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She lets out a long sigh. When I look up, her nostrils are flaring. “No, yourfavorite—and by that I mean youronly—client.”
“Shit.” I glance toward my office. “Camille.”
“Bingo.”
“She doesn’t have an appointment.”
Nadia comes around the desk, takes the remote from the coffee table in the waiting area, and flips on the TV. “She never has an appointment.”
“You’re in my chair again,” I say to Camille as I close my office door.
“And here I took you for a gentleman.”
“What can I do for you? I have a meeting in five minutes.”
“I’m hoping you have something for me. I’m hoping I didn’t come all the way down here only to find out I’m wasting my timeandmymoney?”
“I’d hate to disappoint you—”
“I’d hate that, too.” She stands and walks from behind my desk, standing close to me. Too close. She leans in, leveling with me. “If you don’t tell me you’ve made at least some progress on finding my father’s killer, then I’m afraid this is going to be a farewell trip. You’re not the only investigator in town, Mr. Lane.”
“No, I’m not.” I don’t take kindly to threats. “But I’m probably the only one you can afford. And certainly the only one who’s going to put up with the fact that you’re a giant pain in the ass.”
“Speaking of—” she says, brow arched. “I know that before me, before I brought you this case, that you were about to have to close up shop. I’ve known that all along. You see, I didn’t actually mind that you’re barely keeping your shit together.” She takes two steps back and places her hands on her hips. “Why? Because it gives a person that edge, it gives you a certain hunger that most people simply don’t have. But now—” She swipes her hand in the air. “Well, now, I’m questioning whether I’ve misjudged you.”
I glance out at the waiting area. My appointment is early. A potential client, a client I must land if I’m going to make rent next month, is standing there talking to Nadia. Not only do I need the business, I need time to finish this case. The last thing I need is Camille causing a scene. But I wouldn’t put it past her, not for a minute. Camille Roberts is the type of woman who, if she goes down, is going to make damn sure you go down with her.
“Listen,” I say, attempting to defuse the situation. I just need to get her out of my office, and from there out of the building.
Her gaze lowers to the floor. “I’m going to have to start selling off his things.”
I don’t respond because I’m staring at the TV. Ali’s face flashes across the screen, and then there’s a spilt screen, with Ali and Sarah Shepard, before it cuts to a clip of the interview.
“His paintings will have to go. And at least two of his horses. God, do you know how humiliating this is?” Her hands fly in the air. “His horses!”
“It’s okay,” I say in a way that reflects my attention is elsewhere.
“I bet you have no idea the upkeep on a horse.”
“What?”
“Are you even listening?” Camille raises her voice so that I’m forced to look at her. The woman in my waiting area is staring, and I curse Bethany for her nonsensical idea of using glass as a barrier between my office and the rest of the place. Finally, Camille takes the hint and follows my gaze. “Oh God, not her again!”
At first, I’m taken aback because I think she’s referring to the woman in my waiting room. Then I realize she’s looking at the television.
Camille goes quiet for exactly the amount of time it takes her to read the ticker scrolling across the screen, and not a second later. “They found her body,” she gasps. “My God. This is horrible.” Her hands fly to her mouth. “I loved Sarah Shepard.”
This does not surprise me. But what Camille Roberts says next certainly does.
She shakes her head slowly. “It makes sense that Ali was her final interview.”
“Why?”
Camille looks at me like I’m an idiot for asking the question. “That girl brings trouble wherever she goes.”
I check the time. “Huh.”
“It’s like a curse.”
