“There has to be another female here,” the woman said in her eerily quiet drill sergeant’s voice. “I understand you’ve been through a lot lately, but I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

So Panda had told her who Lucy was. Another indication that he had no moral compass.

“Normally, I’d offer to pay you,” she said, “but … that seems a little insulting.”

A little? The woman didn’t appear overawed at being with a member of the former first family, which suggested she was accustomed to celebrities. Lucy’s curiosity got the best of her. “Why is it so important?”

The woman’s head came up another inch. “Before I explain, I don’t suppose you’d consider signing a confidentiality agreement?”

She had to be kidding.

“Lucy has a lot of faults”—Panda leaned on that last word—“but she has too much at stake herself to go around blowing anyone else’s cover.”

“So you said.” The woman straightened her shoulders. “I suppose I’ll have to trust you, not something I’m good at.” A gull swooped by the window. And then she turned. Slowly … Dramatically … A tragic queen facing the guillotine.

Enormous black sunglasses concealed much of her face. She was tall and statuesque, a little overweight underneath that voluminous tunic top. She wore no jewelry, nothing to call attention to herself except the inappropriateness of all that black on a warm June day. Her hand shook ever so slightly as she took off her sunglasses. She folded in the stems, then raised her chin and gazed at Lucy.

She was attractive—dark, almond-shaped eyes; good cheekbones; a strong nose—but her full mouth could have used a slick of lip gloss, and a little makeup would have done wonders for her sallow complexion. Not that Lucy was one to criticize anyone else’s makeup application, since she was wearing brown lipstick and had thick kohl smudges both above and below her lashes.

The dramatic way the woman stood before her indicated she expected Lucy to say something, but since Lucy had no idea—

And then she understood. Whoa.

“Lucy, I’m sure you’ve heard of Temple Renshaw,” Panda said, all business.

Temple Renshaw, the Evil Queen of the celebrity fitness gurus and star of Fat Island, a horrible reality show that shamed its participants by exiling them to a place “where no one has to look at you.” She’d built her career on humiliation and degradation, and photographs of her panther-sleek body were everywhere—on the labels of her fitness drinks, her power bars, her extensive line of exercise wear. But those photographs only remotely resembled this woman draped in black—a woman with full cheeks and a plump little cushion of fat under her chin.

“As you can see,” Temple said, “I’m obese.”