I only had twenty-two minutes to spare by the time I got home. The first thing I did when I got through the door was run to my closet and pull out my fancy burgundy dress and the matching heels.

     In the bathroom I took a hooker bath, sprayed some perfume at my crotch, and wrangled my hair up into a fancy bun with the help of about five gallons of water and two tons of leave-in conditioner. The next step was applying the ancient makeup that I had been meaning to replace for a year because apparently, despite how expensive that shit is, it expires like everything else. But if Manny couldn't tell, I wasn't telling him.

     I slathered my face with the prehistoric foundation, hoped I didn't lose an eye putting on my eyeliner, and painted my lips harlot red.

     Mom would be ashamed...

     But she wasn't here so, the only thing left to do was grab my coat and purse. I hustled my way through the living room and in my haste tripped right over my own coffee table. I inhaled as the pain in my toe sharpened. My eyes blurred and I willed the tears back. I'll be damned if I put more effort into my mascara than my hair. When the pain finally dulled, I checked to make sure my toe wasn't broken, made note of some small dots of blood on my now skinned knee, and cursed the ever-loving shit out of the coffee table.

     Then I remembered I was on a time crunch and got back to business.

     I limped back to my room and put the finishing touches on my look. Some simple jewelry to pull it all together, some last-minute lacy underwear to replace my favorite fruit-of-the-loom bundle pack pair, and dark stockings to cover the skinned knee. I was just easing my poor little foot into my pumps when he knocked on the door.

     I opened it with a mildly throbbing knee, a probably not broken toe, a headache from Karen's stupid second-hand smoke, and a hundred-watt smize that would have made Tyra proud.

     "You look fantastic," He said as his eyes raked over my fabulousness.

     "I woke up this way." Smooth, bitch.

     And with that we were off to dinner. He chose a little Mexican place off Turner called La Parrilla. I ordered the steak fajitas and he got something I neither recognized nor could pronounce, but it looked good.

     "My supervisor's a dumb-ass," he said as we dug into our still steaming entrees. "I could do his job blindfolded and hog-tied."

     "Is that something you're interested in doing?" I started loading a warm tortilla with steak and bell pepper. "I know you like detective-ing, but would you eventually want to supervise?"

     He didn't even think about it. "Yeah, eventually. I'd love to boss more people around."

     "It's really fun." I almost cried when I took that first flavorful bite. Guess I was hungry. "You know, the supervisor at my office is a dumb-ass too."

     "Oh?"

     "She's always coming and going. I don't even think she really works there. I'm thinking of reporting her to HR."

     "Make sure you do it anonymously. I've met her. She's crazy."

     "Hey—"

     "Crazy but cute." He followed my greedy gaze directly to his plate. "You're staring at my food pretty hard."

     "It looks...interesting."

     "Want to try it?"

     "Of course." Why would I not eat something if I had the chance? Who does he think I am? Someone with self-control? "What's it called again?"

     "Chile relleno."

     I mimicked his pronunciation. "Chile relleno."

     "That's right. Here try it." He spooned a bit on my plate.

     I wasted no time taking a generous bite. "It's pretty good. Not as spicy as I thought it'd be." I put one of my fajitas on his plate. "Here. Try the fajita."

     "Pretty good," he said after one small bite. "Should have used pinto beans instead of black beans though. What's so funny?"

     "You have a pathological prejudice against black beans." I managed in-between snickers.

     "What are you talking about?"

     "Remember when I had the huevos rancheros at the Metro?"

     "Mmm hmm."

     "And I let you try them?"

     "Mmm hmm."

     "You said it was good but would be better with pinto beans instead of black beans."

     He raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Uh huh."

     "And then the brisket nachos at Hill Country? You said they were great but would be better with pinto beans."

     "Okay..."

     "Then you went on a twenty-minute rant about black beans, almost to the point that for a minute you were implying that Mexican food is less authentic if it uses black beans over pinto beans."

     "I wouldn't say it's inauthentic, but name one Mexican dish that absolutely needs black beans—"

     "Black bean soup."

     "Oh. I didn't know you knew that one."

     I laughed. "I know things, you dick."

     "Fine, I hate black beans. They're disgusting."

     "It's so brave of you to live in your truth like this."

     "They have a shit after taste."

     "Just let it all out. I know how traumatic this is for you."

     "I don't even eat it when my mom cooks it."

     "You really missed your calling as a spokesman for pinto beans."

     "You're silly tonight."

     I raised my glass to him. "It's the sangria."

     "Stressful day?"

     "Yeah." I took a liberal swallow of said sangria and pushed back thoughts of my showdown with Peter. "But alcohol is making it all better."

     "You want another?"

     "No, I'm good at two."

     "There's talk around the station." The conversation veered so suddenly I thought we were still kidding around for a moment. "They got done sweeping Trudy Bergman's house."

     I perked up and leaned forward. "And?"

     "It's bad. They found pictures."

     "What kind of pictures?"

     "Like child porn kind of pictures." He lowered his voice. "There's pictures of her and Peter and her and a few other boys they haven't identified."

     One of them is probably Leonard. "This is great, right? That proves that Peter is the victim. Not Trudy."

     "He'd still need to prove that he acted self-defensively but yeah, there could be a case now."

     This was good news. And he was sharing it with me. It's almost like me being more honest with him was making him feel more comfortable with me. Crazy.

     "I went to see Karen again." Even I was surprised by how easily I said it.

     "I knew you would." He smiled and took a sip of his gin and tonic. Another surprise considering he usually favored beer.

     "She was a bit chattier without you there."

     "I'm not surprised."

     "She said Rachel scammed her dad for the money for their wedding." I leaned back and let the effect of the alcohol fully ease my nerves. "I'm thinking of confronting her."

     "Karen? Addicts are great scrappers, Evie. Don't start a fight you can't win."

     "No, I meant Rachel."

     "Oh. Well, okay, but still take your pepper spray." He chuckled.

     "Shush!"

     He cleared the last laugh out of his throat. "I'm glad you were okay in West Lake by yourself."

     "I took a friend."

     He nodded knowingly. "Henry."

    "No, Johnny."

    The easy smile on his face died and gave way for a deep frown. "Who?"

     "My handyman." Oh crap. Why did I tell the truth? "...You've met him. I'm pretty sure."

     "And it was just the two of you?"

     "Well, yeah—"

     "Did you grow up with this one too?" His tone took an accusatory edge.

     I sobered up quick. "No."

     "Am I expected to be okay with you spending quality time with every man in this whole damn city?"

     "He's a good dude."

     "So?"

     "And, sometimes he works for me." A weak argument, I know, but what else could I say? "It was after work and he asked for a ride and it was on the way to West Lake."

     He stared at me with hard eyes. "Can I ask you a hypothetical?"

     I sighed. Maybe I should get that third drink. "I already know where you're going with this."

     "If I hung out with multiple women by myself would you be okay with that?"

     If I said yes, it would be a lie, but... "No..."

     "Then why do I have to be cool with it?"

     Y'all, I can't help that I'm a friendly person. I can't help that I'm cute, either. It's literally a part of my job to flirt for bigger tips...but then again, I guess when you're in a relationship you should respect the other person's feelings sometimes. Also, he's right, I wouldn't feel comfortable with him hanging out with any and every woman.

     "Fine. No more solo trips with Johnny then."

     "Thank you."

     The air had gotten a bit hotter so I hit him with my most amiable smile and said in my sweetest tone, "I'm sorry. Please don't be mad."

     His eyes softened instantly. "I'm not mad," he sighed and all his agitation deflated like a balloon. "You're pretty and friendly and funny. I'm not surprised every man for twenty miles wants to spend time with you. I just think as your boyfriend I should have priority. "

     I flashed him a seductive grin. "You calling me pretty?"

     "I am."

     "Flatterer."

     "Always." The smile returned. "You could give it back sometimes."

     "You're handsome and gainfully employed."

     "That's the best you've got? I have a job?"

     "I like your dog."

     He laughed; all former bad vibes forgotten. "I feel so damn special."

     "You've got great hair."

     "Well, that's true but so do you."

     "Pretty good sense of humor too."

     "I try."

     The rest of the evening went smoothly. We finished our dinner with no more disagreements and sailed right through dessert on a wave of good food and better booze. An hour later we sauntered our way through the door to his house. Bertie came to greet us but got bored when she saw we weren't in a mood to play with her, so she trotted back to her dog bed with a precious little huff.

     Manny and I stood face to face, still not far from the front door. In the darkness he reached forward and wrapped his strong arms around me. I clung to him, felt the taut muscles of his arms and caressed the curve of his broad shoulders. I buried my head into his chest and inhaled his cologne—the earthy scent of sandalwood, musk, and the lingering aroma of gin. He kissed the top of my head and I felt the familiar warmth flush through my center.

     I leaned up and lay a sloppy kiss on his lips. "Let's bang."

      "You're drunk."

     "No, I'm not," I said with a not at all drunk snicker. "I haven't even done my patented drunk dance yet."

     "I'd like to see that sometime."

     Obviously he didn't hear me. "Let's bang."

     "So blunt."

     "And bad at flirting."

     "Very. But I kind of like your lazy seductions. It's cute."

     "Lazy?"

     "Yep."

     "Hey, hey," I said slyly. "Let's do that thing you want to do."

     I couldn't see him but the way he stood up straighter told me I'd taken him off guard. "Are you sure?"

     "We'll take it slow. I'm very verbal, if I don't like it, I'll say something. You know that. I never shut up."

     "I don't know."

     "I promise I won't judge you. I'm very open minded."

     He didn't answer right away. We stood in the limbo of his doorway for what seemed like minutes as his mind considered all possibilities. "Okay. On one condition."

     "Condition? I'm doing the thing for you—"

     "Stop trying to find Peter."

     I pulled back and tried to stare him down but it was too dark to fully see him. "What brought this on?"

     "I didn't want to say anything, but I'm worried."

     "I'm being safe. Most P.I. stuff is just taking some pictures and asking questions. You know that."

     "I know, but..." He cupped the sides of my face in his hands and pressed his forehead against mine. "I worry."

     "I know." Our lips barely touched. When I came over tonight I wanted to skip to the sex part not stall in the hard conversation part. God, why is he being so sentimental?

     "These people don't even seem worth the trouble."

     "They're not, but I feel like I could help them."

     "I know and I like that about you, but something about this case doesn't feel right." His thumbs caressed my cheeks. "Promise you'll let it go."

     The air seemed to still as he waited for the answer we both knew was coming. "I promise." Liar, liar.

     I could feel him smile. A pang of guilt cut to my core, but what could I do? "Thank you," he said as he leaned in to kiss me. "Now, we can get back to your half-assed seduction."

     "The safety phrase is pinto beans."

     He laughed so hard he doubled over until his head rest against my shoulder. When he caught his breath, he kissed me so deeply I almost swooned then he grabbed my hand and we laughed all the way upstairs.

     In the morning I was disappointed. Not in the sex, it was great as usual, but can someone tell me why this man was acting all vague and ominous over a few open palm ass slaps and some wrist restraints? I thought my ass was going to get turned out not do a thing I've done with other men before. Not that I could tell him that—you never tell them that—but my God he could be more theatrical than me sometimes. Honestly.

     So, anyway, after that anti-climax climax regularly scheduled programming returned to normal and my mind went back to finding a solution to the Peter situation. He'd peeled out faster than I could get a word out. If I wanted to resolve this peacefully, I needed to lure Peter to me.

     I had just gained several means of doing just that. Karen was fully on board. If I couldn't talk sense into him maybe she could. I got the number to his burner phone last night, but that had a time limit before he inevitably tossed it. Then there was Rachel. While I was post-coitally staring at the ceiling and listening to Manny's soft satisfied snoring I'd formulated a plan to catch that duplicitous heifer in a lie.

     But first, there was one more piece of the puzzle I wanted to explore.

     It had taken copious amounts of research and an in-person trip to the main library to track down Peter's old teacher. Dr. Deborah had said that she was the one to call in the abuse. She might know something. I didn't have a name or subject, just the year he attacked her and the library's archive room. After cross checking the year of the assault with the school and grade, I narrowed it down to three teachers. There was Ms. Ortiz, but she had died over five years ago, Mrs. Sherman, but she'd moved, and lastly Ms. Johnson, who was still employed at Chiswick Academy.

     After a calm day at Taste Teas I grabbed my riding partner and we drove over to Ponta Vista's most prestigious private school.

     "The negotiations for book two are done." Henry said with an anxious little chuckle.

     "Really?" We leaned against the side of my car as we watched the sun set. The Academy itself was a rectangular structure that was as solid as a mountain and as old as my grandfather. Its front was colonial—the brick white and spotless. Rows of perfectly spaced windows made it look imposing. But nothing beat the elaborate portico and the massive columns mounted on either side giving the institution it's air of importance. It was majestic. It was classy. It was college-prep.

     Some of the children—still in uniform—remained behind for afterschool activities but otherwise the parking lot had mostly emptied.

     "Yeah. It's a go." He was saying.

     "Congratulations."

     "It's a four-book deal." He pressed his lips together in an attempt to keep the excited smile off his face but he was failing. "Five in total."

     "That's great."

     "Since the first one hit the Bestseller list, they've been very interested in a follow-up."

     "Look at you, moving on up in the world!"

     His eyes shined with elation. "I'm so excited. And scared. It's a bit different from the last book. I hope they like it."

     "Listen to me," I placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Once the cashier rings up their purchase its money in the bank, who cares if they don't like it!"

     "...Thanks?"

     A few kids ran from the front entrance and started dicking around in the parking lot. "You brought your press badge, right?"

     He raised an eyebrow at me. "You mean press pass? Why would I need—"

     "Because we're about to impersonate the press."

     He scoffed. "That's illegal."

     "No, it's not."

     "Yes, it is."

     "No, it's not."

     "Yes, it is."

     "Okay, Harvey Birdman—"

     "What a reference."

     "I want the exact penal code that says it's illegal to impersonate the press."

     "How should I know—"

     "You don't know!"

     "Well—"

     "It's not even impersonation because you are the press you idiot."

     His eyes twinkled. He was teasing me. "I have not been given the go ahead to do whatever weird shit we're doing."

     "You're freelance. This is freelance. Just flash your badge—"

     "There's no badge, dummy," he said in that pretend agitated tone he had when he was enjoying an argument. "Press passes are for events."

     Huh? I thought they used those for everything. "You don't have proof you're a journalist?"

     "I do, but we probably won't need it."

     "So you're down, then?"

     "God help me, yes." He said with a roll of his eyes and a smile on his face. I wish he sold a book every day, it was way easier to talk him into things.

     "Here's the plan. We wait for Ms. Johnson to come out of the school then we pounce."

     "We pounce? Is this how you question people usually?"

     "Pretty much, yeah."

     "They should lock crazy people like you up."

     "Costs too much taxpayer money. And so I roam."

     "Should I say anything?"

     "You're a journalist. If you think of something I don't feel free to ask but follow my lead."

     We waited in silence as we watched people slowly dribble out of the school, he playing with his phone and me lost in thought. I wasn't sure if this teacher could help me or if she knew anything at all but one of the things I'd learned when I'd apprenticed with Wolff Investigations was to leave no stone unturned. Plus I wanted all info for when I dealt with Rachel.

     The weather would have been pleasantly warm today if not for a persistent wind that seemed to keep the air frostier than normal. One such wind picked up again and managed to irritate my nose. I sneezed.

     "Gesundheit," Henry said.

     "Danke schön," I replied.

     He narrowed his eyes. A challenge. "Auf Wiedersehen."

     "Schadenfreude." I smirked.

     "Doppelganger."

     "Nein."

     "Guten tag."

     "Uh...uh..."

     "Yeah?"

     "...Uh..."

     "Haha, you don't know any more German words." He flashed me the shiteatingest grin I've ever seen. "I win."

     "...uh...das boot."

     "Das boot? Fuckin' cheater!"

     "Das Boot is German!"

     "A German movie title, you cheat."

     "It still works. It's a phrase. It means the boot."

     "No it...ugh, Fine. Kindergarten."

     "Kindergarten? That's not a German word."

     "Yeah, it is!"

     "No, it's not!"

     "Look that shit up!"

     "I will! Where's my phone." By the time I grabbed my phone, looked it up, and tried to think of a way to make it seem like I knew kindergarten was a German word the whole time Ms. Johnson was walking out of the building. "I think that's her."

     "So, I won then." He wasn't one to drop a competition, especially since he won.

     "I guess, wait—schnauzer," I said with a happy point of my finger. "Boom."

     He narrowed his eyes again but buttoned his lip because it was game time so he straightened up and acted the professional.

     "Ms. Johnson?" I walked up cautiously so as not to startle her.

     "Yes?" She looked between us and tightened her grip on her bag.

     "Ms. Yvonne Johnson?"

     She nodded and her large, circle lensed glasses bobbed with her head. "Yes. What's this about?"

     "I'm Amy Jones and this is my associate..."

     "Bradley Chang." He said it in this real self-important, authoritative way. "We're journalists with the Daily Gazette."

     "Daily Gazette?" Her forehead wrinkled as she tried to remember if she'd ever read it.

     "It's a small publication in Daytona Beach," he said slyly. "You've probably never heard of us. We're writing an article on the recent kidnapping of a student from your school and would like to ask some questions. It'll only take five minutes."

     She fell for it hook, line, and sinker. "Well, sure. I guess."

     I cleared my throat and tried to copy his journalist voice. "Our sources tell us that kidnapping victim Derek Bergman was troubled. Can you confirm?"

     "Well, he's not in any of my classes but I've heard things in the teachers' lounge."

     "Things like what?"

     "Things like constant disciplinary action for continued non-compliance."

     "Do you know why?"

     She shrugged. "Back-talking his teachers. Poor grades. Fights with other students."

     "I understand alleged kidnapper Peter Bergman was a student at the school some years ago. Are you familiar with him?"

     "Yes. I was his history teacher... ten, fifteen years ago."

     Bingo. "You remember him?"

     "He made quite the impression."

     "How so?"

     She shuffled back and forth on a feet for a moment before finding her grounding and looking at me. "He was a very troubled young man. Couldn't go a week without getting into a fight with the other boys."

     "Why were they fighting?"

     "Typical teen boy stuff."

     "Would you describe him as violent?"

    "Not really. Though there was an incident where they called the police though."

     "Why?"

     "Another fight. He pushed me over and the principal called the cops."

     "And you don't consider that violent?"

     "It was an accident." Her head cocked with irritation as she remembered. "He and another boy were fighting. I tried to break it up and he pushed me."

     "Who called the cops?"

     "Principle. I tried to explain but I think he just wanted him gone. Expel him and let him be another school's problem, you know."

     "I understand you had reason to call Child Protective Services for Peter."

     "Earlier in the year he'd come to me...with accusations."

     "Accusations?"

     "Accusations about his foster mother."

     "Did you believe him?"

     "I did at first." She started shuffling her feet again but this time it was discomfort. "He was acting strange that day so I brought him to my classroom during lunch to talk about it. That's when he accused Mrs. Bergman of molestation. I called it in but by the time the officer came he retracted. I was so embarrassed."

     "So nothing happened?"

     "They can't do anything without proof." She looked off into the direction of the faculty parking lot. "Later on, I realized how ridiculous it was. He was always an attention seeker. To think that sweet woman could hurt anyone!"

     "Did you know her?"

     "Not personally but she was always one of our most active parents. Charmed the pants off most anyone she met. Generous too. It's a shame..."

     "And the victim, Derek, what's he like?"

     "Kind of the same," she said with a disapproving tsk. "But more violent."

     "More violent?"

     "He's quick to anger. Quick to fight. Punched a hole through more than one wall. Threw a chair at another kid. Had to call security once to pull him out of a fight. Only reason he didn't get expelled is the generous donation from Mrs. Bergman."

     "And no one followed up."

     "He was much more closed off than Peter." She shrugged. I'm not sure if it was because she was tired or because she was careless. "I don't know how such a nice woman got stuck with two troublemakers."

     I couldn't help the snark that came from my mouth like lightning. "Or how two troublemakers could be raised by the same woman previously accused of abuse."

     She physically paused as her mind was putting two and two together. The realization dawned slowly, like her brain was still reluctant to believe it.

     "Thank you for your time." I turned back toward the car and left her to her thoughts.

     When we were back in my car Henry looked at me and said, "She didn't say that much."

     "I got everything I needed."

     And I did. I think I know what happened too. If I'm right I might be able to spare Peter a lengthy prison sentence, but only if he turns himself in.

     Henry and I hit a drive through, ate, and talked shit before I drove him back to his neck of the woods.

     It was early by the time I got home but still I was exhausted. The activities from the last two days caught up with me and now all I wanted was one good uninterrupted night's sleep. I undressed, wrapped my hair, pulled back the covers of my bed, and crashed.

     Just as I was dozing off I got a final text from Henry. I rose with a groan and checked my messages only to roll my eyes before collapsing back into my pillows.

     Angst! His text screamed. Beat that!

     What a dick.