“I’ll have to drop over between guitar lessons and pizza more often.” He glanced at his watch, popped right up. “Shit, shit, shit, I’m going to be late getting home. See, I knew exactly how much time I had, worked it out, and I’m still going to be late getting Bradley from Monroe.”

He leaned down, kissed her, and she snagged his hand.

“If I tell you I love you back, are you going to be even later?”

He paused, took her face in his hands. “I’ve got to go, but tell me anyway.”

“I love you back.”

Eyes open and on hers, he kissed her again. “I knew that, but it’s really good hearing you say it.”

“There’s another flaw. Your smartass flaw.”

“Still gotta go. Jasper! We’re going. Damn it, why didn’t I order the pizza while we were sitting here? Now, Jasper!”

“What do you want?” she called out as he jogged to the car. “I’ll call it in for you.”

“Large, pepperoni and Italian sausage. No judgment cracks on the meat. We’re men. In the car, Jasper.” He had to give the reluctant dog a boost in.

He paused again. “I promised the kids I’d take them to the carnival at the fairgrounds day after tomorrow. Come with us.”

“I like carnivals.”

“We’re going to eat funnel cake and peanut oil fries and sliders, so deal with it.”

She sat back as he got in the car. She would, she thought as she picked up her phone to call in his order—with the addition of a summer salad for two. She’d deal with it, because that’s what you did when you loved.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

After her conversation with her uncle, Rachael decided to take what she had to the DC police. Not enough for a warrant, not quite enough even to pressure Nikki to come in for questioning, she knew, but she appealed to a detective she knew to go to the house.

A police badge carried more weight than a PI license.

The detective, one she’d worked with years before, took her file, agreed something smelled off.

It wouldn’t be top priority, and she had to accept that, but he and his partner would get to it.

Especially since she pressed on the fact that she had another conversation scheduled with the FBI agent heading Adrian’s case.

Nothing like a little competition with the feds to get the ball rolling.

So Nikki could expect, over the next day or two, visits from the local LEOs and the FBI.

Shake the tree, she thought. And something would fall out.

After her meetings, she drove back—through horrendous traffic—to her office to write up her report. She dashed through pounding rain to the building that held her offices, the offices of a small legal firm (which often kicked work her way), and a photography studio.

She took the stairs to the second floor, walked through the frosted glass door into her reception area. Three chairs with padded leather seats and backs sat against both side walls, a narrow alcove provided a space for hanging coats. A snake plant as tall as she was speared out of a bright blue pot by the double window. Her receptionist kept it thriving.

Her business subscribed to a handful of magazines, including Forbes and Vanity Fair. Rachael had personally selected the trio of pencil sketches by a local artist framed on the café au lait–colored walls.

A high-class reception area, her marketing genius husband told her, brought in high-class clients.

In the years since she’d opened the doors to McNee Investigations, he’d proved mostly right.

“Traffic.” Rachael rolled her eyes as she hung her umbrella in the alcove. “Unspeakable. It’s pouring out there.”

“Moving south, they say, but slow. Rush hour’s going to be horrible.”

“Great. Something to look forward to.”

On the way to her office, she had short update conversations with her two colleagues, hit the tiny break area for coffee. After another longer conversation—with wedding plans sprinkled in—with her office manager, she sat down in her office.

Then sat back, sipped coffee, closed her eyes to let the tension of battling DC traffic in a summer deluge wash away.

The rain also meant her husband’s softball game would be canceled, so she—or he—would have to think about dinner. Order in, she decided. They’d both be fine with that, especially since they’d both deal with the traffic to get home.

And if neither of them had to bring work home, they could open a nice bottle of wine, have a leisurely family meal neither had to cook. Maybe even work in some sex before they conked out.

Which meant, if she wanted all that to happen, she’d better finish up work.

She wrote the report, attached it in an email to Lina, as that’s how her paying client preferred it.

She sent her office manager her hours for billing said paying client.

Before she reached for the phone to contact Adrian for an update—as both of them preferred—the phone rang.

“McNee Investigations, Rachael McNee.”

“Ms. McNee, it’s Tracie Potter.”

“What can I do for you?”

“It may be what I can do for you. I’ve been doing a little research—and yes, you suggested I shouldn’t do so, but it’s what I do. In any case, in doing so, it jogged some memories. One being I remembered overhearing a phone conversation Jon had with his wife. And yes, I was eavesdropping.”

“So would I under the circumstances.” Or any, Rachael admitted. Nosy was in the DNA of an investigator.

“I recall him being very dismissive of her. Something about the kids, or one of them. How no, he couldn’t drop everything and come home. He had work to finish. How she should just handle it. Then I remember him snapping at her. ‘If you can’t deal with it, just take another pill. I’ll be home when I’m home.’ Or something of the sort.”

“All right.”

“I admit, I was amused. I stood in the bedroom doorway of the little apartment he kept for his trysts. Said something like, ‘Trouble at home,’ or ‘Trouble in paradise?’ I remember his response, as it was fully my intention at the time: ‘Never get married, and if you do, don’t have any goddamn kids.’”

Tracie let out a little laugh. “That’s nineteen for you. In any case, he went on a short rant, which surprised me because he never talked about his family. I never talked about them. But we’d both had a couple of drinks.”

“Do you remember what he said?”

“I remember the gist. He said his wife had wanted the brats in the first place, and he should’ve made her get rid of them before they were born. And now, even though she had someone come in to clean, to cook, she couldn’t handle them.”

Tracie paused a moment. “I wasn’t interested in his family issues, but I remember wondering how he could afford all that household help on his salary. I didn’t know it was her money at the time, and it struck me. Mostly the conversation bored me, so I said something like, ‘Why don’t you come to bed and handle me?’ And that was that.”

“Interesting.”

“I think so. It occurs to me Lina Rizzo might not have been the only bed partner he got pregnant, as he resisted suiting up.”