Nobody sets out to be a journalist for the money. My Honda Civic is old enough that no one would guess it’s a distant cousin to newer models. My duplex is a rental. The last paint job faded before the brushstrokes dried; the windows don’t seal, and my next door neighbor comes and goes on his Harley at all hours of the night. Still, I could never pay what it’s worth.

Delray Beach is an expensive community, and this location is ideal. I can ride my bike along A1A or over to Atlantic Dunes Park where I can lie in the sand and listen to seagulls. Finding it wasn’t luck. When he saw my first apartment, my father bought the three duplexes on this property, claiming they were a great investment, and immediately moved me into this one. I earn most of my rent by managing the others.

The wardrobe on my bed reflected the state of my finances. Earlier I found a dress at the back of the closet. Since it didn’t look familiar, I guessed that my mother or Wendy had given it to me hoping I wouldn’t embarrass them at some event. Now it was draped over a chair to add to the growing stack.

Several years ago Wendy had given me a peach-colored leather tote with myriad interior pockets, but now after a search, I located it on a closet shelf, speckled with mildew, the result of a particularly steamy summer and a faulty air conditioner. I settled for canvas bags a PR firm had created to advertise Out in the Cold’s first season. One set, the more popular, read, You Can Run, But You Can’t Hide with the show’s name beneath it. The other claimed, There’s Nothing Colder Than A Corpse. We still have lots of that one stored away. I guess women don’t want to be seen in public with “Corpse” stenciled on their shopping bags.

Now I opened one of the corpse bags and began to toss. “I need enough clothes to last a week.” I was talking to myself and to Sophie if she wanted to listen.

Sophie looked up from her laptop. “You think you’ll only be gone a week?”

“Wendy’s town house has its own washer and dryer. Hopefully I won’t be there long enough to fall in love with them.”

“You’re sure she said Phoenix?”

After the rest of the crew had gone, I’d filled Sophie in on the phone call with my sister. Being Sophie, she hadn’t tried to sympathize or comfort me, knowing how much I would hate either. Instead she’d immediately begun to scour the internet.

The world might look at Soph and see a part-time grocery store cashier who likes to eat as much as she likes to cook. She favors the brightest colors and anything that sparkles, and she invites her ex-husband, Wayne, back into her life and kicks him out again on a regular schedule. All of that’s true, but I look at her and see a good friend who happens to be an insomniac with an exceptional intellect who entertains herself by uncovering secrets.