“That sounds great,” she managed. “So … I’ll see you Monday. And, uh, what time should I show up?”

“The office opens at nine, but don’t you want to maybe get together over the weekend?”

“No thanks,” she said firmly. “I’m not sure how long it’ll take me to wrap things up here in Lauderdale. I haven’t even started packing yet.”

“Okay, well, if you’re sure.” Brice sounded disappointed. “Call me when you get into town, okay?”

“Will do.”

Of course Drue hadn’t called him. Physically and emotionally exhausted from the ordeal of leaving her old life behind, she’d finally rolled into St. Petersburg on Sunday shortly before midnight and checked into a cheap beach motel she estimated was only a block or so away from the cottage.

Her plan had been to wake up early, check out her new home, then report for work. But things didn’t go as planned. They seldom did in Drue Campbell’s life.

She stood on the sidewalk in front of the law office, fighting the instinct to run. Dread gnawed at the pit of her stomach. Why had she agreed to move back here? To the scene of the crime, as it were. And to work for the very man who was the architect of so much of her unhappy childhood?

Because, she thought. Because there is nothing left for you, back there in Fort Lauderdale. At least here you have a house. Papi’s house, she reminded herself. And a job.

She took a deep breath and pushed open the front door to the law office. A pale-faced young man with round tortoiseshell glasses resting on cherubic pink cheeks sat at a large reception desk. He was dressed in a lime green dress shirt and a skinny purple tie. He wore a headset and was typing on a computer terminal. He nodded at the visitor and held up one finger, signaling he’d be right with her. Drue nodded back.

The reception area had been carved out of the former living room. Thick Oriental carpets covered the gleaming hardwood floors and stiff formal draperies framed the picture windows that overlooked the street. There was a handsome fireplace and glass-front bookshelves full of obsolete leather-bound law journals. A pair of navy leather armchairs flanked the fireplace and a matching leather sofa was placed against the adjacent wall. A framed generic color photograph of a Florida sunset hung over the mantel.

“Hi,” the young man said, turning to her. “Can I help you?”

“Hope so. I’m Drue Campbell. My father is expecting me.”

“The new girl!” he squealed, clapping his fingertips together. “Thank God!” He stood and extended a hand. “Welcome! I’m Geoff. Spelled with a G, not a J. It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Okay,” Drue said slowly. “Good to meet you too.”