The neon blues jumped to me. Their lashes were curly and perhaps the longest I’d ever seen.

“Ms. Forex,” delivered as a full-on sneer, “has the brainpower of a salami sandwich.”

“She was kind to you.”

The heavy brows winged up in surprise. “That what you call it? Kindness? I was her latest pity project.”

“Pity project?”

“Take in the flawed and make their lives bliss.”

“Was Annaliese Ruben flawed?” My compassion was losing out to dislike.

“She wasn’t Miss America.” Devereaux snorted, an ugly antihistamine-wet sound.

“You knew her?”

“I heard about her.”

“Where’s the duffel?” Curt. Ollie was fast losing patience.

“No clue.”

“Give it the old college try, Aurora.”

“You’ve got no warrant, you don’t get shit.”

“I’m trying to appeal to your good side, kiddo.”

“I don’t have a good side.”

“Fair enough. Let’s try another angle. I’ve got a landlady reporting illegal substances on her property. How about we toss the place, starting with this?”

Ollie lifted a shoulder bag from the floor beside the bed. The thing was metallic, with enough fringe to embarrass Dale Evans.

Devereaux arched forward at the waist and shot out an arm. “Give me that!”

Ollie held the purse just out of her reach.

“You bastard.”

Smiling, Ollie swung the bag like a pendulum.

“Bastard!”

Ollie pointed to the robe.

“Turn around!”

Ryan and I did. Ollie did not.

I heard movement, the swish of fabric, then a thumpy jangle as the purse hit the bed.

“Excellent.”

On hearing Ollie’s comment, Ryan and I turned back.

Devereaux was sitting sideways, lower legs over the edge of the mattress, toes not touching the carpet. She was wearing the robe and the same fuck-you pout.

Ollie repeated his question. “Where’s the duffel?”

“Closet shelf.”

“I believe you have some packing to do?”

“I’d rather eat dog shit than spend one more day in this dump!”

Bag pressed to her chest, Devereaux scooched forward and dropped from the bed. Grabbing shorts and a top from the mess on the shelving, she strode to the bathroom and slammed the door.

Ryan, Ollie, and I were right on her heels.

The closet was a miniature walk-in with a long head-high bar on one wall and shorter double bars on the other. Dresses, tops, and skirts hung from hangers, most featuring bright colors and a whole lot of bling.

The floor was ankle-deep in shoes and soiled clothing. The latter filled the small space with a sweaty, syrupy scent.

A single shelf L’ed above both of the high bars, filled to capacity. Rolls of toilet tissue and paper towel. Shoe boxes. A printer. A blender. A fan. Plastic tubs whose contents I couldn’t identify.

I spotted the duffel in the corner where the long stretch right-angled into the short. It was olive-green polyester with black handles and a front zipper pouch. Wading through the muddle of Walmart fire-hazard chic, I pushed a handful of hanging garments aside. A stepladder lay against the baseboard. As I grabbed it, my eye took in something on the wall, half concealed by a large suitcase. My pulse quickened.