“Ms. Digby!” The receptionist cried out in a way that sounded so, so not good. “That was Ms. Novak’s Vander Award! It’s Baccarat crystal!”

“Lionel,” Ms. Digby replied in a voice Chance could tell she was struggling to keep even. “Do you mind keeping an eye on the children for a few minutes while I talk to Mr. Foley?”

Lionel muttered something in a strangled voice that sounded a lot like, Are you out of your effing mind?

Whoa, Lionel, WTF? There are children present. You seemed so professional. Not cool, dude.

“Give Finn your phone,” Chance heard Ms. Digby tell Lionel.

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“The children’s devices were all packed by mistake,” Ms. Digby explained, “and they become distracted easily. I assume you have some sort of app on your phone that will keep Finn occupied. Quinn has very much enjoyed What’s That Cactus? on mine.”

“No,” Lionel said decisively.

“I’ll buy you a new one.”

That seemed to give Lionel pause. “What kind?”

“Whatever kind you want.”

Lionel immediately named one in the two-thousand-dollar range. Chance knew that because he’d recently priced new phones for himself and had laughed himself silly when he saw the cost of that model.

That didn’t seem to deter Ms. Digby, however. “Done. Now give Finn your phone. Quinn already has mine.”

Chance heard her clack a few steps toward the waiting room, and then she stopped. “And, Lionel.”

“Yes, Ms. Digby?”

“Do not take your eyes off those children for a moment.”

Chance told himself he only imagined an audible gulp from the receptionist. “Yes, Ms. Digby.”

Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack. Ms. Digby entered the reception room in a way that might have been imperious had it not been for her appearance. She was, in fact, wearing pinstripes—a slender skirt and double-breasted jacket in no-nonsense navy—but the former was splattered with what looked like the better part of a milkshake, and the latter was hanging haphazardly open over a wrinkled blouse and crooked string of pearls. Her short dark hair, so perfectly styled in the photos he’d seen, was sticking straight up in a couple of places, and her round tortoiseshell glasses were askew.

She managed to straighten those glasses—mostly—as she approached, her gaze steady and confident when it met his, her eyes the clearest pale green Chance had ever seen. Green, too, was a splotch of something on her chin, just below her slightly smudged red lipstick. He’d been with Max often enough when the other man ordered one of those matcha drinks at Julie’s Java Joint to suspect it was a remnant of one of those.

“Mr. Foley,” she said as she switched a leather briefcase from her right hand to her left and extended the former confidently toward him. Automatically, Chance shook it. She had a solid grip, he’d give her that. “Please accept my condolences for the loss of your brother and sister-in-law.”