’t the kind of behavior she expected from her bosses.

Maybe that was how they felt when she did immature things.

She shuffled through them quickly and watched as Trent dragged the body to a trunk. “That’s really… It looks real.”

“I owe you an apology. It was a thoughtless thing to do. We were angry when you crashed the Lotani meeting. But assigning you to janitorial services was enough of a punishment, and we should have left it at that.”

“The job’s not that bad,” she insisted. “I failed your test, though.”

“It was a dumb test. And you didn’t fail.”

Maisie opened the other envelope and found a handwritten letter from her landlord asking her to move out within two months, as well as a photocopy of her lease with the termination agreement highlighted.

“Perfect end to a perfect few days.” She set the envelopes on the table.

Trent grabbed the letter and skimmed it. “Hm.”

“It’s not a surprise,” she said, glad to have something else to talk about. She did feel like she was under a spotlight, though. “The place has been on the market since I quit my last job. Two months is frankly generous.”

“Legally, they have to give you that. But thinking more deeply on this, if you’re homeless, you’re more likely to stay here. That’s a joke. If you want to leave, you can.”

“Do you want me to leave?” She held her breath.

“No. I don’t.”

“But the others might.”

He didn’t deny it. “Ethan is hurt. I don’t know why Raphael is going Texas chainsaw massacre in the dungeon, but they’re his toys. I’d better go check on him.” He stood. “I still love you.”

With a little cry, Maisie threw herself into his arms. Their mouths molded together, and then he was claiming her with a kiss so possessive that it made her knees weak.

He gently pulled away.

She knew he wasn’t promising anything. He couldn’t make Ethan and Raphael forgive her. She still had to fix this mess. Somehow.

She walked him to the hall. “Trent?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“The color of a verdict in my favor. See you tomorrow.”

As he was walking away, she heard him answer his phone. A moment later, he was back, his eyes shining with excitement.

“Glasser made an arrest.”

It took several seconds for what he’d said to sink in. “Who?”

“Davina’s little friend. The one who was at the bar with Norman. Hampton Swithy. Weird guy. Plays with taxidermy in his spare time.”

“Wow.” She couldn’t quite believe it. “Did you talk to Glasser this morning?”

“I did. He was grateful for our help. I didn’t mention the fire, or the affair.” He shook his head as his phone rang again. “It’s probably Ethan again…”

He frowned as he checked the display—reading a text, she guessed—then he looked at Maisie. “Any chance you can throw on some business clothes in two minutes and come with me to the station? Ethan says Davina got picked up, too.”

Maisie had never gotten dressed so quickly in her life. She couldn’t pass up a chance to impress her bosses. Who knew, maybe professional efficiency would be the path back into Ethan’s good graces.

Probably not, but it couldn’t hurt.

In the station, Trent walked to the tan inner doors and knocked. A moment later, Glasser appeared. A pair of uniformed officers passed them.

“Good to see you.” Glasser shook Trent and Maisie’s hands.

“Can we speak in your office?”

“I thought you might ask that. Well, I can give you the news right here. I didn’t want to pick her up. She was at the suspect’s house, and she insists she’s the one who killed Norman.”

“Jesus,” Trent said. “Do you believe her?”

“No. She couldn’t correctly answer basic questions about the crime. She’s also high. But procedure is procedure. My plan is to hold her overnight, let her wake up sober. I’m not going to charge her, but she needs to be in rehab.”

“I appreciate that. She’ll be more reasonable in the morning. I’d still like to talk to her tonight.”

Maisie heard someone coming in through the front doors. She turned to see Ethan, and he didn’t look happy.

“Where’s our client?” he demanded.

“I’ll take you to see her now,” Glasser said.

Ethan’s gaze swept up and down Maisie’s body. And then he turned away, as if she’d disappointed him.

“Maisie, my car is outside. Go home.”

“I asked her to come,” Trent said.

“You can go home, too.”

“No,” Maisie said. “It’s fine. I’ll see you later.” She retreated a few steps and took stock of what she was wearing. Pinstripe navy skirt and matching blazer, white shell, navy shoes. Nothing for Ethan to disapprove of.

Unless, of course, he was reacting to the fact that she still existed. Maisie couldn’t deny the sad truth: it would take a lot more than nice clothes to win back Ethan’s respect.

The three men had disappeared behind the tan doors, and she was alone in the lobby. There wasn’t any point in waiting for them. Ethan and Trent could ride home together. And anyway, tonight was probably not the night to disobey him, especially when his order fell under the jurisdiction of work-related behavior.

Though maybe it didn’t matter anymore. What would it mean if Trent forgave her but the others didn’t? Could she go on, only dating him?

She doubted Trent would even agree to it. It would put too much strain on his friendship with the others.

As she emerged into the mild evening, she wondered if Glasser would give Ethan the motivational speech about the first year of marriage being the hardest.

Moths were dive-bombing the lights in front of the door, and she swatted away a large one that seemed intent on getting tangled in her hair.

When she turned to look for the car, she noticed a large man lumbering toward the door, his head down. She moved to the side, to let him pass.

“Ms. Novau.” Byron Ballystock stopped right in front of her.

Maisie froze, gripped in blind terror for several long seconds. The fear turned to surprise, and then to nothing but mild annoyance.

She wasn’t scared of him anymore. After the last few hours, she wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone.

“Keep your distance!” Ethan’s driver had left the car, and he was heading for them. From the way he moved, Maisie guessed he was carrying a gun.

“I’m fine,” she called out. “Really. I’ll be along in a second.”

Reluctantly, the driver stepped away, and Maisie faced the man who had made the last few weeks of her life so miserable.

Byron’s face seemed puffy, but maybe it was because he looked like he hadn’t shaved since she’d met with him. His jeans and T-shirt were wrinkled and smelled stale, like he’d been sleeping in them.

He was a pathetic creature, really. “What are you doing here? I thought you were out of town.”

“The only way you would know that is if you were spying on me illegally.” He leered. “A little birdie told me there might be an arrest tonight. What are you doing here?”

She wasn’t going to answer that. “I’d have thought you’d be a lot happier. Glasser caught the killer.”

“No thanks to you.” He got in her face. “Your bosses obstructed justice. One day they’ll go too far, and they’ll be the ones behind bars.”

Maisie shrugged. That particular threat had long ago lost its teeth. “Let’s be honest. We both know they’ve crossed that line many, many times, Mr. Ballystock. You’ll get justice thanks to my bosses’ efforts. You might want to show a little gratitude when you see them.”

“Stupid bitch,” he muttered.

“At least I’m not dumb enough to fuck the police chief’s wife,” she snapped.

The look of shock on Byron’s face was sweet indeed. She knew she shouldn’t take pleasure in his pain, but he was such an asshole.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not going to tell him. Or your wife. Provided you stay far away from us. Forever. And that includes Davina. Being married to your abusive pervert brother was hell enough. The guy who killed him and did whatever to the body, he’s crazy. He’s the murderer. But Davina? She doesn’t need another Ballystock brother fucking up her life.”

She didn’t expect him to voice his agreement, but she was pleasantly surprised that he wasn’t calling her more names. Her bosses had been right—Byron Ballystock’s mistress was his weakness.

He even took a step back, moving out of her personal space.

“Enjoy the lovely night,” she said, and headed for the car.