From the back of the room Bronwyn gave her a thumbs-up, her bright hair turned to copper in the sun that flooded through the windows behind her.
Sunny took a deep breath. She surveyed the students, distracted by a girl with dark blond hair and what looked to be a permanent frown, then hit her stride. This was what she did best. By the end of her presentation, the knot in her stomach had loosened. She checked the watch.
“We have a bit more time. Any questions?”
The faces looked uniformly friendly now, except for that girl in the center row who slumped in her chair, and for an instant Sunny froze. That sweet, heart-shaped face reminded her of Ana Ramirez, lost forever because of Wallace Day. Yet this girl seemed familiar in another way, too. Wondering why, Sunny leaned against the desk and chose a towheaded boy, who posed the first question.
“How much money do you make?”
“Not nearly enough.” The boy smiled, but the girl didn’t. “Seriously, as a government employee, I don’t get the big bucks like a defense lawyer, but I make a good living.” She named a figure range typical of lawyers coming out of school to take their first jobs, then a larger span for established attorneys. “My advice would be to aim for Law Review if you want to command a higher starting salary.”
“What’s Law Review?”
Sunny explained the importance of third year and the prestige attached to the journal, especially at the top law schools. “I was editor at Harvard. Anyone else?”
The girl’s hand shot up.
“Aren’t all lawyers crooks—and liars?”
“A common misconception,” Sunny answered to mild laughter from the other students. The classic joke ran through her mind. What do you call a group of lawyers at the bottom of the ocean? A good start. “I won’t deny there are some bad apples out there, but for the most part, lawyers are decent people who happen to love debating fine points of the law.” She smiled. “And winning.” Although that sometimes meant going over the top when you lost.
The lunch bell rang, ending Career Day’s morning session. Sunny thanked the kids for their interest, and a smattering of applause followed. Not bad for a woman who’d slept twelve hours a day for a week and refused to take any phone calls—including Nate’s—except, finally, at her mother’s insistence, Bronwyn’s.
“You need to get back in the saddle,” Bron had claimed. “Talk to my class. They’re bound to be easier than that jury in New York. You can’t sit in your parents’ house waiting for the cuts to heal.”
That had been enough to make her say yes. She couldn’t continue to fret over Nate either, about what they’d once had, what might have been. She had to pull herself together sometime, and the classroom forum had made a simple start. Satisfied, she gathered her note cards, which she hadn’t consulted as much as she’d expected to.
As the room emptied and the students filed past, a few kids even stopped to thank her until Bron ushered the last child from the room toward the cafeteria. The cop and the ball player had already left.
In the hallway Bronwyn linked her arm with Sunny’s. “Fabulous. Thanks for coming.”
“I enjoyed it myself.” To her surprise, she had. Sunny stifled a yawn. “Guess I’ve had enough excitement for one day. Time for my afternoon nap.”
Bron’s amber-brown eyes softened. They didn’t know each other well—they’d met after Bron and Chris became engaged when Sunny had been living in New York—and Sunny looked forward to becoming better acquainted. So, apparently, did Bronwyn. “I’m happy you’re home,” she said. “Let’s get together soon.” Her smile turned sly. “I’m dying to know what kind of settlement you got from the evil Nate.”
Without answering, Sunny said goodbye and continued down the hall to the front entrance before she remembered her watch. It was still on the desk in the classroom. Threading her way through the noisy students eager for lunch, she noticed the same girl from Bron’s class. Her long hair swinging, she walked several feet behind the other students, then turned away to say something to a friend.
When they passed, she and Sunny bumped shoulders. Sunny glanced down and found herself staring at the girl’s fine-boned wrist. She wore an outsized watch with a band of blue, cream and green glass beads. Sunny’s watch.
For an instant they exchanged looks. Sunny could have sworn the girl smiled in triumph. Why would she take the watch? With a look at her own bare arm, Sunny stepped toward her, but the girl turned her back to hustle her friend around a corner and into the lunchroom.
Sunny had no qualms about confronting the girl; she did that every day in her job. When she faced a jury, no one ever saw her blink—not even Wallace Day. And if she didn’t approach the girl, she might never see her watch again. On the other hand... Oh, no.
Sunny stopped in her tracks. No wonder the girl had looked so familiar. She was Bronwyn and Chris’s niece. She’d been a junior bridesmaid at their wedding, her father the best man. She was Griffin Lattimer’s daughter.
Did he or Bronwyn know she was a thief?
* * *
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Sunny parked her father’s Bronco in a visitor’s space at the Palm Breeze Court Apartments. Bronwyn, incredulous about her niece, had warned her this wouldn’t be easy.
“Let me handle it,” she’d said. “Griffin can be prickly about his kids. There’s no telling how he’ll take your accusation.”
“It’s not an accusation. It’s a fact, Bron,” she’d replied.
Taking a deep breath, Sunny studied the complex. The low, stucco-sided buildings were arranged in horseshoe-shaped courts around broad streets lined with palm trees. The style, common to the area, didn’t appeal to her. From the high-rise apartment she’d shared with Nate, she could see the East River but not her neighbors. Here, the wide windows of each unit virtually invited passersby to look inside.
The front entrance to number 17A was painted colonial blue with gleaming nickel hardware and a matching knocker below the security peephole. The flowerpots on the porch held drooping annuals, and another planter held wilted white geraniums.
Sunny knocked. Twice.
From within she heard the music of a string quartet. She didn’t recognize the composer, but her taste ran more to classic rock. Sunny liked her music to make some noise.
“The kids are at the clubhouse,” a male voice called out.
The voice, which Sunny remembered from the wedding, belonged to Griffin Lattimer. She felt a twinge of regret for bringing him bad news and knocked again.
Finally, he swung the door open, blinking at the rush of sunlight.
Sunny blinked, too. She’d remembered that Griffin was an attractive man. He’d looked great in a tuxedo two years ago. Now he wore jeans with a black T-shirt, and his dark hair was longer. The style wasn’t intentional, Sunny guessed; it seemed as if Griffin needed a cut but didn’t have time to bother. He didn’t appear to have time for her, either.
Upon finding that his visitor was an adult, he tensed. His gaze
