A chilling new spin-off series from USA TODAY bestselling author Debra Webb sure to keep you up all night...

Former homicide detective Clint Hayes has his first client as a private investigator: a fragile beauty he isn’t sure he can trust. An injury has left Natalie Drummond with gaps in her memory, and she sees and hears things that aren’t there. But she’s sure she shot an intruder in her Birmingham mansion. So where’s the body, the gun, the evidence? When it’s clear someone is trying to kill his vulnerable client, Clint appoints himself her protector, working overtime not to fall for her. But someone is dead set that Natalie never regains her memories—or makes new ones with Clint.

“You really do think someone wants to harm me?” Natalie asked. “That it’s not my imagination?”

“Isn’t that why you hired me?” Clint asked.

She stared into Clint’s dark eyes and pressed a hand over her mouth to hide the way her lips trembled. Yes. But why would anyone want to harm her?

Those dark whispers she had tried so hard to close out just before she drifted off to sleep each night these past eight or so weeks nudged her now, echoing deep in her mind. She closed her eyes and let them come. Laughter, soft, feminine... Then the raised voices—a man and a woman. Was it a real memory? Something from before her fall? Something from childhood?

She waited until Clint had parked in front of her home to say, “I don’t intend to stay holed up in this house. I can’t...do that.”

He put his hand on her arm. “Wherever you go, I go.”

Dear Reader,

I am so pleased to bring you Dark Whispers, a new beginning for my Faces of Evil series for Harlequin Intrigue. The characters are very close to my heart, and I am certain you will enjoy following former FBI profiler Jess Harris Burnett as her private investigation agency reveals evil that lurks behind the seemingly ordinary. Next month be sure to look for Still Waters. And there will be more to come!

Harlequin Intrigue has been my home for nearly two decades and I am so excited to continue being a part of this amazing family. So many of you write to me and I appreciate every letter! Keep them coming. Along with the Faces of Evil series, Harlequin Intrigue and I will be bringing you more Colby Agency stories in the future. Look for Colby Agency: The Next Generation soon! It’s hard to believe but Victoria’s granddaughter, Jamie, is all grown up and ready to follow in her grandmother’s footsteps.

I have more exciting news. My new most chilling series yet, Shades of Death from MIRA Books, is coming in the spring of 2017, starting with No Darker Place. But be sure to pick up the ebook prequel, The Blackest Crimson, to get the terrifying backstory.

You can follow me at www.debrawebb.com and sign up for my newsletter for news about my latest releases.

Best,

Deb

Dark Whispers

Debra Webb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

DEBRA WEBB is the award-winning USA TODAY bestselling author of more than one hundred novels, including reader favorites the Faces of Evil, the Colby Agency and the Shades of Death series. With more than four million books sold in numerous languages and countries, Debra’s love of storytelling goes back to childhood on a farm in Alabama. Visit Debra at www.debrawebb.com.

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Cast of Characters

Clint Hayes—A former homicide detective and the most experienced investigator on Jess’s new team. Clint is certain he can help Natalie, but he has a few dark secrets of his own.

Natalie Drummond—Natalie suffered a traumatic brain injury two years ago and now she’s trying to get her life back together…only dark whispers and equally dark secrets from the past keep haunting her.

Jess Harris Burnett—Former FBI profiler and deputy chief of major crimes. Jess has joined forces with her old friend Buddy Corlew in a private investigation agency in an effort to help victims of crimes the police can’t always resolve.

April Drummond Keating—Natalie’s sister wants to help, but is she hiding too many secrets of her own?

David Keating—Natalie’s brother-in-law is far too focused on running for office to worry that she might be in danger.

Heath Drummond—Natalie fears her brother believes she might be losing her mind.

Vince Farago—He was supposed to be Natalie’s friend, but was he really only out to get ahead of her at the firm?

Mike Beckett—How long has he been watching Natalie, and for whom?

Art Rosen—The partner at the firm Natalie considered a friend and mentor. Was she wrong all those years?

Lori Wells, Chet Harper, Chad Cook—Detectives from Jess’s former major crimes team who give her a hand whenever the need arises.

Dan Burnett—Birmingham’s chief of police and Jess’s husband.

I have met many people in this life but few have proved to be so dear to me as the wonderful Marijane Diodati. Thank you, my friend, for caring so very much for me and for my stories.

I will cherish you always.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Cast of Characters

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

4th Avenue North

Birmingham, Alabama

Monday, September 19, 3:30 p.m.

Former Deputy Chief Jess Harris Burnett repositioned the nameplate on the new old desk in the center of her small office. A matching credenza stood against the wall beneath the window. She had a nice view of the street, unlike her partner whose office window overlooked the not-so-attractive alley at the back of their downtown historic building. She’d offered to toss a coin, but he’d insisted she take the nicer view. Buddy Corlew, her old friend turned business partner, actually preferred the office with the potential backdoor escape route. He boasted that he’d worked sufficient cheating spouse cases to appreciate the option of a hasty retreat.

Jess sighed as she surveyed her new office space. A couple of bookcases lined the wall to the right of her desk, while framed accomplishments and accolades dotted the left. Her new office didn’t look half bad now that everything was in place. The lingering doubt about the big career change was gone for the most part as were the rumors in the media and even in the department. The people she cared about understood and supported her reasons for change. Though she missed her major crimes team and, to some degree, working in the field, family and friends were what mattered most to her now.

Her closest friends, Detective Lori Wells and Dr. Sylvia Baron, had helped Jess with the decorating as well as the furnishing of the offices. Since the building was one of Birmingham’s oldest, they had chosen to go with a casual vintage decor. Jess arranged the two mismatched chairs in front of her desk and stood back to have a look. “Not bad at all.”

The baby kicked hard and she jumped. Smiling, Jess rubbed her belly. Her husband Dan insisted this child would play football at the University of Alabama just like his grandfather had back in the day. Jess shook her head. She had no desire to plan her unborn child’s college career just yet, much less whether or not he would participate in such a brutal sport. But then, this was Alabama—football was practically a religion. She supposed the idea was no different than her mother-in-law, Katherine, already having Bea, their eighteen-month-old daughter, enrolled in ballet class and baby yoga.

Jess sighed. Her sister, Lily, had warned her that motherhood came with a whole host of new obligations, expectations and no shortage of worries. “And here you are going for round two, Jessie Lee.” She rested a hand on her heavy belly. As frustrating and terrifying as being a parent could be, she wouldn’t trade it for anything. She wondered if their baby boy would have dark hair and blue eyes like his father? Their little girl had Jess’s blond hair and brown eyes.

A bell tinkled in the lobby and Jess wandered out of her office and toward the sound. The private investigation agency she and her old high school friend Buddy Corlew had decided to establish opened on Wednesday with an open house scheduled for next Monday. Had Buddy decided to drop back by or had she left the front door unlocked? Her pulse rate climbed with every step she took toward the entry. She’d spent too many years analyzing and helping to apprehend serial killers to ignore the potential for trouble. Memories of last spring’s ordeal with Ted Holmes attempted to emerge but she suppressed them. That nightmare was over. Don’t look back.

Buddy stood in the lobby appraising the work Jess and her friends had done. She relaxed. “I didn’t think you were coming back today.”

“Sylvia told me you were still here.” Buddy glanced around the lobby and nodded his approval. “Looks great, kid.”

Buddy was the only person in the world who had ever called her kid. The fact that he still did reminded her that in many ways he would forever be living in the past. His music taste was pre-1990, his long hair was fastened in a ponytail, and he still strutted around in worn denim and scarred leather the same way he had in high school. Enough said.

“Great might be an overstatement,” Jess surveyed the lobby, “but at least we won’t be scaring off clients.” The exposed brick walls and concrete floors looked less like a dungeon with a few carefully placed upholstered chairs and a couple of tasteful pieces of secondhand art purchased at the most recent fundraiser Dan’s mother hosted.

“Did you get your office squared away?”

“I did.” Jess braced a hand on her hip and ignored the ache that had started in her lower back. She’d certainly overdone it today. “I was about to call it a day.”

Buddy glanced at her round belly and smiled. “I can’t wait until Sylvia actually looks pregnant.” As hard as it was to believe, Buddy and Sylvia, Jefferson County’s medical examiner and the daughter of one of Birmingham’s old money families, had married and were now expecting a child.

Jess and Buddy had grown up on the not-so-appealing side of Birmingham and somehow they’d both managed to do okay. Jess had spent most of her law enforcement career with the FBI, first as a field agent and then as a profiler. Just over two years ago she had returned to Birmingham and started a new career with Birmingham PD as deputy chief of Major Crimes. After twenty years separated by their careers and geography, she’d married her high school sweetheart, Daniel Burnett, the chief of police.

Buddy’s life had taken a somewhat less direct route to where they were now. A womanizing rebel in high school, he’d ended up spending a tour of duty in the military right out of high school to avoid trouble with the law. Later, several years as a BPD cop and then a detective had ended on a bit of a sour note. Buddy, however, being Buddy, had bounced back. He’d opened a small private investigation shop and done well. Falling for and marrying Sylvia had changed the man as nothing else could have. He could not wait to be a daddy. The change left a large portion of Birmingham’s female population bemoaning the loss.

“Don’t worry,” Jess assured him, “that will happen soon enough.” She suspected her old friend didn’t have a clue what he was in for. Sylvia would ensure Buddy suffered every moment of discomfort she endured for the next several months.

The bell over the door tinkled again. Jess turned as Clint Hayes strolled in, a box under one arm and a briefcase in his hand. Clint had been a member of Jess’s BPD major crimes team. He’d asked if he might come onboard at B&C Investigations when Jess first announced she was leaving the department. She hadn’t been able to deny that having an investigator with a law degree as well as several years as a detective under his belt was attractive. No matter, she had discussed the idea with Dan before acting on Clint’s request. He had a right to know one of his detectives was considering making the move with her. Dan had been so glad Jess was leaving police work behind, he’d been only too happy to see Clint go with her. That he was handsome and dressed impeccably wouldn’t hurt, either.

“I cleaned out my desk at the department,” Clint announced in greeting. “I thought I’d get settled here.”

Buddy clapped him on the back. “Glad to have you, Hayes.”

“We’ve set up several desks in the large office at the end of the hall,” Jess explained. She and Buddy had taken the two smaller offices. The larger one would allow for several investigators to share the space. A third smaller office would serve as a conference space for meeting with clients. Closer to the lobby was a tiny kitchenette with a narrow hall to the only bathroom and a rear exit. “Take your pick.”

“Just like old times.” Clint flashed Jess a grin and headed that way. Buddy followed, filling him in on the open house planned for a week from today.

For now, Clint was their only investigator. Buddy was working on recruiting. They had interviewed three others so far. Their secretary, Rebecca Scott, who would also serve as a receptionist and occasionally as a babysitter when Lily and Katherine were tied up, was scheduled to start tomorrow. Jess was immensely grateful to find someone willing to wear so many hats and whom she trusted with her child while she met with clients and assigned investigators.

Assessing cases and determining the best way to proceed wouldn’t be that different from her profiler days—other than the fact that they wouldn’t likely be tracking serial killers and hunting murderers. Then again, throughout her career she always seemed to have a penchant for attracting the faces of evil.

The bell over the door jingled again, drawing Jess from the memory of one serial killer in particular. Four and a half months ago Ted Holmes had done all within his power to reach the highest level of evil by resurrecting the persona of Eric Spears and reenacting his obsession with Jess.

Banishing the memories once more, Jess produced a smile for the woman, thirty or so, who stood just inside the door as if she couldn’t decide what to do next. She was petite, around Jess’s height of five-four. Her black hair was long and lush; she was attractive. Her manner of dress, a soft beige pencil skirt with matching jacket and heels, suggested a career woman. Her gaze moved around the lobby, eventually landing on Jess. The fear and hesitation in her expression gave Jess pause.

“I need a private investigator,” she said, her voice trembling the slightest bit.

Jess was on the verge of telling her they didn’t open until the day after tomorrow when the woman added, “I shot a man.”

When she swayed, Jess hurried to usher her into the nearest chair. “Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll get you a bottle of water.”

Their first potential client shook her head. “No. Please.” She put her hand on Jess’s arm. “I need help.”

“Let’s start with your name.” Jess settled into a seat on the opposite side of the reclaimed factory cart that served as a coffee table.

“Natalie Drummond.”

“Well, Ms. Drummond, it sounds as if you might need the police rather than our services. I’ll be happy to call someone for you.” Jess’s first thought was to call Lori. Detective Lori Wells now worked in the Crimes Against Persons division. Jess considered her a dear friend and she was one of the best detectives in the department. It didn’t hurt that Lori’s husband, Chet Harper, was the ranking detective in the BPD’s major crimes team—as well as a good friend.

Drummond shook her head. “You don’t understand. I did call the police, but they can’t help me.”

The woman looked sincere and certainly terrified, but her story didn’t quite make sense. “I’m not sure I’m following you. Why can’t the police help you?”

Drummond wrung her hands in her lap. “The man I shot is missing. They found no evidence of an intruder in my home...even the gun I used was missing.” She shook her head, tears bright in her eyes. “I don’t understand how that’s possible. I shot him.” She looked straight at Jess. “I know I shot him. He fell to the floor. He...he was bleeding. I ran out of the house and waited for the police to arrive.” Her eyebrows drew together in a worried frown. “When they arrived he was gone.”

“Can you remember the detective’s name who came to the scene?” Whatever happened, Ms. Drummond was visibly shaken. That level of fear wasn’t easily manufactured.

“Lieutenant Grady Russell.”

Jess was acquainted with Russell. He was a detective in the Crimes Against Persons division. Russell was a good cop. “Why don’t I give the lieutenant a call and see what I can find out?”

Drummond nodded, visibly relieved. “Thank you.”

Jess stood. “Come with me and I’ll introduce you to one of our investigators.” No reason to mention that he was their only investigator.

Buddy was in his office on the phone as they passed. Jess escorted Drummond to the end of the hall where Clint was organizing his desk.

“Clint, this is Natalie Drummond.”

“Ms. Drummond.” Clint gifted her with a nod.

“Ms. Drummond will explain her situation to you while I make a call to Lieutenant Russell.”

Clint invited Drummond to have a seat. Rather than go to her office, Jess went to Buddy’s and closed the door. When he’d ended his call, she said, “We need a conference call with Russell about our first client. She says she shot a man who is now missing.”

Buddy raised his eyebrows as he set the phone to speaker and made the call. “You always did attract the strange ones.”

He needn’t remind her.

Three rings and Russell answered. Jess quickly explained the situation and asked for any insights the lieutenant could provide.

“We received the call early this morning,” Russell confirmed. “I have to tell you, I think maybe the lady is a little wrong in the head.”

Jess was immensely grateful for the thick brick walls of the historic building that helped ensure privacy between offices. “What does that mean, Lieutenant?” If the man said Drummond was hormonal or flighty, Jess might just walk the few blocks to the Birmingham Police Department and kick his butt on principal.

“About two years ago Natalie Drummond had a fall down the stairs of that mansion her daddy left her. She was banged up pretty good, but it was the brain injury that left her with big problems. According to her family, she still suffers with the occasional memory lapse and reasoning issue.”

“She had a traumatic brain injury?” Jess frowned and rubbed at the resulting lines spanning her forehead. Even two years later, an injury like that could explain Drummond’s uncertainty as to the sequence of recent events.

“That’s the story according to her brother, Heath Drummond,” Russell confirmed.

Now there was a name Jess recognized. “As in Drummond Industries?”

“The one and only,” Russell confirmed. “The brother says she hasn’t been the same since the fall. She spent months in rehab. He thinks maybe she’s having some kind of relapse. About two months ago, she started insisting that someone was coming into her house at night. Every time she told the story it was a little different. The brother decided she was hallucinating. Apparently that can happen with TBIs. This morning she called 9-1-1 and claimed she’d shot a man. We arrive and there’s no body. No blood. No signs of an altercation. Nothing. There was no weapon found on the premises, yet she swears she discharged a .38 at an intruder. She also swears she left him bleeding on the floor.”

Jess exchanged a look with Buddy.

“You believe she imagined the whole thing,” Buddy said.

“At this point, yeah, that’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

“Thanks so much, Lieutenant.” Before ending the call, Jess assured him she would pass along any information she might discover relevant to the case. To Buddy she said, “Whether she shot anyone or not, it sounds as if Ms. Drummond needs our help.”

“I guess we have our first case.” Buddy came around to the front of his desk and offered his hand. “I’ll leave the logistics to you. I have another investigator to interview over at Cappy’s.”

Jess took his hand and struggled to her feet. Cappy’s Corner Grill was a cop hangout over on 29th that served the best burgers in town. Local cops, private investigators and bounty hunters frequently used Cappy’s for unofficial staff meetings.

“Clint is the right investigator for this one,” Jess said, the wheels inside her head already turning. She remembered well how cocky the detective had been when he’d first joined her major crimes team, but time had softened his hard edges.

Buddy shot her a wink as they exited his office. “Good thing, since he’s our only investigator.”

“True.” Jess turned to the office at the end of the hall where Clint was interviewing their first client. Whatever troubles Natalie Drummond faced, real or imagined, Jess would see that she received the help she needed.

No one should have to fight her demons alone.

Chapter Two

Southwood Road

Mountain Brook

6:00 p.m.

Clint pulled into the driveway behind Natalie Drummond. He surveyed the place she called home and blew out a long, low whistle. If the lady lived here—the estate looked more like a castle than a home—then she was loaded. He should have realized she was related to the Drummonds of Birmingham.

He climbed out of his Audi and strolled up to her BMW as she opened the door. When she emerged her lips tilted the slightest bit with a shaky smile. “I appreciate you being able to start right away. I was afraid it would be days or even weeks before I could retain the services I needed.”

“I’ll work as quickly as possible to get to the bottom of the trouble, Ms. Drummond. No one should be afraid in their own home.” Even if it was large enough to host the next governor’s summit.

“You should call me Natalie.” She exhaled a big breath and sent a worried glance back at the street.

“Natalie,” he repeated. “As long as you call me Clint.”

She nodded, and then led the way to the front door. When she fished the keys from her bag, he reached for them. “Why don’t I go in first?”

Obviously relieved, she turned over the keys.

As he opened the door the first detail he noted was the lack of a warning from the security system. “You don’t arm your system when you leave the house?”

“With all that happened this morning, I suppose I forgot.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Like I said, I didn’t go back in the house after the police left. I couldn’t.”

He handed the keys back to her, placed a hand at the small of her back and ushered her across the threshold. He surveyed the entry hall. The ceiling soared high above a grand balcony on the second floor. A large painting hung on the broad expanse of wall that flanked the ornate staircase. He recognized Natalie as a child of around ten or twelve in the painting.

“My family,” she said, following his gaze. “My parents are both gone now. There’s my younger sister, April, and my older brother, Heath. Heath runs the family business and April is a trophy wife who specializes in fund-raising.” She said the last with something less than pride as she placed her purse and keys on a table near the door. “The kitchen is on the right at the end of the hall. That’s where...it happened.”

Clint hesitated, the sticky notes on the mirror above the hall table snagging his attention. There were several yellow notes and one pink one. Leave the keys and your purse here. Lock the door. Arm the security system. The pink note read Check the peephole before opening the door.

“I don’t need them as much as I used to,” she said with a noticeable resignation in her tone. “My short-term memory gets better every day.” She locked the door. “It’s certain parts of my long-term memory that still have a few too many holes.”

He gestured to the notes. “This was part of the process of getting back into your normal routine?”

She nodded. “I’m not sure anything about my routine will ever be called normal again, but I manage.”

“I imagine the journey has been a challenging one.” Clint moved toward the kitchen. “Back at the office you said your sister spent a great deal of time helping you get back on your feet?”

“She stayed with me every night for the first year. When she wasn’t with me there was a nurse.” A weary sigh escaped her lips. “For ten months I was fine on my own, and then...the voices started. April stays the night whenever I need her despite my brother-in-law’s insistence that he needs his wife at home.”

“Your brother-in-law is...?”

“David Keating, the son of Birmingham’s new mayor, who sees himself as governor one day. He’s running for state representative and insists that April should be at his side at all times. You haven’t seen the billboards plastered all over the city? Vote for Truth and Family Values.” Natalie shook her head. “Personally, I believe he’s worried that I’m losing my mind and he doesn’t want his wife too close to anything unpleasant that might end up attached to his name in the news.” She paused. “Sorry. I’m being unkind. In truth, David has been very thoughtful since the fall. Forgive me if I’m a little too blunt at times.”

“No apology necessary. Do you and your siblings get along?”

“As well as any I suppose.” Her heels clicked on the marble floor as they continued toward the kitchen. “Five years ago, after our father died, I think people expected there to be dissention, but we all felt the terms of the will were remarkably well thought out. Heath inherited the family business, which made perfect sense since he was the only one with any interest in overseeing it. He was Father’s right hand. I inherited the house and April was endowed with the largest portion of the family financial trust. Father was well aware of my younger sister’s love of spending. The trust pays out slowly over her life so there’s no fear of her ever being destitute in the event her marriage to David doesn’t work out.”

They reached the wide arched entrance to the kitchen and Clint paused. “You’re an attorney?”

She stared at the sleek tile floor. “I was. It remains to be seen if I will be again. I feel more like an assistant now. Two years ago I was up for partner at Brenner, Rosen and Taylor. I would have been the youngest partner in the firm’s history. Most of the past two years I’ve been on extended disability leave. I returned to work a few weeks ago. I review other people’s cases to see if we’re doing all we can for each client. I’m certain the partners fear that giving me a case of my own at this point would be premature, perhaps even detrimental to the firm’s reputation. After what happened this morning, who can blame them?”

Her work history was impressive. Brenner, Rosen and Taylor was a small but very prestigious law firm. “Why don’t you walk me through exactly what happened this morning.”

Natalie drew in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I was preparing to go to the office. The security system was apparently unarmed. I could’ve sworn I set it before I went to bed, but evidently I didn’t.” She sighed and rubbed at her temple as if a headache had begun there. “I still forget things sometimes and get things out of order, but those instances rarely happen anymore—at least that’s what I thought.”

“What time did you get up?” Clint moved to the back door. According to the police report, Natalie believed the alleged intruder entered the kitchen through the door leading from the gardens and patio since it had been standing open. All other entry points had been locked when the police arrived, seemingly confirming her allegation. Clint opened the door and crouched down to have a look at the lock and the knob.

“At six,” she said in answer to his question. “I remember because the grandfather clock in the entry hall started to chime the hour. It’s a habit of mine to count the chimes.” She looked away as if the admission embarrassed her. “I’ve done it since I was a child.”

Clint smiled, hoping to help her relax. “I count buttons. Whenever I button my shirt, I count.”

Her strained expression softened a bit at his confession. “I guess we all have our eccentricities.”

Focusing on his examination of the door, he saw no indication of forced entry. Back at the office, he’d sent a text to Lori Wells requesting a copy of the police report. A quick perusal of the report she’d immediately emailed him had showed the same findings. Clint hadn’t really expected to find anything. Still, a second look never hurt. He pushed to his feet. “You were upstairs when you heard an intruder?”

She nodded. “I was dressed and ready to go when I heard a noise down here.”

“Describe the noise for me.”

She considered the question for a moment. “There was a lot of banging as if whoever was down here was searching for something.”

The evidence techs had dusted for prints, but hadn’t found any usable ones except Natalie’s, which meant the intruder wore gloves and that she had a very dedicated and thorough cleaning staff. Most surfaces in any home were littered with prints. “You came down the stairs,” Clint prompted.

“First I came to the landing. I thought maybe Suzanna, my housekeeper, had arrived early.” She hugged her arms around herself as if the memories stole the warmth from her body. “I saw him standing at the bottom of the stairs, but I couldn’t see his entire face. He was wearing a mask. Like a ski mask where all you can see are the eyes and across the bridge of the nose. I ran back to my room and grabbed my cell phone and my father’s handgun from the nightstand. When I came down the stairs I didn’t see him anymore. The back door was open so I assumed he’d fled.” She took a deep breath. “I came into the kitchen to close the door and suddenly I heard him breathing...behind me. It was as if he’d been waiting for me to come.”

“Did he touch you?”

She shook her head. “I spun around and fired the weapon.”

Clint closed and locked the back door. “You’re certain the intruder was male.”

The sound of the door locking or maybe the question snapped her from the silence she’d drifted into. She flinched. “Absolutely. He was tall and strong and he had a scar.” She pointed to the spot between her eyebrows.

“He never spoke?”

She shook her head. “He staggered back and then fell to the floor. There was blood on his shirt.”

“You ran outside to wait for the police?”

She nodded. “I dropped the gun and ran. I was confused. That still happens when I get overexcited or upset and, quite frankly, I was terrified.”

Clint would ask her more about the traumatic brain injury later. According to the police report there was no indication of foul play in the home and no gun was found. Since the detective at the scene had decided the whole event was Drummond’s imagination, no test for gunshot residue had been performed. “Did blood splatter on your clothes or your shoes?”

She frowned. “No.” Her head moved from side to side. “I suppose there should have been.” She closed her eyes for a moment before continuing. “I know what I saw. There was a man here. He wore a black ski mask. I fired the weapon, the sound still echoes inside me whenever I think of that moment.”

“You believe,” he offered, “while you were waiting for the police the intruder fled, taking the gun with him.”

“Yes.”

* * *

CLINT HAYES DID not believe her.

Natalie didn’t have to wonder. She saw the truth in his eyes. There was no evidence to support her story. Nothing. Her brain injury made her an unreliable witness at best. How could she expect anyone to believe her?

Maybe she was losing her mind. Her own brother thought she was imagining things.

“Let’s talk about why someone would want to create a situation like the one that played out in your home this morning.”

Hope dared to bloom in her chest. “Are you saying you believe me?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “I do.”

Startled, Natalie fought to gather her wits. She had hoped to find someone who would believe her. Now that she had, she felt weak with relief and overwhelmed with gratitude. “Would you like coffee or tea?”

“No thank you, but don’t let me stop you.”

“I don’t drink coffee after the middle of the afternoon for fear I won’t sleep.” Her life was quite sad now. What would this handsome, obviously intelligent man think if he knew just how sad? What difference did money and position matter in the end? Very little, she had learned. The years of hard work to reach the pinnacle of her field meant nothing now. She could no more battle an opponent in the courtroom than a ten-year-old could hope to win a presidential debate.

All she had been or ever hoped to be was either gone or broken. Her mother had warned her all-work-and-no-play attitude would come back to haunt her one day. What kind of life will you have without someone to share it with? Her mother’s words reverberated through her.

A lonely one, Mother. Very lonely.

“Are you taking medication?”

“I have a number of medications, Mr. Hayes.” She led the way to an enormous great room where her family had hosted the Who’s Who of Birmingham. “There are ones for anxiety and others for sleep—all to be taken as needed. So far I’ve done all right without them more than six months. I take over-the-counter pain relievers for the headaches that have become fewer and further between.”

She settled into her favorite chair. Mr. Hayes took a seat across the coffee table from her. The idea that he might not actually believe her but needed to pad the company’s bottom line crossed her mind. The other three agencies she’d contacted this afternoon weren’t interested in taking her case. What made this one different? She’d stumbled upon B&C Investigations completely by accident. She’d walked away from the third rejection and noticed the new sign in the window on the way to her car.

“Do you have any personal enemies that you know of?”

She shook her head. “No family issues. No work issues. I can’t imagine anyone who would want to do this. Why break into my home? Nothing appears to be missing.”

“Let’s talk about the people closest to you.”

“My sister and I have always made it a point to have dinner a couple of times a week. Since the fall, she stays the night whenever I need her—or when she decides it’s necessary. I don’t see my brother as often. He’s very busy. There’s Suzanna Clark, the housekeeper, and her husband, Leonard, the gardener.”

“You said your sister started staying with you at night again because of the voices.”

Natalie hated admitting this part, but it was necessary. “About two months ago I started waking up at night and hearing voices—as if someone is in the house. I get up and search every room only to find I’m here alone.” If only she could convey how very real the voices sounded. It terrified her that perhaps her brother was right and she was imagining them. “Until this morning.”

“What about your colleagues at the office?”

The uneasiness that plagued her when she thought of work seeped into her bones. Since the fall, her professional inadequacy filled her with dread whenever the subject of work came up. She’d once lived for her career.

“I have my assistant, Carol. Art Rosen is the partner I work closest with. I’m well acquainted with everyone on staff. I have no rivals or issues with my colleagues, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Friends or a boyfriend?”

Ah, now he would learn the truly saddest part. “Before the injury, I had lots of friends, most were associated with work. We lost touch during my recovery.” She forced a smile. “There’s nothing like tragedy to send the people you thought were your friends running in the other direction. It was partly my fault. I was always so strong and self-reliant. People didn’t want to see the weak, needy me. Except for Sadie. She’s my psychologist as well as my friend.”

“Boyfriend?” he repeated. “Fiancé?”

She drew in a big breath. “There was a boyfriend. He had asked me to marry him but I kept putting him off. Work was my top priority. About three months into my recovery, he apparently no longer had the stomach for who I’d become.”

The dark expression on the investigator’s face told her exactly what he thought about such a man.

Natalie shook her head. “Don’t blame him, Mr. Hayes. I’m—”

“Clint,” he reminded her.

“Clint,” she acknowledged.

“If he cared enough to propose,” Clint argued, “there’s no excuse for his inability to see you through a difficult time.”

“He proposed to the woman I used to be.” Natalie understood the reasons all too well. Steven Vaughn had ambitious plans that didn’t include a potentially disabled wife. “I’m not that person anymore. I doubt I ever will be. Part of me was lost to the injury and now my entire life is different. I don’t blame him for not wanting to be a part of it. After all, if you invest in gold, silver is not a suitable substitution.”

Clint studied her for a long moment before going on. “No one in your circle would have had reason to want to do you harm at the time of your accident or now?”

Natalie laughed, a self-deprecating sound. “Therein lies the true rub. Though my current short-term memory works well now, everything beyond six months ago is a very different story. So I can’t answer that question because I can’t remember. To my knowledge I have no enemies. My colleagues and family know of no one who gave me any real trouble in the past.”

“How much of your memory did you lose?”

“Perhaps the better word is misplaced. The injury jumbled things up. Our lives—our memories—are stored. Like files in a filing cabinet. Imagine if that cabinet was turned upside down, the drawers would open and those files would spill all over the floor. The contents of the files are still there, but they’re hard to retrieve because now they’re out of order.”

“So you do remember things.”

She nodded. “Yes. As my brain healed from the injury, it was like starting over. I had to relearn how to communicate, how to function, mentally as well as physically. As my vocabulary returned, I used the wrong words like saying hands when I meant gloves or feet when I meant shoes. Memories came in disorderly fragments. Most often they returned when prompted by some activity or person. It’s difficult to say what I’ve lost when I have no idea what I had. My sister and brother remind me of childhood events and then I recall them vividly. I can look at photographs and recall almost instantly what happened. So, I suppose I’ve temporarily lost many things. But, so far, the memories return when triggered.”

“Then someone may have caused your accident two years ago and you just don’t remember.”

The dark foreboding that always appeared when she spoke of the fall pressed in on her even as she shook her head. “No. I was here with my sister. There was no one else in the house. My sister and I have been over the details of that night numerous times. If you’re suggesting that someone pushed me down the stairs, that isn’t what happened.”

“All right then, we’ll focus our investigation on life since the accident.”

She wanted to nod and say that was the proper course of action and yet some feeling or instinct she couldn’t name urged her to look back for something she had missed. Frustration had her pushing the idea away. The hardest part of her new reality was not being able to trust her own brain to guide her 100 percent of the time. She also wanted to correct his use of accident. She had never been able to see what happened that way. To Natalie it was the fall—a moment in time that changed her life forever. A part of her wondered if her inability to see it as an accident was her mind trying to tell her something she needed to remember.

“Since you only recently returned to work, has there been a particular case that may be the root of this new trouble? Maybe someone believes they can scare you into some sort of cooperation.”

“I somehow doubt that giving my two cents’ worth, so to speak, on the steps that have been missed or that should be taken on other people’s cases would garner that sort of attention. Considering what happened today, I doubt I’ll have a position at the firm much longer.”

Natalie decided that was the part that hurt the most. Losing her friends and even her so-called soul mate hadn’t been the end of the world. It was losing her ability to practice law that devastated her completely. Work was the one thing that had never let her down. Being an attorney had defined her.

What did she have now?

This big old house and...not much else.

Her attention settled on the investigator watching her so closely. She hoped he could find something to explain how the man she shot suddenly disappeared other than the possibility that she really was losing her mind.

Chapter Three

Richard Arrington Boulevard and 6th Avenue

Tuesday, September 20, 10:00 a.m.

Clint’s first client as a private detective had been at work for an hour when he decided to make his appearance at the offices of Brenner, Rosen and Taylor.

He’d stayed with Natalie last night until her sister, April, arrived. He’d gone home afterward and done some research on Natalie’s career and background. He’d discovered that one of the senior associates at Natalie’s firm was Vince Farago, an old school pal of his from Samford. Clint gritted his teeth. He wondered if Natalie was aware that the man could not be trusted in any capacity. Farago was the proverbial snake in the grass.

Clint would stop at Natalie’s office and check in with her after he visited with his old friend. He had a few questions for Farago, and frankly he intended to enjoy watching the guy squirm.

The moment he entered the posh lobby the receptionist looked up. “Good morning, sir, how may I help you?”

Another receptionist manned the ringing phones, ensuring someone was always available to greet arriving clients. The building spanned from 6th to 29th, filling the corner of the busy intersection much like New York’s Flatiron building. The lobby’s glass walls looked out over the hectic pace of downtown Birmingham.

“Clint Hayes,” he said. “I need a moment of Mr. Farago’s time this morning.”

The receptionist made a sad face. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Hayes, but Mr. Farago is completely booked today. May I set up something for you later in the week?”

Clint gave his head a shake. “Let him know I’m here. I trust he’ll be able to spare a minute or two.” For old time’s sake, he opted not to add.

The receptionist, Kendra, ducked her head in acquiescence. “Of course, sir. Would you like a coffee or a latte while you wait?”

“I’m good.”

While Kendra made the necessary call, Clint moved toward the wall of fame on the far side of the massive lobby. Dozens of photos of the partners attending various fundraisers and city events adorned the sleek beige wall that served as a canvas. Numerous framed accolades of the firm’s accomplishments hung proudly among the photos. Despite his best efforts, bitterness reared its ugly head. Clint rarely allowed that old prick of defeat to needle him anymore. He turned away from the reminders of what he would never have. He was only human; the occasional regression was unavoidable.

He’d done well enough for himself. His law degree had come in handy more than once in his law enforcement career. It gave him an edge in his new venture as a private investigator. If money had been his solitary goal, he would have accepted one of the far more lucrative opportunities he had been offered during his college years.

“Mr. Hayes?”

Clint grinned, then checked the expression as he turned to Kendra. “Yes.”

“Mr. Farago will see you now.” She gestured to the marble-floored corridor that disappeared into the belly of the enormous building. “Take the elevator to the fourth floor and Darrius, his assistant, will be waiting for you.”

With a nod, Clint fastened the top one of the two buttons on his jacket and followed the lady’s directions. When he reached the fourth floor the doors slid open with a soft whoosh and revealed a more intimate, but equally luxurious lobby.

Smiling broadly, a young man, twenty-two or -three, met him in the corridor. His slim-fit charcoal-gray suit had the look and style of an Italian label way above his pay grade, suggesting he either came from money or his boss handed out nice bonuses.

“Good morning, Mr. Hayes. My name is Darrius. May I get you a refreshment?”

“No thanks.” Clearly Farago’s tastes hadn’t changed. The assistant, a paralegal most likely, was young, handsome and no doubt hungry. A man did things when he was hungry he might not otherwise do. Clint knew this better than most.

“Very well. This way, sir.”

A few steps to the right and Darrius rapped on the first door to the left and then opened it. He gifted Clint with a final smile and disappeared, closing the door behind him.

Farago got to his feet and reached across his desk. “Clint, it’s been a while.” They exchanged a quick handshake.

“I hear you’re scheduled to make partner before the year is out.” Clint had nudged a few contacts last night in addition to his internet research. Farago was on his way up at this esteemed firm. Good for him. He’d done his time. Going on eight years now. Still, Clint couldn’t help wondering how far his old friend had gone this time to ensure his next step up the corporate ladder. He seriously doubted this leopard had changed his spots.

Farago gestured to the chair in front of his desk and settled back into his own. “It’s a carrot they dangle when you reach a certain level. Time will tell, I guess.”

Clint grunted an acknowledgement.

“So.” Farago leaned back in his leather chair. “What brings you to see me after all these years?”

There were many things Clint could have said—payback, for example—but he elected to keep the threats to himself. He had learned that all things come back around in time. Karma truly was a bitch.

As if Farago had read his mind, he fidgeted a bit. Clint could almost swear he saw a sheen of sweat forming on the man’s forehead.

“I have a few questions—between old friends—about your colleague, Natalie Drummond.”

Farago lifted his head and said, “Ah. I’m certain you’re aware, of course, the firm requires we sign confidentiality agreements.”

“No doubt.” Clint stared straight into his eyes. “I’m equally certain you understand I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t essential. So, why don’t we cut to the chase? I need information and you need to give it to me.”

The flush of anger climbed from the collar of Farago’s crisp white shirt and quickly spread across his face. “I see.”

“I’m glad we understand each other.” Clint had no desire to waste time or energy debating the issue.

Farago’s glare was lethal. “What is it you want to ask?”

“You’ve worked with Natalie for the past four or so years. Until her accident had she suffered any professional issues?”

A haughty chuckle and a roll of the eyes warned that whatever Farago had to say it wouldn’t be complimentary. “She had a clerkship with one of our esteemed state court justices before coming on board. Some of us had to do our time performing grunt work here at the firm, but not Natalie. The Drummond name and the recommendation of the justice ensured she started with the cream of the crop cases.” Another of those unpleasant smirks. “The rumor was, before her accident she was about to become the youngest partner in the firm.” He exhaled a big sigh. “I’ll never understand why; she wasn’t even that good.”

Clint clenched his jaw to the count of three to hold his temper, then asked, “Tell me about the cases she worked in the months leading up to her injury.”

Farago made a face. “Let’s see. The White case—a mercy killing.”

Clint remembered the one. An eighty-year-old husband allowed his dying wife to end her suffering with a bottle of the opiates prescribed by her oncologist. The video they made with the wife’s iPhone proved the key piece of evidence that turned the tide with the jury. The woman made her own choice, the only thing the husband did was open the bottle since her arthritic hands couldn’t manage the feat.

“Other than that one, there was the Thompson versus Rison Medical Center—a medical malpractice case.” Farago turned his palms up. “Those are the primary ones I recall without prowling through databases.”

Thompson was the case Clint wanted to hear about. The firm represented the medical center. “Thompson versus Rison Medical Center didn’t go down the way anyone expected. Your client was damned lucky.”

Farago shrugged. “I don’t know. Lots of people claim injuries or trouble with medical facilities or their employees; those claims aren’t always based on fact. Emotion can become the center of the case, making it doubly difficult for the defendant’s attorneys.”

“There’s no other case that comes to mind?” Clint pressed.

Farago shook his head. “As I recall, those two pretty much took up her time that year. Why all the questions about Natalie? Is she being investigated?”

Clint ignored his questions. “Her accident was a lucky break for you. You took over her spot on the legal team and the win for Rison Medical Center put you on the partners’ radar.”

Another nonchalant shrug lifted Farago’s shoulders. “The win would have put anyone involved on the partners’ radar. It was a huge lawsuit. We performed above expectations and saved our client a fortune.”

“The rumor mill had Thompson pegged as the winner until the bitter end,” Clint reminded him. Clint recalled well the day the jury returned with the verdict, he’d been damned surprised. It wouldn’t be the first time a sharp legal team had pulled a client’s fat out of the fire. Whatever his history with Farago, the man was a good attorney. He just wasn’t always a good man.

Clint retrieved a business card that provided his name and cell number. “Call me if you think of anything interesting to pass along on the subject.”

Farago studied the card. “You aren’t with the BPD anymore?”

Clint smiled. “I decided to come to work with my old boss in her private investigations agency. I’m sure you know Jess Harris Burnett.” He stood. “We’re taking on the cases no one else can solve.” He gestured to the door. “Which office is Natalie’s?”

The look on Farago’s face was priceless. His eyes bulged. His jaw fell slack. It was almost worth the loss of the career Farago had stolen from Clint a decade ago.

But not quite.

6:50 p.m.

NATALIE WATCHED THE man driving as they moved through the darkening streets. Dusk came a little earlier every day, reminding her that the year was barreling toward an end. It didn’t seem possible that she’d lost so much of the past twenty-four months. She didn’t want to lose any more. She wanted her life back.

“You don’t have to stay with me every minute,” she announced to the silence. Neither of them had spoken since leaving the parking garage. She’d worked well beyond the number of hours allowed by her medical release and Clint had insisted on taking her to dinner. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, the incident in my kitchen yesterday morning notwithstanding.”

Clint smiled. She liked his smile. He was quite attractive for a PI. She’d had her fair share of dealings with private investigators. Most of whom had been older and far less easy on the eyes. In addition to attractive, Clint was well educated and his instincts appeared quite good. He wasn’t the only one doing research. She’d done quite a bit herself last night after he left. Clint Hayes possessed a law degree from Samford. He’d graduated with highest honors, but then he’d turned to law enforcement. There was a story there; she just hadn’t found it yet. He dressed particularly well. The suit was no off-the-rack light wool ready-for-wear. Neither was the shirt or the shoes. When did private investigators start earning such a high salary?

“Feel free,” he glanced at her as he made the turn into the restaurant, “to say whatever is on your mind.”

A blush heated her cheeks. She doubted he had any idea of what precisely was on her mind. She might as well see just how good his perceptive powers were. “You went to law school, yet chose a different career path. I wondered what happened to divert your course.”

He parked in the crowded lot and shut off the engine. The interior of the car fell into near darkness with nothing more than a distant streetlamp reaching unsuccessfully through the night. When he turned to her it was difficult to read his face, but his voice when he spoke telegraphed a clear message.

“I made the decision I needed to make. I don’t think about it and I don’t talk about it. Next question?”

The cool tone was so unexpected that Natalie’s heart beat a little faster. “I apologize for making you uncomfortable. I was merely curious.”

“I’m very good at what I do, Ms. Drummond. Very good. I’ll spend every moment with you and on your case until we find the truth. But—”

Her ability to breathe failed her.

“I am not here to satisfy your curiosity about me.”

Before she could find her voice, he emerged from the car and walked around to her side. Natalie wasn’t sure whether to feel incensed or chastised. When he opened the door she finally remembered to unbuckle her seat belt.

She exited the car. He shut the door and, from all appearances, that would have been the end of it.

“Wait.”

He turned back to her and with the soft glow of the restaurant lights she could see his expression well enough to know he wasn’t angry...it was something else. Had her question injured him somehow? She blinked and wrestled with the best way to handle the situation. Since her injury she rarely grabbed on to the right emotions much less the proper words in a timely manner. She had taught herself to resist emotion and to react with the cool calm for which she had once been known in the courtroom.

“I apologize for asking such a personal question. I’m afraid the injury has left me with far fewer filters than I once possessed. I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

He nodded, his only consolation to acceptance. “I had dinner here last week. The salmon is incredible.”

“Does your expense account cover this restaurant?” The words were out of her mouth before Natalie could stop them. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

Clint touched her arm and she opened her eyes. “This one is on me,” he assured her, his tone the deep, warm one she had grown to associate with him.

Before she could argue about who would pay, he ushered her through the entrance and she decided to stop trying so hard...at least for the next hour or so.

Southwood Road

9:20 p.m.

AS HE HAD last evening, Clint insisted on going into the house first. Her sister had phoned to say she was coming to spend the night but she would be late. Natalie wanted to tell her not to bother but she wouldn’t pretend she wasn’t terrified at the idea of being alone at night after the ordeal with the intruder. The idea made little sense since it had been broad daylight when she shot the man in her kitchen.

You did shoot him...didn’t you?

The idea that she was second-guessing herself again after finally, finally reaching the place where she felt she’d regained her confidence made her sick to her stomach.

Clint paused at the bottom of the staircase and she raised her hand. “No need to check upstairs. The security system was armed. I’m sure it’s fine.”

“I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight if I wasn’t thorough.”

Natalie nodded, surrendering. “I probably wouldn’t, either,” she confessed.

Side by side they moved up the staircase. She was never able to climb or descend the stairs without admiring the painting of her family as it had once been. Life had felt so safe and so happy then. It seemed unfair she’d lost both her parents before she was thirty. Particularly since they had both been healthy and vibrant. If they were still alive, what would they think of Natalie and her sister? Would her father be proud Heath had been so successful following in his footsteps? Certainly April had become every bit the fund-raising and society queen their mother had been. Natalie sometimes regretted that her sister had not chosen a career path, but in truth what she did was immensely important to the community.

“You grew up in this house?” Clint asked as they reached the landing.

She nodded. “My grandfather built it. He and my grandmother lived here until they died. My parents did, as well. I suppose I will, too.” She caught herself before she suggested it was her turn for a personal question. Not a good idea. His assignment necessitated the asking of questions.

“My father died when I was at Samford,” he said, somehow understanding her need for reciprocity. “My mother remarried and moved to Arizona a few years ago.”

“You miss them? I still miss mine.”

He checked the first of the half dozen bedrooms as well as each of the en suite baths. Just when she was certain he didn’t intend to answer, he said, “I do. My mother calls a couple of times a month, but she rarely gets home anymore. I should visit her more often but I don’t think Oscar likes me.”

He chuckled and the sound made Natalie smile. He had a nice laugh for a man who preferred not to talk about his early career decisions.

Silence lapsed between them as they moved through room after room. He took extra care with the upstairs den and the balcony that overlooked the rear gardens. The French doors were locked, the security monitor in place. She and her sister had played here as children. In the gardens, too; but not without the nanny. The Drummond name and money had always been a target.

When they reached Natalie’s bedroom, she touched his arm. “Please, ignore what you see in my private space.”

His dark eyes held hers for a long beat. “I understand the need for personal privacy, Natalie. You can trust me with your secrets.”

As foolish as it sounded, she did. Perhaps her need for his understanding was because his academic background was so similar to hers. If he believed her...then maybe she wasn’t losing her mind.

The room was neat and freshly cleaned. Suzanna was a perfectionist and perhaps was afflicted with more than a little OCD. On the table next to Natalie’s side of the king-size bed were the first of the many notes to herself. Those on the bedside table reminded her to shut off the alarm and to plug and unplug her cell phone as well as to put it into the pocket of whatever jacket, sweater or coat she would wear for the day.

Each drawer of the room’s furnishings was labeled with what would be found stored in that space. In the closet her clothes were arranged in groupings so that whatever she needed for the day was together. No rifling through blouses or shoes and trying to match. April helped her keep her wardrobe arranged. The first time Natalie left the house with a mismatched ensemble, her sister was mortified and insisted on ensuring it never happened again. Natalie supposed it was necessary since her appearance reflected on the firm as well as the family name. April reminded Natalie that she’d had impeccable taste before the fall. Natalie still liked the same things, she simply felt confused at times when she attempted to put together an ensemble.

One of many things she missed about her old self. Thankfully the occurrences of confusion were becoming more rare, or they had been until the intruder. Most likely she would be fine without all the notes to remind her. She simply hadn’t found the courage to do away with them yet. Soon, she promised herself. Her real hesitation was the fear of failure. As long as the notes were there, she didn’t have to face her potential inability to work without them.

Though her walk-in closet was quite generously sized, somehow Clint’s broad shoulders and tall, lean frame overwhelmed the intimate space. It was then that his aftershave or cologne teased her senses once more. She had noticed the subtle scent in the car. Something earthy and organically spicy as if it were as natural to his body as his smooth, tanned skin. She was immensely grateful she hadn’t lost her sense of smell. Many who suffered TBIs weren’t so fortunate.

He turned and she jumped. “Sorry.” She took a deep breath and followed him into the en suite. There were more notes here. The ones that told her in what order to do her nightly ritual, those that reminded her of where things were stored. Like the others, she didn’t rely on them as much as she had before. This time when he turned to her she felt the weight of his sympathy.

There was nothing since the injury that hurt her more—not the ongoing healing, not the physical therapy, not even the endless hours of analyzing by the shrinks—than the looks of pity in the eyes of anyone who learned the full scope of her loss.

“The house is clear. I’ll stay until your sister arrives.”

She wanted to argue. Damn it, she really did. She wanted to tell him in no uncertain terms that she was perfectly fine and capable of taking care of herself as she always had been. Except...she wasn’t so sure of that anymore. “Thank you.”

As they descended the stairs, he said, “Coffee would be good.”

With monumental effort she smiled. “I am very good with a coffee machine.”

He paused before taking the next step down. “I have a feeling you’re very good at many things, Natalie.”

Whether he truly meant the words or not, she appreciated the effort. No one had given her a compliment in a very long time.

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