her car and slammed the door in frustration. Rounding the Monte Carlo, she gave it a kick in the back tire, wishing she could sell the redneck car but knowing that was impossible considering how much she owed on it and what it was worth. She eyed her beloved white Miata, and conceded that even crippled, it could bring a few thousand dollars. But that would be a last resort. Surely there was something else she could sell.
She walked into the house and smiled at the noise and good smells coming from the kitchen. “I’m home,” she shouted.
Wesley came to the doorway and waved. “How does lasagna sound?”
“Fantastic.”
He eyed her up and down. “What happened to your clothes? You look like you’ve been in a brawl.”
She glanced down at the black marks on her skirt and blouse—between the Angela Ashford incident and skidding across the parking garage, she was a mess. And she wasn’t about to tell Wesley about her “brawl.” “I walked out in front of a car when I was leaving work and decided to sacrifice my outfit.”
“Good call.”
“I thought so.”
“Go get cleaned up. Soup’s on in ten.”
“Okay,” she said, moving toward her bedroom. She rubbed the shoulder that she’d landed on, her mind still clicking with worry over the bad element that continued to haunt their lives. If only she could get her hands on enough cash to get the loan sharks off their backs.
She turned on the shower, then backtracked to her bedroom. From beneath her bed she pulled a small trunk, and from the trunk, a red House of Cartier ring box. Her pulse raced as she raised the hinged lid and stared at the glittering one-carat diamond solitaire engagement ring that Peter had given her ten years ago. When he’d broken their engagement, he’d told her to keep the ring, to sell it if she needed to. And how many times had she been tempted to do just that to pay for utilities or school clothes or insurance? And how many times had she refused to part with her only remaining link to Peter?
Carlotta fingered the sparkling stone and bit down on the inside of her cheek. Perhaps it was time.
13
“That was amazing,” Carlotta said, pushing away her plate and smiling at her brother.
“I know,” he said with a smirk, still mopping up red sauce with crusty Italian bread. He pushed up his glasses. “I could teach you how to make it sometime.”
She batted her lashes. “And spoil your pleasure in cooking for me? Never.”
He wiped his mouth, then wadded up the paper napkin and threw it at her. Frowning, he leaned forward. “Hey, what happened to your neck? It looks like someone tried to choke you or something.”
Her hand flew to her throat and she could feel the angry welts left by the chain that Angela Ashford had twisted around her neck. “It’s…an allergic reaction to a necklace I wore, that’s all.” Wesley looked unconvinced, so she changed the subject. “When does your community service begin?”
“I have an appointment with my probation officer Wednesday. He’s supposed to arrange for me to work with the city geeks on their lousy security.”
“Good—maybe that’ll lead to a full-time job.”
“I already have a full-time job.”
“And it’s fine for now,” she said carefully. “But you can’t move dead bodies for the rest of your life.”
“Why not? Coop does okay.”
She frowned. “But this body-moving thing is just a side job for him too, right?”
“A side job from the funeral home, yeah. He contracts with the morgue when the M.E.’s office is short of vehicles.”
Carlotta looked at the clock—almost seven. “You’re not working tonight?”
“I’m on call. Coop said most weekend calls are late at night. Shootings, drunk-driving accidents, that kind of thing.”
She winced.
“I think he likes you.”
“Who?”
“Coop.”
Her eyes widened. “Your creepy boss likes me?”
“He’s not creepy. He’s kind of…nice. And, yeah, he asked about you.”
She frowned, remembering that she’d looked a fright the morning she’d met him, the morning after her crying jag over Peter. “Asked what?”
He shrugged. “You know, if you were single and stuff. He said he thought you were cute.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Cute? What is he, in grade school?”
“Don’t worry, I told him that he wasn’t your type.”
“Oh.” She studied her nails—she needed a manicure badly. Then she looked up. “What’s my type?”
Another shrug. “You know—smooth, slick. Coop said you were probably into metrosexuals.”
She frowned. “And how could he possibly know that? When he met me, if I remember correctly, I was in my pajamas, wearing no makeup, and my hair was a foot tall.”
“Yeah, but still, he could tell you were classy.”
She smiled. “You think I’m classy?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
She laughed and in the wake of the cozy moment, she considered asking Wesley about the postcard she’d found from their parents. It had been a long time since they’d really talked about their parents. Maybe it was time to reopen that can of worms.
“Wesley—”
The chirp of his cell phone cut her off. He lunged for the tiny device sitting on the counter. “Hello?” He smiled. “Yeah, man.”
Carlotta wondered if it was that Chance Hollander, calling to lure Wesley into some kind of Friday-night trouble. Rich little bastard. He surrounded himself with people like Wesley who were impressed by the toys and good times his money could buy—people who would do his bidding.
Wesley grabbed a pen and scribbled something on a napkin. “Got it. I’ll get there somehow.” Then he disconnected the call.
Carlotta set her jaw, gathering verbal arguments for Wesley not to meet up with his troublemaker friend.
“That was Coop,” Wesley said breathlessly, his eyes shining. “We have a job.”
“Oh,” she said, her arguments vanishing as her thoughts turned foolishly to how she would greet Cooper Craft now that she knew he thought she was cute.
“But there’s one little problem.”
At
