of a folder upon opening it with some password keystroke?
There was no other way the boy could have emptied that folder. Unless he’d done it earlier that week and that was why he’d accessed it.
But then why leave it there at all, if he was going to empty it?
“What was in there?”
“Nothing.”
“The folder’s been there almost a year.”
“Yeah.”
If he wasn’t mistaken his son was hiding a grin. But not a fun one. No, his eyes took on almost a sly look. A knowing look. If a ten-year-old could manage such a thing.
“Did you create it?” Kent seemed willing to answer anything, so he was going to ask everything he could think of.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To see if you were really checking up on me like you said you were going to do. I created a password-protected folder just to see if you’d find it and ask me about it. It took you almost a year. Good going, Dad.”
Sherman sat back, his fingers on either side of his chin. He’d shaved in a hurry. Missed some spots. He ran a hand through his hair. He wore his longer than Kent’s now that Brooke was gone. She’d liked it short. He liked it more casual and...
“You were testing me,” he said to the boy, just to clarify.
“Yeah.”
“How’d I do?” Had Kent wanted him to find the folder? Or just the opposite? Had he needed to know his father trusted him enough not to look?
Kent shrugged. “Not bad,” he said. “Took you a while to find it, but you grilled me as soon as you did.”
As if that was a good thing?
“You did just find it this morning, right?” For the first time since the inquisition had begun, Kent showed a sign of...fear?
“Yes.” He sat there, taking it in, finding no concrete thoughts. “How often have you accessed it?”
“I dunno. Maybe eight times.”
“I guess I’ve been a little lax, huh?”
“Nah. You did fine, Dad. Can we go to the batting cages now?”
“What did we agree to at breakfast?”
“I’d clean my room and help with the bathroom first.”
“Right, and have we done that?”
“Nooo.” Kent’s grin was all little-boy then, and it struck Sherman’s heart clear through. “I was just hoping you were feeling bad enough that we could skip the cleaning part.”
“You want to live in a pigsty?”
“No.”
“You got money to pay a cleaning lady?”
The boy’s sigh was long. “No, Dad. You know I don’t.”
“Guess that means it’s up to us to get the cleaning done, doesn’t it?” Sherman stood, both hands on his son’s shoulders as Kent did, too. “At least you got out of vacuuming this week.”
Kent threw another killer grin over his shoulder. “Why do you think I stayed in bed?” he asked. “I waited until I heard it in every room before I got up.”
Sherman’s burst of laughter surprised the hell out of him.
* * *
SHE COULD LEAVE a written report with Mrs. Barbour and walk away. Professionally, anyway.
Doing so would be appropriate.
Late Sunday night, after stopping after work to see her family—adamantly avoiding any mention of Kent Paulson—and then finishing the last of her online homework, Talia pulled a jacket on over her sweats, took her laptop out to the deck on the back of her borrowed beach cottage and sat down with the ocean she could hear but not see.
She saw a couple of lights bobbing in the far distance. Ships out to sea? There was nothing but blackness where she knew the beach to be—the stretch of space between her deck and the water.
It fit her, this little cottage. Alone, she didn’t need a lot of space. And yet, she never truly felt lonely here. How could you when all of life was spread before you just by sitting on your back deck?
Maybe someday she’d actually be able to afford a place like this. And not have to rely on handouts from the family she’d let down so badly.
As she sat there, not yet opening the laptop, Talia stared out into the darkness and replayed a scene from earlier that day. She’d just finished ringing up a fifteen-hundred-dollar sale—a couple of outfits with the highest quality costume jewelry embellishments—when the store’s manager approached her.
“Have you got a minute?” Mirabelle had asked.
“Of course.” Even if you didn’t, you found one when the head boss sought you out.
“You’ve been working here for well over a year now,” the savvy, middle-aged woman said, as though Talia didn’t know the length of her employment.
“Yes.”
“Since your first month you’ve been one of our top earning associates.”
She nodded. Helping people look good wasn’t all that tough. Getting them to spend their money on looking good hadn’t been her doing. That was human nature coming into play. Their own, not hers.
“While finishing up a four-year college degree in three years.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I hear that you’re in school again, adding psychology to your major?”
“That’s right.” Though her original employment had been granted partially on the basis of her performance in the fashion area of study, surely the store wouldn’t have a problem with her continued education. She had her fashion merchandising degree with a dual in fashion design. And her work wasn’t suffering.
“What’s the starting salary for fashion design grads who are psychology students in California these days?” Mirabelle, decked out to the nines in a red suit with black trim, gave her an assessing look.
As far as she knew she’d have to have a doctorate in psychology to actually work in the field of psychology. She was only going for a master’s degree. She told the woman a little bit about her collage program—starting with the experience with collage that she’d received as part of her fashion design degree. And then she admitted that, so far, her collage work was all done on a volunteer basis.
The older woman nodded. Talia held her gaze. She needed this job. The store paid the highest sales commission by far. With only two days a week to work, Talia had to make those hours count.
“Good,” Mirabelle said after several seconds, a small smile forming on her face. “I’d like to offer you an opportunity to do far better than that,” she said. “I have an opening for a full-time buyer for women’s fashions and accessories. You’d have full purchasing privilege in all of the best houses around the world. I’ll pay your travel expenses and a small salary. In addition, you’ll get a percentage of each of your items that sell in our store.”
Mirabelle named an amount she could expect to make that astounded her.
“I...” She was tempted. She could buy a beach cottage. Be able to help her family if they ever had need...
She’d get to travel the world without selling her soul. She’d have respectability.
And she’d be spending a good part of her life traveling. She knew what being a buyer meant. Her nights would be largely spent in hotel rooms. Far away.
“What