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recorder ticked the seconds away, preserving his hesitation on tape. Fizz would hear all of it; the mention of his sister and his father, Pea’s offer. He trusted Josh, sure. But how much?
    He plucked the Post-it from between her fingers, knowing he was crossing a line, breaking a code. It wasn’t the first time he’d gone out on a limb for Liana, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, either. He’d used the police database to try and find her, stuff that wasn’t exactly legal but didn’t keep you up at night, either. But this was worse. Making deals with bad people; that had his father written all over it. The decision should have been tough; he should have hesitated. But it was his sister. Blood was thicker than water. “We’ll be here tomorrow, opening time. You make sure Turner gets here, and then get the hell out of the country and don’t look back.”
    “Fair enough,” Pea said. She reached up as though she was going to embrace him, and instead slid her hand between his top two shirt buttons, freeing the digital recorder from his inside pocket. He could feel her cold fingers through the fabric of the shirt. She pressed it into his hand.
    “ Bonne chance, Josh,” she said. “Good luck.”

 
    CHAPTER SIX
    “All that money, and she left it to the cat. Can you believe it? What’s the goddamn cat going to do with two hundred thousand dollars?”
    The disgruntled woman sitting next to Aurora in the waiting area of Benedict & Riley aimed this rant at the law office’s receptionist. When no response was forthcoming, she made a huffing sound and returned to fussing with the diamond collar on the hostile-looking Himalayan perched on her lap. Aurora avoided eye contact and slid a Christmas issue of Southern Living free from the stack of magazines on the table and waited for her appointment with Luna Riley.
    The entire office, the first floor of a Park Avenue brownstone, seemed to have frozen in time somewhere in the seventies. Mossy shag carpeting covered the walls, paisley curtains clung to the windows, and rusting ashtrays were carved into the faux-wood arms of every chair and couch. Shiny pamphlets with ominous titles like— What a Will Won’t Do and Living Trusts—Why You Need a Professional were stacked in front of the reception area like travel brochures.
    Aurora wondered how many people had sat on the stained olive-green couch and contemplated life’s eternal mysteries. In the emergency room, there was no time to think about these things. Death was part of the job; it had to be endured. You had to continue, because what choice did you have otherwise? It worked well until it happened to someone you cared about. Papa’s death was different; it made her want to bury her face in the smoke-stained cushions and sob.
    One foot in front of the other, she told herself.
    “Aurora?”
    Luna Riley appeared in the doorway and swept Aurora into a rosewater-scented embrace. Her silver hair was sprayed into stiff wings that framed her owlish face, and she wore a coral-colored suit adorned with gold buttons the size of quarters. Aurora had met Luna for the first time at Papa’s funeral and been surprised to learn that they were old friends “from a hundred years ago.” There was a warm competence about Luna that Aurora liked. Maybe this would be easier than she thought.
    “Thanks for seeing me,” Aurora said. Luna led them into her office and shut the door. The office furniture was sparse, but pictures crowded each other for space on every surface. In the largest photo, on the wall, a group of older women barefoot in bridal gowns, Luna among them, posed on a beach, held champagne flutes in the direction of the camera.
    Luna followed Aurora’s gaze. “Wedding dress party,” she explained. “We get together every summer down South and wear ’em. Crazy old Southern belles.” She touched the photo briefly. “Most of these gals are divorced now, but Grant and I are still going strong. Forty-three years and