She was fit. Trim. Waitress work kept her in shape and she’d given up her pack-a-day habit. Well, not entirely, but at least she could make her pack stretch for three or four days. An improvement, right? Wasn’t that what life was all about? She’d kicked the meth and most of the booze, now the cigs. Well, almost. By the time she was forty she’d be so damned healthy she wouldn’t be able to stand herself, and then maybe she’d get joint custody of Logan back. Her heart turned a little cold at the thought of her son. He was nine already. Nine? Oh, man, she’d already missed so much and by the time she turned forty he would be . . . oh, sweet Jesus, he’d be twenty, the age she was when she bore him. No, no, no. It was going too fast! She couldn’t wait that long. She needed her baby boy back now. Somehow she’d have to clean up her act and—

Rap. Rap. Rap.

Finally, knuckles knocked sharply on her door.

She straightened her short skirt, made sure it was snug and even across her buttocks, tossed her hair over her shoulders, licked her lips, and stepped into her heels before crossing to the door. Placing a hand over the top lock, she said, “Who is it?”

“John.”

That was what he’d said his name was. Really? Some of her first-timers used it as an alias, thinking it was funny, but that was just fine. As long as they paid. She unlocked the first dead bolt, then the second, opened the door a crack, and peered through to the outside.

He stood beneath the porch light. A tall man dressed in black, with thick, coffee-colored hair, this one was leaner and fitter than her average customer. A pair of Ray-Bans covered his eyes as if he were hiding his identity. No surprise there.

He smiled. A disarming grin showed a flash of white teeth. “I have an appointment.” he said. “You’re Tiffany?”

“That’s right,” she said in a cool tone. At night she was definitely Tiffany Elite, not Teri Gaines, the waitress who hopped from table to table, mopping up spilled soda and beer while smiling at her customer’s stupid jokes in order to catch a fatter tip. No, tonight Tiffany was definitely in the house. She unlocked the chain and held the door for him. “Come on in.” As he stepped through, she felt a little tingle of warning run up the back of her neck. What was it?

No worries. He was already reaching for his wallet and placing a bill on the table, a hundred-dollar bill from the looks of it, though it was marred. “Let’s take care of business first,” he said, leaving the C-note faceup.

Dear God, were Ben Franklin’s eyes actually blackened?

Weird.

But it would spend.