I remember it well on her slender wrist, the elegant piece glinting in the light. A knot of dread rises up within. Sam coveted that watch. Oh, how she loved it. The worst of it is, Macon’s mother passed away years ago, which means the watch would be both an heirloom and a treasured memento.

Weakly, I press a cold hand to my hot cheek. “She . . . ah . . . when could she have possibly done this?”

Macon makes a noise of annoyance. “She really doesn’t tell you anything, does she?”

The truth stings.

“Why would she tell me about a watch that she may or may not have stolen?”

“I thought Sam had been renting a room from you.”

I blink in surprise.

Three years ago, I was given the opportunity to partner in a high-end catering business. Angela, my partner, eventually sold the other half to me, and it became so successful I was finally able to buy a small bungalow in Los Feliz. A few months later, Sam moved into the loft over my garage because money was tight for her.

Truth is, I never know how she gets her money since she never mentions any jobs. It’s hit or miss if I receive the small amount of rent she insisted on paying, and since I don’t actually need money from her, I’ve learned not to rely on it.

But I thought we were close enough that Sam would tell me she’d been seeing Macon. I hadn’t a clue they were even in contact.

“That doesn’t mean I know everything that goes on in her life,” I finally say.

Macon makes a noise that sounds far too pitying before answering with an overly patient tone. “Sam has been my assistant for the past month. Though it soon became clear that she greatly oversold her qualifications.”

I don’t know what to feel. I’m glad they aren’t dating; if Sam and Macon took up again, inevitably, he’d be back in my life as well. But he is in her life, isn’t he? They’ve been working together for a month. And Sam never told me a thing. Hurt is a numb throb in my temples.

“I’ve been away for a week,” he goes on. “I returned home yesterday, found Sam gone and a couple things missing, including the watch.”

“What was she doing in your house?” I wince at the question. I don’t want to know. I don’t.

But I do.

“Being my assistant is a twenty-four-seven job,” he says as if this is obvious. “I have a guesthouse. Sam was staying there.”

I don’t miss the way his tone implies that he thinks it’s odd I hadn’t noticed Sam was living elsewhere for weeks. I had. But I’m used to her coming and going. My place is more of a base camp for her than anything.

“You might have had a break-in,” I offer weakly.

“Bullshit. The damn woman asked to see the watch for ‘old times’ sake,’ and I was fool enough to show her.”