Mr. Edge had wavy dark hair that needed cutting. Dark eyes that were cutting. If hadn’t already known otherwise, Cyrus might have assumed Edge was of Louisiana Creole ancestry like Paulina—a little Spanish, a little French, a little Afro-Caribbean, a little who knows what…

According to his record, Edge was fifty. In the photos—which appeared recent, based on the age of his daughter in one—he didn’t look a day older than forty. Money, Juliette, and looks. Lucky bastard.

The picture of Edge and his girl had been taken in winter. His daughter was wearing a white coat and pink mittens, while Edge was sporting a tuxedo. Both of them had on wide smiles for the camera, and the little girl had her arms around her father’s neck.

In another photo, Edge and Juliette were slow dancing, looking at each other like nobody else existed in the world. Edge had on the same tuxedo jacket, and a patterned kilt. Scottish wedding?

The last photograph on the mantle had been taken at the same wedding. Edge and a pale, blond man were arm-wrestling at a table covered in wine bottles. Their eyes were locked on each other in a death stare, although it was clear both men were trying hard not to laugh. The blond was almost as much of a head-turner as Edge. Possibly. Men were not his specialty.

Cyrus glanced over the pictures again. These were the photographs of a man who loved his family. He might not have believed it without seeing it, knowing what he knew about Edge. But it was better this way, wasn’t it? Better to have a bad reputation that hid a secret good side, than to have a good reputation with a secret bad side?

In his career, Father Ike worked tirelessly as a church pastor, a school chaplain and a prison chaplain. Paulina had said students adored Father Ike. She certainly had liked and trusted the man. And all that time that good man had a secret dark side.

Or maybe not. Maybe it was all just a misunderstanding.

Right. And Cyrus was the next Miss America, too.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

He turned and saw Nora Sutherlin standing in the doorway to the room, her dog beside her like a shadow. She’d changed out of her shorts and paint-splattered shirt into a black halter top dress with a high thigh slit and red high heels that gave her the illusion of height. She’d taken her hair out of the ponytail and now it fell around her shoulders in lively black waves. That was more like it. Now he believed this was a woman men paid money to spend time with.

“You were gone three minutes. I expected thirty,” he said.

“I’m not very high maintenance on Saturdays,” she said. “Here, proof I am who I say I am.”

She passed him a business card—solid black with silver lettering, the words Mistress Nora and a phone number. He dialed the number.

Her phone rang. She held it up, showing him he was calling her.