Watch your back, he said, one humdinger of a closer. Was it a threat? A warning? His conversation skills could use some help, but Jax certainly knows how to end with a bang.

I’m coming down the hallway when the door in front of me pops open. I shriek and lunge backward into the wall, clutching the laundry to my chest like a shield. Paul’s mother steps out of the powder room, smoothing her sweater.

“Oh, sweetie. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Diana pulls me into a perfumed hug, awkward since I’m holding the laundry. Her bony ribs press into my arms. “I said hello when I came in, but you must not have heard me over Paul’s TV.”

Paul’s TV. Paul’s house. She never passes up an opportunity to remind me.

I release from her grip, taking a step back. “If you’re looking for your son, he’s not here. He had a work thing.”

“I’m not here to see him, dear. I’m here to see you. I heard what happened. That must have been some shock, finding that poor girl. Are you okay?”

Diana’s voice is soft and soothing, every syllable rounded with a velvety mountain cadence. Not a coarse twang like mine and Chet’s. She sounds like she comes from money, and she looks it, too, in styled hair and an oversized cream sweater that hangs artfully off one shoulder. Her boots are low and Western-inspired, chunky heels and pointy toes. She looks like a million bucks.

It helps that she’s beautiful, all dark hair and ivory skin and a body she keeps lean with daily barre and Pilates. Even if she had Paul when she was a teenager, even if she slept hanging upside down by her ankles every night, there’s no way someone her age—I’ve done the math, and the woman is well into her fifties—looks that good, not without a little help. But either her surgeon is really, really good, or somewhere along the line, Diana Keller made a deal with the devil.

“I’m fine, thank you. It was sweet of you to check on me.”

This is how we always are with each other. Cautious. Polite. Full of bright smiles and friendly words we volley back and forth, more for Paul’s benefit than for ours. Honestly, I’m surprised she wasn’t here sooner.

“I’ll make us some tea and you can tell me everything. Or would you rather have something stronger? I can pop open a bottle of wine if you prefer.”

My stomach sends up a twinge of nausea. “Tea’s perfect. Thanks.”

“Sit, sit.” She waves a manicured hand at the counter stools.