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down.”
    â€œI’ve told you the whole truth,” she protested weakly.
    I shrugged. “Fine. If that’s the way you want to play it.” I turned for the door but wasn’t surprised when Heather grabbed my arm again.
    â€œWait!” she cried. “Please!”
    There was a shimmer of tears in her eyes, and I felt the tremor in the hand on my arm. Heather wasn’t just afraid; she was terrified .
    â€œTell me the truth,” I said implacably. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her when she was so scared, but I wasn’t about to let it show in my voice.
    She licked her lips, and I saw there was almost no lipstick left on them. “If I tell you something confidentially, can I be sure you won’t repeat it to anyone?”
    The question connected a few dots for me, whether she meant it to or not. “You mean if you tell me you’ve done something illegal, will I go to the police?”
    She winced and nodded. “You have to promise not to.”
    Actually, under the circumstances, I didn’t have to make any promises whatsoever. Any idiot could see she wasn’t in a strong bargaining position, and if I threatened to walk away again, she’d start talking. But she was obviously in some kind of trouble, and I was beginning to feel a bit like a bully.
    â€œUnless you tell me you murdered somebody, I promise not to go to the police,” I said, relenting. Heather’s face lit with hope, and I held up my hand to keep her from getting carried away by it. “Now, if the police were to question me for some reason, there’s nothing like attorney-client privilege protecting our conversation, and I’m not about to lie for you.”
    For a moment, I thought she was going to argue, but she thought better of it. Eyes still swimming with tears that so far she had not let fall, she nodded and sank back down onto the sofa.
    â€œAll right,” she whispered, as I, too, returned to my seat. “I’ll tell you the whole, ugly story.” She clasped her hands together in her lap again, and she stared at those hands instead of looking at me as she began haltingly.
    â€œI grew up really poor,” she said, and I refrained from telling her I already knew that. “My father left my mother when she was pregnant with me, and she had a real hard time as a single mom. She did her best, and she worked real hard, but . . .” She gave a shrug that was supposed to look careless. “Whatever. It’s the past. But I just . . . wanted you to have some idea where I was coming from.”
    Heather risked a look at me, and I tried to look encouraging despite my natural inclination to cry foul. Growing up poor was not an excuse for whatever it was she was going to confess. It was nothing but a rationalization.
    She unfolded her hands and wiped them on her jeans. “Men have been hitting on me since I was about fifteen. It was kind of flattering sometimes, but it got old fast, and some of the men were just gross. Married guys, arrogant pricks, men old enough to be my father—or even my grand father—all thought I was fair game.”
    If she thought I was going to feel sorry for her because she was pretty, she was sorely mistaken. My adoptive sister, Steph, is drop-dead gorgeous and rich to boot. Men hit on her for all the wrong reasons all the time. Yeah, it’s annoying, but as hardships go, it’s not exactly tragic.
    Heather cleared her throat. She began fidgeting with a loose thread on the seam of her jeans, then seemed to notice herself doing it and hurried to clasp her hands together again. No doubt about it, she was a nervous fidgeter.
    â€œA couple of years ago, I decided I was going to stop being annoyed about it and use it to my advantage.” Her voice died out, and one of the tears she’d been suppressing finally leaked from the corner of her eye. She swiped it away with annoyance, but she didn’t