“Have you looked at your car accident report?”

“Not yet. Are you saying my accident is connected to Clare’s death? That’s a big stretch.”

“I’m grabbing at straws,” he said. “I do that just to shake things up or get a reaction.”

What kind of reaction was he looking for in me? “Why haven’t we talked this candidly about Clare before?”

“This is the first time that I’ve seen you truly sober. All the other times I smelled the booze on you. Why waste my time with someone who’s out of control?”

I reminded myself he was talking to me now. “I want to know what caused my car accident. My cell phone went missing around that time.”

“Maybe it got thrown under the seat of the car or wedged in a tight spot.”

“Brit said it was never found.”

“Brit said.”

“Why do I have faint memories of a man speaking to me and reaching past me?”

“Is that true?”

“My brain got pretty scrambled because of the accident, but it feels true.”

Richards drew in a breath, rested a hand on the car’s closed laptop. “Watch your back, Marisa. If the accident is connected to Clare, and that’s a big if, keep your head on a swivel.”

“I will.” I stepped back.

“I mean it.” He pulled out of his space and drove onto the street.

Lust. Revenge. Greed.

They are all lying.

Shit. It could have been any of the three motivations or a combination of the three.

As I turned to my car, my phone rang. Brit. My face felt numb in the cold. “Hey.”

“Where are you?”

“Out. Why?”

“Did you forget our appointment?”

“What appointment?”

An annoyed sigh shuddered through the phone. Brit was likely fiddling with one of her favorite gold hoop earrings. “I was going to have a look at your books today, remember? I’ve been reconciling them since January, and today was the big handover.”

I checked the time on my phone. “I’m only ten minutes from my place.”

“Doing what?”

“Shooting pictures. The light lured me.” Straightening my shoulders released the tension knotting my upper back. “Just let yourself into my apartment. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“I already have.”

My mind skipped to the Richards files now tucked in my desk drawer. Out of sight, but Brit liked to snoop. “Be right there.”

23 MARISA

23

MARISA

Tuesday, March 15, 2022

9:45 a.m.

When I pushed through my front door, Brit was casually sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, sipping coffee, reading her phone. I glanced toward my desk. Center drawer was closed.

“Sorry about that,” I said.

“No worries. My first client isn’t scheduled until noon.”

“Late-start Tuesdays.” Since Brit had opened her practice five years ago, she’d taken Tuesday mornings and Friday afternoons off. Good for the mental health, which Brit was always mindful of protecting.