“Fine. You’ve told me. Now leave me alone.”

Rachael only shook her head when the phone slammed in her ear. Apparently Jessica hadn’t just buried the incident, she’d put it in a concrete bunker, filled it with denial, then sunk it in the ocean’s depths.

“Did my best,” she mused.

She had an hour before she had to fight her way home because maybe the rain would move south, but it didn’t seem to be in any hurry. She’d spend it working on finding one more name on the list.

Just one more tonight.

It took nearly two hours, which meant her fight home would be a brutal battle, but she found two.

One alive—a professor herself at Boston College who not only admitted to the affair, but took Rachael seriously.

And one dead, a lawyer who’d been stabbed repeatedly in the parking lot of a supermarket a few miles from her home in Oregon.

Since her purse, her watch weren’t found, and her car located more than a week later in Northern California, the motive was ascribed to carjacking and theft.

“He took the car, so how did he get to the parking lot? He had to have followed her in another vehicle. Stolen, too? I say absolutely. But let’s find out.”

She glanced at her watch, cursed. “Later.” She gathered her things, shut down her computer.

And, she noted, once again left the office after everyone else.

She really had to stop that.

She grabbed her umbrella, locked up the office behind her. And called her husband to let him know she was on her way.

And to order pizza. And open a bottle of wine.

She ate with her family, drank wine, even managed to sneak in a quick—quiet—romp with her husband.

But she knew she wouldn’t sleep.

She slid out of bed, shrugged into sweats, then went into her office. She could hear the TV blasting from the family room, so she shut the door.

It might have been after eleven in DC but it was barely eight in Oregon. She could get lucky and find somebody who’d care enough to check on stolen cars recovered from the parking lot where Alice McGuire—née Wendell—was killed five years before.

About the time Rachael used her persuasive powers on a detective with Portland PD, Tracie Potter sat in her tiny dressing room cleaning off her TV makeup, which by the end of her eleven o’clock broadcast felt like it weighed fifty pounds.

And when she slathered on moisturizer, she swore she heard her grateful skin make slurping sounds as it drank it in.

With the rain pounding, she wanted to change out of her TV-friendly suit, switch her heels for the rain boots she kept on hand for nights just like this.

She cursed herself for parking at the far end of the lot, which she did whenever she was shy of her ten thousand steps a day.

Which was, she admitted, most of the time.

Her husband would be dead asleep when she got home—and who could blame him? But she thought she might unwind with a snifter of brandy before joining him.

Her crew long gone, she called a good night to the stragglers who remained. She took the back door, let it slam securely behind her as she opened her umbrella.

Even with the security lights she could barely see two feet ahead as the rain whooshed down in sheets blown by the wind.

She blessed the boots, told herself how smart she’d been to take the time to change into jeans as the rain splashed up on her legs.

She had the key in her hand, hit the button on the fob to unlock the doors.

The lights blinked. She didn’t hear the usual thump of the locks, but the rain pounded. She half jogged the rest of the way then, closing her umbrella, all but dived into the car.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, and reached to press the starter button.

She didn’t have time to scream. The hard yank on her hair pulled her head back. The knife sliced deep across her throat.

She gurgled, eyes wheeling, arms flapping.

“Like a fish on a line.” JJ snorted with laughter. He shoved her toward the passenger seat. In his disposable painter’s gear—including bonnet, gloves, booties—he jumped out of the back.

He gave her—no longer gurgling—a harder shove as he took the driver’s seat.

“You made a real mess of things,” he told her as he started the car. “But that’s okay. We’re not going far.”

He congratulated himself on knowing, just knowing, tonight was the night. The rain, the perfect sign, the perfect cover. He’d dump her car in the strip mall lot a few blocks away where he’d left his sister’s.

Bag up the protective gear, and get rid of that somewhere along his drive to DC. A handy rest stop would do.

He glanced over at Tracie and thought: One bitch down, three to go!

Adrian often used either Maya or Teesha as guinea pigs. Today, she used Teesha to fine-tune a cardio dance segment for a project.

“Come on, Teesh, this one’s supposed to be fun.”

“Teething baby. Broken sleep. Nursing boobs.”

“Cardio like this gives you a nice energy boost. Triple step now. Right, left, right. Use your hips! That works the core. Where’s your rhythm? You’re a Black girl.”

“Don’t you stereotype me!” But she laughed. “And my rhythm is desperate for a nap.”

“Chassé, back step, right, left, right. Now the turn. Remember those happy hips.”

“My ass!”

“It’s definitely good for that, too.”

She whipped, cajoled, snarked Teesha through it.

“This is going to work.”

“I never want to see the recording.”

“For my review only. I think I need to funk it up more. It may be a little too easy.”

“Again, my ass.”

When Teesha dropped down in a chair in the studio, Adrian got her an energy drink. “Perk it up. I need to work on the strength yoga.”

“I am not doing that.”

“I have to nail it down first anyway. I want the whole program solid before my mother gets here. I’ve got most of a week. A short one today though. I’m going to the carnival with Raylan and his kids later.”

“Carnival, with kids. You’re in deep, Adrian.”

“I am. He dropped over for about a half hour two days ago, and one thing led to another—”

Teesha leaned forward. “Tell all.”

“Not that another. Jeez, it’s sex, sex, sex with you.”

“I wish. Monroe and I are down to one-point-six bangs a week.”

“Point-six?”

“Coitus interruptus. We average one-point-six right now. We’ve vowed to increase our average to a solid two, and work up from there when Phin—thank you, Jesus—starts kindergarten at the end of August. We can grab a nap-time quickie once a week.”

“Well, that’s a plan.”

“Spontaneous sex is overrated … I seem to recall. Anyway. What thing led to another thing?”

“He told me he loved me. It scared the crap out of me. I knew it was coming—I’m not stupid—but it still scared the crap out of me.”

“Awww.”

The Awww had Adrian throwing up both hands. “And I’m babbling around making excuses or reasons or putting up roadblocks, and he’s so patiently determined. Determinedly patient? Both, and also quietly, firmly sure of himself. And me. And us. He pointed out my flaws.”