Mark Sheffield had dated Bree for about four months two years ago. Mark was a frail man, both physically and emotionally. He reminded Lainey of one of those medically fragile dogs women carted around in strollers and administered medication to via eyedropper. His expression was permanently sour, which she imagined was the result of the slew of allergies that’d made the outside world physically hostile toward him. More often than not, he was sporting a temporary splint.
Lainey hadn’t minded Mark, as far as Bree’s significant others went. He’d treated her well and had occupied almost none of her time (on account of all the ailments).
But after a confusing incident involving the two of them, an expired EpiPen, carrot cupcakes, and a Razor scooter, Mark Sheffield was convinced that Lainey Davis had tried to end his life. The basket of pears she’d sent as an apology—another allergen, apparently—had only deepened his conviction.
Bree sighed and closed the magazine like an overextended soccer mom. “If I offer you money to hire a different lawyer, will you take it?”
Lainey and Bree were in two very different tax brackets. It was a source of tension in their friendship, as Bree had far more in common with the visitors of Timber Creek than with locals like Lainey. Bree’s family owned the Groff Retreat, a five-star resort made up of secluded luxury cabins, all designed by the father of the “natural architecture” movement, Vincent Groff. Itwas one of those obscenely extravagant destinations where privacy-seeking celebrities could disappear off the face of the planet while eating breakfast pastries prepared by a protégé of Gaston Lenôtre. The rest of the town existed in confusing contrast to—or as seasonal employees of—the high-end hideaway.
But borrowing money from Bree was a nonstarter for Lainey. Bree didn’t “lend” money. She “gifted” it. As she put it, she refused to be “a debt collector to her friends.” But Bree’s “gifts” had a way of corroding all of her friendships. Lainey cared about her too much to let something like that happen to them.
Lainey shook her head. “I’m not taking your money.”
“Well, I’ve only dated one other lawyer, and she’s left the business to write romance novels, so for now, we’re stuck with Mark.”
Her grandmother leaned forward. “If you need money, Lainey—”
“I don’t need money,” she interrupted.
Laineydesperatelyneeded money, but borrowing from her grandmother—who’d recently burned through a small windfall after finding a lit cigarette in her unlimited soup, salad, and breadsticks—was not an option. In fact, Lainey had been making payments to her grandmother’s care facility just to keep her lights on. Literally. Though she hadn’t told her grandmother, as inexorable pride and poor financial management skills were inherited traits among the Davis women.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Lainey assured them. “It was so long ago. He’s probably forgotten about it.”
A petite woman who looked no older than twenty-two leaned out the door of an office and beckoned them back. Lainey’s outfit was all wrong for such a serious meeting. It was that time of year when the temperature outside was unpredictable, makingthe indoors uniquely uncomfortable, as every business was either too hot or too cold. She’d meant to swap her regular brown suede coat for something a little less “seventies rocker.” But with picking up Gran (and then the subsequent Rolo theft), she hadn’t had time to iron the black blazer she reserved for funerals and that one unfortunate court appearance for a moving violation on the aforementioned Razor scooter.
She quickly rummaged through her bag for a claw clip and pulled her hair up into a messy twist she hoped gave her the appearance of a moderately serious person, or at the very least, made her look slightly less like the orange-haired Muppet.
“Here. Let me,” Bree said, adjusting the clip and delicately fluffing Lainey’s bangs.
Bree had that kind of expensive, chestnut-brown hair that never dared to move out of place and seemed to deepen in hue with each generation of wealth. Lainey’s hair, on the other hand, was a wild red that required too much effort to tame, so she usually didn’t. But today, with her home on the line, her appearance needed to give off at least a tiny whiff of responsibility.
It was a lot to put on a tortoise hair clip.
When they walked into Mark’s office, he stood up from behind his oak desk, wearing a shiny blue golf polo and a foam neck brace. There were no windows in his office, just fluorescent lights illuminating a bookcase packed with worn brown books that readWest’s Wisconsin Statutesalong the spine in faded letters. Mark greeted Bree first, extending his arm between several precariously tall towers of paper files like a snake slithering through brush. Lainey couldn’t tell if the sight of his desk meant he had far too many clients or dangerously few.
Her friend made the mistake of inquiring into the provenance of the neck brace and was met with a sigh and the words “Nastywalk.” Lainey had no earthly idea what constituted a “nasty walk,” but she assumed that if he’d wanted to provide a sufficient explanation, he would have.
Instead, Lainey offered a wave and said, “Good to see you again, Mark.”
Mark stared at her blankly, as if she’d accidentally greeted him in Cantonese. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her? Panicking, she repeated herself, but this time—regrettably—with a pair of finger guns. “It’s good to—”
“Can we do this without resorting to intimidation, Elaine?” He implored her like one would a disobedient child.
“Oh, I didn’t…” She lowered her hands and let her explanations go. “Lainey is fine. Do you remember my grandmother, the original Elaine?”
Gran greeted Mark with an appraising nod. “Markie.”
Mark’s bravado collapsed under the weight of the nickname. He attempted to muster up some lost confidence by clearing his throat and gesturing for them to sit. “Bree told me a bit about your situation, and I’ve had Whitney conduct a title search.”
Lainey had forgotten about the young woman in the room with them. Whitney hugged the wall tightly, succeeding in what was possibly her ultimate goal: disappearing into the drywall.
“Along with some preliminary research through public records, court documents, and so on and so forth, et cetera, et cetera,” Mark continued, his eyes scanning a printout. Lainey sunk into her too-deep chair and prayed he didn’t bill by the word. “We can’t find any document that ties you to your residence on Norwood Lake.”
“What? That’s insane,” Lainey exclaimed, just as Gran countered casually, “Well, there wouldn’t bepaperwork.”
Lainey turned to face her grandmother, who was adjusting her lipstick with her pinkie. “Weknew it was our house. There seemed no reason to get other people involved. It’s no one’s business what we own or don’t own.”
Lainey looked to Bree, who was equally confused. Lainey had lived in that little house in the woods since her mother had left her with Gran when she was seven. Her mom, Camille, usually came by once a year, always bearing gifts, like a Parisian, emotionally withholding Santa Claus.
