that old Chevette on the highway all the way to Toronto.”
Amelia dropped to her knees, then flattened herself on her stomach and pressed her cheek to the floor. Aside from a collection of dust bunnies, the space beneath the futon was as empty as the space behind it. She scrambled to her feet and clawed at the mattress to tip it away from the frame, but she found nothing other than a squished coloring book.
“Too bad we have to wait until tomorrow,” Will continued. “But they wouldn’t be open on a Sunday. What are you doing?”
Her gaze darted wildly around the room. She could see at a glance there was no place to conceal anything large. It wasn’t here.
“Amelia?”
“Where’s the painting?”
“What?”
She thumped the side of her fist against the empty wall. “The painting of the farm that was right here.”
“I put it on the lawn with the other stuff.”
“You what?”
“It was a piece of junk. I thought you’d be happy to see it go.”
She pushed past him and ran for the front door. She didn’t remember seeing the painting on the lawn, but then, she hadn’t really looked. It had to be there, because no one would want something that ugly, would they? The painting itself was awful. Jenny had acquired it at someone else’s yard sale with the intention of using the frame to dress up a mirror. The frame was old-fashioned, carved wood that was warped in places and gaped away from the canvas and had provided a perfect spot to tuck a folded slip of paper because it had been high up, out of sight and beyond the reach of little fingers and hungry dogs. It was a good, safe place that she’d felt so clever about finding. Please, oh, please let it still be there....
It wasn’t. That much was clear from the instant she reached the front stoop. She pressed her fingers to her mouth but she couldn’t feel them. Her entire body was going numb. That was a mercy. If only the numbness could reach her brain and her heart.
This couldn’t be happening. She already knew what it was like to lose everything, but to lose it again? Before she’d even got it? Fate couldn’t be this cruel, could it?
The door opened behind her. “Amelia?” Will asked. “You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”
Her legs gave out. She sat down hard on the top step. “The lottery ticket.”
“What about it?”
“I wedged it underneath the frame of that painting.”
CHAPTER TWO
HANK JONES DID his best to concentrate on the conversation, because it definitely wouldn’t be cool to be caught slack-jawed and staring. He’d heard that Amelia Goodfellow was back in town. Given the size of Port Hope, he’d known it was possible they would run into each other eventually, but not in his wildest dreams would he have imagined she would be waiting for him to open his office on a Monday morning.
Typically, the clients of Jones Investigative Services ranged from employers who wanted in-depth background checks on job applicants to estate lawyers tracking down missing heirs and people who wanted their spouses followed. Fairly routine stuff, which was okay with Hank, because it meant he hadn’t yet taken on a case he couldn’t solve. But he doubted this case would be routine. The last time he had seen Amelia, she had vowed never to speak to him again. She’d kept her word for almost fifteen years.
Nevertheless, here she was, sitting in the worn leather armchair across from his desk like any other potential client. For the first time since he’d started the business, he wished he’d put more effort into the office decor. He wondered what she thought of the wheezing air conditioner in the window behind him, or the five-year-old computer that hulked on his desk, or the prize pickerel that occupied the place of honor above the coffeemaker. He also wondered why her opinion should matter to him.
If she noticed the thrift-shop decorating scheme, she didn’t let it show. She kept her face as politely neutral as her request. “Will you take the case?”
Her voice sounded the same. In his more fanciful moments, he used to compare it to syrup, but he was no good with words, and that wasn’t right, anyway. Her voice wasn’t sugary, and sweet wasn’t an adjective people would use to describe Amelia. It was the way syrup flowed, rich and clear, that reminded him of her voice. It was also hard to stop the stream of her words once they got going. They tended to stick, too.
Her appearance hadn’t changed much over the years. Her hair was a bit straighter and cut to chin length instead of corkscrewing over her shoulders, and it had darkened marginally, yet it was unmistakably the Goodfellow red. Did she still insist on calling it auburn? Beneath her flowered blouse and denim skirt, her figure appeared to be as slender as when she’d been a teenager, although she’d lost that coltish, all arms and legs look.
He suspected that even if he’d been blindfolded, he would have recognized her presence. The leather chair creaked as she shifted because she couldn’t sit still. The air around her seemed to crackle with energy she couldn’t quite contain. Amelia never did anything halfway. When she wanted something, she pursued it with her whole heart.
“Or would you have a problem working for me?” she asked.
The blunt question didn’t surprise him. The Amelia he’d known wouldn’t tiptoe around an issue. She’d been the most honest person he’d ever encountered. Well, except for her blind spot when it came to her hair color.
Would he have a problem taking her on as a client? As a rule, he didn’t make spur-of-the-moment decisions. He preferred to inspect all sides of a topic first. That’s what made him a good investigator. This situation was different, because he already knew the answer to her question. Of course, he wouldn’t have a problem working for Amelia. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He would never again be that idealistic fool, goofy with puppy love, laying his heart bare for her to trample with her size-eight feet. The pain had faded. They’d both moved on.
And the truth was, he was curious. Whatever had brought her here had caused her to swallow her pride and break one and a half decades of silence. Anyone, even if they weren’t a professional snoop, would want to know what it was.
“This is what I do for a living, Amelia,” he said. “The problems that happened between us were a long time ago.”
“Distant past,” she agreed.
“We were friends long before we made the mistake of trying to be more.”
She exhaled. It was accompanied by a subtle lowering of her shoulders. “That’s a good way to put it. Yes, we were friends once, weren’t we?”
“And since you need help, I’m glad you came to me.”
“I was hoping you would feel that way.”
“Did you think I would kick you out?”
“After the way we parted, I wasn’t sure. People can change.”
“Not me. I’m the same old, dumb lug I always was.”
“You were never dumb, Hank. Otherwise,
