Lydia opened her mouth. Closed it.

The woman hiked her heavy purse up on her shoulder. “That’s not right. You’ve got bills, too.”

“Maybe I just didn’t make it to the bank.”

“Sure. And this pink hair is convincing anybody I’m not in AARP.”

Lydia had to smile. Today’s sweater was lavender with a string of butterflies around the collar and cuffs. Under the woman’s parka, it was like spring trying to break out from under winter’s weight. A metaphor made of wool.

“Is that why you colored your luscious locks?” Lydia asked.

“Luscious? Really?” Candy shrugged and got a faraway look on her face. “And I don’t know, sometimes … you just don’t want to look like yourself. Even if it’s only for a couple of days and for a stupid reason. Considering I’m about to go home alone to feed my cat and decide which Stouffer’s to put in the microwave, you can understand why I might want a change.”

“Oh, Candy—”

A sharp forefinger was lifted. Then she cupped her ear. “Did I ask for sympathy? I don’t think so. I am quite happy with my choices. I don’t have to do someone else’s laundry, I always know what is and is not in my refrigerator, and I control my remote. There are women all across America who wish they were me.”

“I was offering no sympathy, I swear. I think independence is really important.”

“Good. But you’re still going to have to pay me back.”

“For what?”

“Putting you down as our groundskeeper’s emergency contact—oh, don’t give me that look. First of all, I’m not doing it as a matchmaker, and second, it’s policy. Everybody has to have one and I would have listed Peter, but like he’s around? So there you go. Now I’m off the clock and not talking about work until Monday at eight-thirty a.m.—well, maybe eight-forty-five if I get stuck behind Miser’s tractor again.”

“Candy. I don’t believe you’re not matchmaking.”

“No work talk ’til Monday—”

“You pulled a numerology on his social security—”

“Just making an observation.”

“You said it was a good sign.”

She shrugged. “I can’t help you. Until Monday morning, I’m not talking shop and you two are shop.”

“Which is why we can’t be dating—”

“Aha!” That forefinger made another appearance. “I knew you liked him.”

“Wait, what—I don’t like him. I mean other than as a human being.”

Candy laughed. “I saw the way you looked at him. And so did he.”

Lydia opened her mouth. Closed it. Felt like she was on a sinking ship—or maybe one that was already at the bottom of the ocean.

“I don’t know what to say to that.” She kept going fast before Candy explained and she heard waaaaay too much about everything everybody had noticed. “But I do want to ask you if you have the guest list? For the fundraiser at the end of next month? I was going to get the invitations stuffed and addressed over the weekend, and yes, I know you’re off the clock—but think of how much easier your job will be if I take care of all of that for you.”

“Well.” Candy pursed her pink lips. “You’re really pushing my buttons here, aren’t you. I just clocked out, but you’re going to save me work. Hmm.”

“Is there really a choice?”

Candy went back around to her desk and picked up a folder. “If you wait until Monday, I’ll help you. You do it before then, you’re on your own. This is the master list. Five hundred names.”

“I accept this responsibility with full knowledge of the obstacles I will face.”

As Lydia went to take the list, Candy held it out of reach. “Do you have Band-Aids?”

“For what?”

“You have no idea from the paper cuts. And don’t lick. Use this.” She opened her top drawer and tossed over a glue stick. Then she transferred ownership of the folder. “Seinfeld was funny and all, but carcinogens are real, and yes, I used vegetable dye on my hair. Don’t get judgy—actually, take two sticks, in case you run out. Now, the envelopes are in the supply room, on top of the boxes of invitations. I haven’t printed the labels, but they’re on the email that I sent to the board for final review. You’re cc’d on it. The labels are the Averys we always use for the board packets.”

“You’ve got everything all arranged.”

“The fundraiser’s coming up fast and we need the money. I can do Peter’s parts the night of if he can’t, just to make sure we bring some cash home. We’ll slap that sad-ass cardigan on me and I’ll do my hair the color of middle-aged desperation.”

“I thought he was a blond?”

“He is. A lame one.”

Lydia had to laugh. “Have a good weekend.”

“You, too.” Candy went over to the door. Pausing, she glanced back. “Listen, if he asks you out, say yes.”

“Peter?” Lydia recoiled. “Never—”

“Our new groundskeeper.” In a lower voice, the woman said, “The truth is, no one wants to be me, and you already have way too much in common with my life at a way younger age than I was when I took my foot off the gas and put it on the brakes. Say yes, Lydia. You won’t regret it.”

Before there could be any argument—or more HR tossed into a heck-no—Candy beat feet out the door and shut things tight.

Under normal circumstances, and for obvious reasons, Lydia would have followed up on the conversation all the way out to the parking lot. But after a night spent in her car, and Peter’s crap, and the reality that Candy could talk circles around God himself, a decision to bail seemed pretty close to a survival reflex.

Doubling back, Lydia went down to the executive director’s office and sat behind the desk. Signing into his computer, she loaded her email onto his browser, opened Candy’s label missive, and got the file front and center. In the printing room, she set up the Averys in the Xerox machine, and then back again at Peter’s desk, she hit the go button.

Out across the hall, the soft clicking and shuffling as the printer went to work was a peaceful, industrious sound, and she used it for background music as she began an infiltration into Peter Wynne’s computer. Even though she had asked for privacy earlier, that had been to go through the drawers, file cabinet, and shelves. She’d saved the IT stuff for after hours because, considering what she’d done the night before, she was not in a big hurry for anybody to know just how good she was with a keyboard.

She looked at everything on the hard drive: All the files, anything he’d ever deleted, his web search history, what was on his calendar going back five years.

As she dove in, she felt like she had a catcher’s mitt, and she was ready for the handoff, the answer.

And she knew what it was going to be.

She just had this sixth sense …

About an hour later, after the sun had set and the label-printing job had long finished, a knocking sound reverberated down from the front of the building. Then there was a silence. And then the demanding sound resumed.

Getting to her feet, she zipped her pullover up to her throat. And wished it were bulletproof.