The second e-mail was only slightly less vague than the first, but did reveal the school to be in New England. And the meeting over coffee had been elevated to a “quick lunch.” Could Mercer meet her at a place called Spanky’s, just off campus on Franklin Street, at noon?

Mercer was ashamed to admit that at the moment the idea of a nice lunch was more appealing than that of teaching a bunch of privileged high school seniors. In spite of the lofty salary, the job was definitely a step down. She had arrived in Chapel Hill three years earlier with the intention of throwing herself into teaching while, and much more important, finishing her current novel. Three years later, she was being terminated, and the novel was as unfinished as it had been when she arrived in Chapel Hill.

As soon as she walked into the restaurant, a well-dressed and perfectly put-together woman of about fifty waved her over, thrust out a hand, and said, “I’m Donna Watson. Nice to meet you.” Mercer sat across the table and thanked her for the invitation. A waiter dropped menus on the table.

Without wasting any time, Donna Watson became someone else. She said, “I must tell you that I’m here under false pretenses, okay? My name is not Donna Watson but Elaine Shelby. I work for a company based in Bethesda.”

Mercer gave her a blank look, glanced away, looked back, and tried gamely to think of an appropriate response.

Elaine pressed on. “I lied. I apologize, and I promise I will not lie again. However, I’m serious about lunch and I’m getting the check, so please hear me out.”

“I suppose you have a good reason for lying,” Mercer said cautiously.

“A very good one, and if you’ll forgive this one offense, and hear me out, I promise I can explain.”

Mercer shrugged and said, “I’m hungry, so I’ll just listen until I’m not hungry anymore, and if by then you haven’t cleared things up I’ll take a walk.”

Elaine flashed a smile that anyone would trust. She had dark eyes and dark skin, maybe of some Middle Eastern extraction, possibly Italian or Greek, Mercer thought, though her accent was upper Midwest, definitely American. Her short gray hair was cut in a style so smart that a couple of men had already looked twice. She was a beautiful woman and impeccably dressed, far out of place among the casual college crowd.

She said, “Though I didn’t lie about the job. That’s why I’m here, to convince you to take a job, one with better terms and benefits than I put in the e-mail.”

“Doing what?”

“Writing, finishing your novel.”

“Which one?”

The waiter was back, and they quickly ordered matching grilled chicken salads with sparkling water. He snatched the menus, disappeared, and after a pause Mercer said, “I’m listening.”

“It’s a long story.”

“Let’s start with the obvious challenge—you.”

“Okay. I work for a company that specializes in security and investigations. An established company that you’ve never heard of because we don’t advertise, don’t have a website.”