It was tough to stay upbeat when the ink began to run, and if Rose was honest, her demeanor was more Poison Oak than her namesake suggested even at the best of times. But more important than any of that—way more important than herself, for heaven’s sake—she had to try to make her mom feel good about seeing her. If her mother only had a matter of weeks, maybe even days left, then her last memories would not be of a sorry-for-herself, pissed-at-the-world daughter; they would be of her best pal, who was glad to be with her.

She used her own key to let herself in. The smells of espresso and toast were strong, inviting. “Hey, Mom. Any left in the pot for me?”

Hushed voices from the kitchen made her halt. She finished shedding her leather jacket in slow motion and felt for the switchblade in her jeans pocket. “Warm day, huh? I thought we could take a walk, maybe feed the ducks or something.” She inched toward the kitchen, fully ready to stick anyone who made a wrong move against her. Her mom had never not answered her before, nor did she like whispering. Hated it, in fact. Her teaching days had done that to her, those sniveling little runts gossiping at the back of the class.

She stepped into the kitchen, blade un-drawn but at the ready. Her mom was leaning on the countertop, sipping her coffee, her face flush, almost cheeky. “Hi, sweetheart. I didn’t expect you so early.” That she didn’t immediately introduce the young man sitting at the table spun all sorts of theories in Rose’s mind, and none of them added up.

“And you are?” Rose asked him.

“Bellamy,” her mom answered. “This is Bellamy. He’s, ah, going to be with us for a day or two…visiting.”

“Oh?”

The man stood and bowed, not quite smiling, not quite anything really. He was as blank as an inkless printout. Cute, though, in a lost, gormless kind of way; but she couldn’t read him, and she couldn’t profile him, both things that Rose was ordinarily very good at; first impressions were important in one of her two jobs, as an associate private investigator.

But damn it if she hadn’t seen the guy someplace before. He was clean-shaven, long-haired, and dressed like a dork ready for Sunday lunch at the farmer’s market. That knitted sweater, those loafers.

Yeesh.

“Pleased to meet you, Rose,” he said. And nope, the voice didn’t ring any bells; maybe he just seemed familiar because he was the type she’d have gone for when she was in high school, without the dorky wardrobe, of course. Texan accent, too. Cute.

“Hey,” she replied, and then to her mom, “Am I missing something? Since when did you have young gentleman callers?”