“No,” Lauren said. She pulled the Walther out from under her shirt and held it up for him to see. “I think this will.”

His eyebrows lifted above the frames of his glasses. “Are you really going to use it?”

“Now or later?”

“If you want to shoot every guy you sleep with, that’s going to cut into your prospects for a second husband,” he pointed out.

“I don’t want a second husband,” Lauren managed to say around the hard knot of anger lodged in her throat. It made her angry that he would say such a thing. It made her angry that she had given him the chance to have occasion to say it. It made her angry that he didn’t seem to be intimidated or impressed by the fact that she had just pulled a gun on him.

“I guess not,” he said evenly. “You were the one with the balls in your family anyway. You’re the one still fighting for your daughter. I admire you for that, Lauren. I’m not the enemy. I came to you, remember?”

He had, though she had questioned his altruism. He had come to her to offer his services. He had read a recent article about her, about her continued determination to find her missing daughter despite the lack of movement from the Santa Barbara Police Department.

He was a private investigator. He could go places the police couldn’t go, do things the police couldn’t do. He was willing to help her—for a small fee, of course, to cover his expenses. If he found Leslie or found evidence connecting Roland Ballencoa to her disappearance, he would be able to claim the $50,000 reward—which was probably a far greater incentive than his admiration of her.

“Yes, I remember,” she said at last. “And now it’s time for you to go, Greg. I no longer require your services.”

“I don’t think this has anything to do with my professional services,” he said, stepping closer again. “I think you’re embarrassed for fucking the hired help.”

She did slap him for that. She backhanded him with her left hand, the gun still in her right. Her knuckles grazed the edge of his teeth, slicing the skin.

“Get off this property,” she ordered, seething, wishing now she had hit him in the mouth with the Walther so he would be the one bleeding instead of her. “Get out of my sight before I do something worse than hit you.”

He shrugged as if it didn’t bother him as much as the edge in his voice told her it did. “That’s all right. I get it. You want to tell yourself you didn’t enjoy it. We both know that isn’t true. That’s your conscience to wrestle with, Lauren. I don’t have any regrets.”

“Good for you,” she said. She had enough regret for both of them.