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"It's okay."
    "No, it isn't. You've probably had a nightmarish day, and I go and say something stupid like that."
    "It wasn't stupid," Jolie said miserably, kicking off her shoes. "It's true—I'm gullible when it comes to men, else how could this have happened?"
    "We've all been fooled by men," Leann said, her voice wistful. "Let's just pray the police leave you out of this."
    Jolie murmured her agreement.
    "So...how was your first day as a shoe salesperson?"
    "Exhausting. I never knew how much there was to know about shoes. Oh, and get this: Sammy Sanders stopped by."
    "Ew. Was she terrible?"
    "Oh, yeah."
    "Well, between her and the police officer, were there any bright spots?"
    Beck Underwood's interesting face flashed into her mind. "Well, I crashed into a guy while I was carrying an armload of shoes."
    "That doesn't sound like a bright spot."
    "The bright spot is I didn't get fired."
    Leann laughed. "I admire you, Jolie—no matter what life hands you, you simply take it in stride."
    "Give me an alternative," Jolie said lightly. "How's your sister?"
    "Bloated, nauseous, and depressed."
    Jolie hummed her sympathy. "Do you know how much longer you'll be there?"
    "At least five more months, unless the baby comes early. This sounds selfish, but I keep thinking about all the clients I'm losing to other interior designers." Leann sighed. "And now this business with Gary. Listen, you probably just got home, so I'll let you go. But call me if you need to talk about it."
    "I will," Jolie promised, said goodbye, then returned the phone to its cradle. She sighed, missing her neighbor friend. They had met only months ago at the apartment laundry room, but they had become fast friends, bonded by Leann's occupation in interior design and her own job in real estate. Even though she was seeing Gary, Jolie had made time to foster the new friendship because she appreciated the other woman's plain-talking wisdom. She sent good thoughts toward the ceiling for Leann's sister's problem pregnancy. As she pushed herself up from the chair, the phone rang again—classic Leann.
    Jolie picked up the phone and smiled into the receiver. "What did you forget?"
    Silence greeted her.
    "Leann?"
    Someone was there, she could hear the openness of the connected call, a faint rustle in the background. "Leann, is that you?" When there was no answer, her heart skipped a beat. "Gary?"
    The rustling sound grew louder, then a click disconnected the call. Jolie swallowed and listened to the dial tone for a few seconds, then set down the phone and looked toward the darkened bedroom. Unbidden, a horror movie came to mind, the one about the cute coed receiving threatening calls all evening, only to have the police to call her later and tell her they'd traced the calls as coming from inside the house.
    She wasn't a cute coed, and for the life of her she couldn't remember how the movie had ended. For the life of her ? Bad choice of words, she conceded, moving toward the bedroom as quietly as possible. She had her cell phone in her right hand, ready to punch the speed dial button for 911. Remembering something on an airline safety report about shoes being a ready weapon, she scooped up one of her chunky-heel pumps and wielded it in the other hand, thinking that if Gary Hagan was crouching in the bedroom, he would be more likely to die from laughter than from any wound she might inflict.
    Moisture gathered around her hairline as she pounced on the light switch. When she stepped into the doorway, though, the most dangerous-looking thing in her bedroom was the multi-outlet strip in the floor overloaded with a spaghetti knot of appliance cords.
    She scoffed at her foolishness and sat on the mossy-colored duvet to remove her pantyhose, thinking she had to get a grip on herself. Gary Hagan wasn't a murderer. It was more likely that he'd been drinking and somehow had driven into the river, then panicked when he couldn't get his companion out.
    Except why would he have been