Derek’s eyes met mine, and I knew he was telling me, in his own way, that he had taken my little lecture to heart. This was a marriage worth saving; it looked as though they had taken some first, important steps toward healing.

“Derek told me everything,” Sidra said, coming to sit on a chair across from me, wet tendrils of hair sticking to her cheeks. “We know now that Judith is the one who has been doing these things. What we don’t know yet is why.”

“Have you had a chance to think about that? Both of you? Why she would want your marriage to break up?”

Sidra and Derek both shook their heads.

“Judith and I have always gotten along fine,” Sidra said. “There was never any animosity between us.”

“How about you, Derek?”

“My sister and I have a complicated relationship,” he said. “Sort of competitive, I guess. Like a lot of siblings. But no, nothing in our history would’ve prepared me for this.”

“Well, I’m afraid this latest incident was partly my fault,” I said, looking toward the letters. I went on to explain how I had taken them from here a few nights before and that they had subsequently been stolen from my room.

“At the time, it was just a part of my investigation. But I’m sorry for taking them. Especially now that they’re ruined.”

Sidra was about to reply when we heard Carlos’ alarm go off in the other room. She looked at Derek, who quickly slipped on his shoes.

“What’s done is done,” she said softly before rising. We all stood, and Derek and I headed for the door.

“Come back once Carlos has left for school,” Sidra whispered to Derek, a sexy hint of promise shining in her eyes. He held her gaze, finally bending over for one more, slightly longer kiss.

“Till then.”

“Hey, Mom!” Carlos yelled from his room. “Do you know if Angelina washed my new jeans?”

Sidra winked at us as we stepped outside, and she quietly shut the door. Derek and I walked a few paces together as I struggled for something fitting to say.

“You were right,” he said finally. “There’s no excuse for letting this marriage go. I want to thank you for banging me over the head with that fact before it was too late.”

I grinned, picturing my fury of the morning before, slamming my money down on the table and marching out of the restaurant. At least my point had been made.

“Hey, Derek,” I said, changing the subject, thinking of Harriet’s e-mail, of the man who followed me around town and later pushed me into a grave. “Let me ask you something. Does the name Mitchell Ralston mean anything to you?”

“Rings a bell,” he replied. “Let me think.”