pushed away from the window, returned to the door where he’d been working when his first interruption had come along and crouched, pry bar in hand. “You know, J.D., going out with your estranged wife’s lawyer’s paralegal might rank as one of the stupidest ideas you’ve ever come up with.”
J.D. went to the window, no doubt watching Lys. “Knock it off, Russ. You’re not my father, my brother, my lawyer, my priest or my boss. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
“Someone needs to.”
“Yeah, someone needs to set you straight, too, but I don’t see you taking advice from anyone.”
Russ scowled hard, focusing his irritation inward so he didn’t inadvertently damage the piece of trim he was removing. “My life is fine.”
“Yeah, you’ve got your work, your work and, oh, yeah, your work.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have Jamie Munroe after my ass.”
“Anymore. At least I’m smart enough to hire Robbie.”
The pry bar slipped, leaving a mark in the plaster as well as the back of Russ’s hand. He swore silently. “Dracula has gone out, and the bloodsucker-in-training is alone in their lair. You wanna make life harder for yourself, go ahead. Have at it. Just get the hell out of here and let me work.”
J.D.’s smile was tight and hard, bearing an eerie resemblance to the only enduring memory Russ had of his father, who’d died when he was seven. “Yeah, well, like I said, you’ve got your work.”
Russ listened until his footsteps were drowned out by the other workers in the house, then heaved a deep breath. Damn straight, he had his work.
And it was all he wanted.
The office of the psychologist Jamie had come to Augusta to see was located in a small enclave of similar offices near the Medical College of Georgia. She’d spent two hours listening to him assure her beyond a shadow of a doubt that her client had suffered egregiously at the hands of her husband. Now what she needed was an expert witness for her expert witness, because she was pretty convinced that Laurie and the doctor had cooked up a scheme to wring big bucks out of J. D. Stinson.
“He’s a Calloway, you know,” the doctor had mentioned near the end of the conversation.
What the hell did that mean? Jamie wondered as she unlocked her car with the remote, then opened the door to let the heat escape. Were all Calloway men genetically inclined to dole out abuse to their wives? Did all Calloways share some sense of entitlement that made them above the law? Were all Calloways rich enough to pay off disgruntled exwives whether the wives deserved payment?
She set her bag on the passenger seat, then peeled off her sweater. The doctor’s office had been cold; the warm leather felt wonderful against her skin. Once the chill had seeped away, she stuck the key in the ignition and turned and…nothing. Another try, another nonresponse.
Grabbing her cell phone, she climbed out again and walked to the nearest shade under a lace-canopied tree. She knew nothing about mechanical things; popping the trunk told her as much about the engine as popping the hood did. So she did what she usually did when she was stuck: she called Lys. Within thirty sweltering minutes, a tow truck arrived to transport her car to the garage and soon after that, a car rental agency delivered a replacement. Jamie gratefully signed the paperwork, then slid inside, where the air conditioner was blasting on frigid.
Deciding to forego dinner alone, she headed back to Copper Lake. It was a lovely drive, quick on the interstate, peaceful on the two-lane state road. She’d never heard of the town until she’d met Russ and Robbie in law school and had visited only three weekends with Russ before he got married. Still, when she’d been looking for someplace to run away to after life had gone to hell in Macon and Robbie had suggested Copper Lake, it had seemed right. Immediately she’d felt as if she belonged. She’d borrowed office space from Robbie until she’d had enough clients to justify her own place, and she’d bought a house, made a few friends—and a few enemies, but at least they weren’t the type to try to kill her.
She hoped.
Robbie was worried that her mystery man might be just that type. She hoped he was being overly protective. Everything the guy had done so far had been innocent. A vase of gorgeous flowers. A box of to-die-for chocolate liqueur candies. A scrawled note after a verdict that read Congratulations. The best lawyer won.
Innocent. Even if there was something inherently creepy about it. Even if it did rouse old memories, old discomforts.
It was after six-thirty when she drove into Copper Lake. She went downtown and turned at the east corner of the square to pull into a space right in front of her office. She would want to make notes on the interview with Dr. Sleaze, she’d told Lys. It wouldn’t take long, then she could head home for dinner alone in front of the TV.
One thing she couldn’t blame her admirer for: she didn’t like being alone in the building. She’d been alone in the office in Macon when her former client’s father had paid a visit. She’d forced herself to deal with the fear that night had created—not conquer it, but cope with it. She made herself come in here once every week or two, even when the work, like tonight, could be done just as easily at home. She forced herself to be brave, or at least pretend.
Everything was quiet. She locked the entrance behind her, then locked the reception door. Lys always left a few lamps burning, and they were on now, lighting her way into her office. The blinds were drawn, per Lys’s routine. No need to advertise that Jamie was there.
As if the car parked out front wasn’t advertisement enough.
Jamie got comfortable at the computer, aware of the window behind her, opened a document file and began typing. She didn’t like the idea of calling Laurie Stinson’s psychologist to testify. She found the guy a little too smug, too condemning of J.D. and his family when he’d never met any of them. Just like everyone else, there were good Calloways and bad ones. Not wanting to be married to Laurie anymore didn’t automatically make J.D. one of the bad ones.
Outside a car door thudded, stilling Jamie’s fingers on the keyboard. She wasn’t the only one downtown tonight, she reminded herself. The restaurant on the other side of the square was open until eight, the coffee shop until nine. Sophy Marchand, who owned the quilt store next door, lived upstairs; the street was the only place for her and her visitors to park.
Still, Jamie typed faster, leaving the typos to fix later. As soon as she finished, she saved the file, shut off the computer and, with a rush of relief, headed for the door.
The outer hallway was exactly the way she’d left it—lights on, stairs empty, door locked. She paused in the foyer to locate the keys for the rental, and movement outside caught her attention. A man crouched beside her car, next to the driver’s door, and he was fiddling with something.
Her first impulse was to run into the bathroom in her office, locking every door behind her, and call for help. Her second was to take a deep breath. The street was well-lit, and there were people in the square. And this was Copper Lake, her office, her sidewalk. She was safe there.
She stepped outside as the man leaned closer to the car. The door swung shut with a soft whoosh, and she quietly turned the key in the lock before taking a step toward him. “Can I help you with something?”
He stiffened, and the air between them practically
