“LADY WOLFE!”
Regina looked up to see Jensen Davis ambling toward her on Bay Street, a block from Color Theory, waving at her and grinning. She dropped from the brisk jog she’d held since leaving the beach to a slow walk, her chest clutching at the sight of him. She leaned over and rested her hands on her knees, gulping for breath. She hadn’t felt winded until just now. An animal urge to wheel in the other direction and sprint back to the beach rose inside her but Jensen was too near, closing the gap between them on the sidewalk with a brisk, scissoring stride.
She straightened and watched him approach, feeling helplessly rooted to the spot. He wore slim black jeans, a white T-shirt crossed by the strap of the messenger bag he carried, and a close-lipped smiled that reminded Regina of a reptile.
Breathe, she reminded herself. Stay cool.
“If it isn’t my star client,” Jensen said, lifting his palm for a high five. “Fancy running into you here.”
“Hey, Jensen,” Regina said, slapping his hand reluctantly.
“You’re late for class, missy.” He feigned a stern look.
“I skipped the gym today. Took a run on the beach instead.”
“Nature instead of Color Theory? How granola. I take that personally.” He grinned at her, unsealing his lips to reveal teeth even whiter than the typical Santa Monican (Veneers? Regina wondered). “Kidding. If the Lady Wolfe needs a beach run, she needs a beach run.”
“Ha.”
“You know what you can do to make it up to me?”
She wanted to tell him to fuck off, that she didn’t owe him a thing, but her mouth was too dry. She reminded herself that Jensen couldn’t possibly know anything about the transfers—that was why she’d installed Zack as a buffer, given him the hands-on role—but she could not quell her rising panic.
“Um,” she managed. “What . . . can I do?”
“It involves your, uh, good buddy Zack. He was supposed to be at CT, in the back office, doing the number-crunching work he does for me.”
Regina’s stomach lurched. Maybe he did know.
“But the golden boy is MIA. Maybe out getting a bite to eat,” Jensen said with a shrug. He shifted his messenger bag to his hip and rummaged through it. Then he extracted a small, worn paperback book and handed it to her.
She recognized the cover instantly: a black-and-white photo of a tiny nun in habit, head bowed beneath the title The Little Way for Every Day: Thoughts from Thérèse of Lisieux. Zack’s prayer book. It felt mealy and fragile, as if it might shed pages under her touch.
“Found this on the bathroom shelf in the back office,” said Jensen. “Guess Z-man likes the company of a nun at all times.” He shrugged and arched an eyebrow. “No judgment, right? Anyway, I walked off with it by accident. And now I’m late for a thing. Do you mind popping your head in the office and giving it to him? He might not be able to say his bedtime prayers, otherwise.” Jensen laughed.
“Heh. Sure, no problem.”
“Thanks. And I’d better see you at the studio tomorrow. No more of this running-by-the-ocean crap.” He winked. Regina tried not to blanch. “You have a good night, Lady Wolfe.” And he breezed off into the evening.
Regina stood on the sidewalk, shaky with relief and adrenaline, and tried to collect herself. She was certain she’d been correct: Jensen knew nothing of the money Zack had been skimming from him. Carefully, she opened the cover of The Little Way for Every Day. Zack’s name and phone number were written inside, in tidy pencil. The sight of his handwriting gave her a jolt of anticipation—she was now on assignment to see him (maybe running into Jensen had not been so terrible)—and she broke into a jog again, crossing Main Street and turning down the alley that led to the parking lot behind Color Theory. Overhead, the last dregs of sun had drained from the sky, replaced with the soft gray of evening, the final minutes of dim light before darkness settled in. She reached the parking lot and saw Zack’s truck parked there, next to the customized Color Theory van, black with ultra-dark tinted windows and the yellow gym logo emblazoned across the sides, with Eat Pure, Train Filthy printed underneath.
Zack’s Tacoma and the van were the only vehicles parked in the lot. The sight of them side-by-side gave Regina a sudden strange feeling in her stomach. She could not have said why. Nor could she have said precisely what moved her to veer off the sidewalk and cut through the parking lot to the gym’s entrance, or why, exactly, she chose a route between the truck and the van, instead of simply walking around them both.
Spidey sense, duh! her daughter Kaden would have said.
Regina stopped short when she noticed the van’s back window. It was cracked open a few inches, the opening one might leave for a dog to breathe. She stood a few feet behind the two vehicles and kept perfectly still. The sweat from her run had dried to an invisible scrim, making the skin of her face feel tight. She stood listening to her own breathing. Overhead, a seagull cawed.
And then, from somewhere much nearer, a strained, groaning sound.
Regina stayed perfectly still.
The sound came again, this time more urgently.
From the van. Breathy sighs. Feminine. Feline.
Regina stepped forward, to the open back window, and lifted onto her tiptoes, just high enough to peer inside.
Straight at the leg of Melissa Goldberg, thick and dimpled and startlingly white, hiked up against the back of the passenger bench, her black gym pants still partially covering her, though the fabric at the crotch appeared to have been ripped, exposing her thighs, her crotch, the stubbly landscape of her vagina, which appeared to have been—oh God—shaved.
Between Mel’s legs was Zack’s head, his face obscured, but Regina would know his dark brown curls anywhere. Mel’s head was tipped back, her mouth hanging open, more moaning sounds wafting from her throat. One side of her layered shirts was pushed up to expose a large breast, cupped underneath by Zack’s hand. His face was hidden from Regina, nestled between Mel’s legs.
“Oh fuck no.” The phrase tumbled from Regina’s lips. She could not move.
Mel’s eyes snapped open.
“Shit!” She bolted upright, struggling to unprop her leg from the back of the seat. “Jesus fucking Christ!”
Slowly, Zack turned to face Regina. His eyes skated over her. His curls were pasted to his forehead with sweat. His tanned face, the clean slopes she knew so well, had imagined holding between her hands so many times, was fixed in a look of pleading. He blinked several times, quickly, as if willing her to disappear.
“Regina,” he said, his voice sounding different than usual. Thick and muted. Dead serious. “Please go.”
She did not move. Kept her eyes locked on to him.
“Now,” he said and flicked his wrist. Shooing her away.
Regina’s body went numb. Her mind wiped clean.
She forced herself to look at him. Then at her.
“I hate you both.”
Regina whirled around and sprinted across the parking lot toward home, crushing The Little Way for Every Day in her hand.