adjacent office for his assistant was also smaller.
“Yes, Mr. Colton.” Her tone was formal, but there was a note of respect that had been lacking when she spoke to Fowler. His brother would have been surprised at how much that meant to him. Respect of underlings, as Fowler put it, didn’t matter as long as they followed orders.
“Thank you for accepting the offer. You’ve made my life easier.”
“Thank you for making it. I didn’t really want to leave.”
They were still feeling their way, and although it felt odd to T.C. that he was referred to deferentially as Mr. Colton by a woman a generation his senior, she seemed to prefer it that way. And what Hannah Alcott wanted, she also seemed to generally get.
“I don’t think I’ve ever said that I admire you for standing up to Fowler the way you did.”
She looked at him for a moment, quietly, steadily. “Someone needs to. And I’m here because you are the only other one who has.”
T.C. supposed Fowler would say he was ridiculous for being so pleased at words from a “mere executive assistant,” but nevertheless, he was.
“May I ask you something?” she said when he smiled.
“Only if you promise to stop asking if you can ask.”
She returned his smile. “Why didn’t you have an assistant before?”
He gave a half shrug. “I figured I needed to know how to do it all before I asked somebody else to do it.”
“And that, Mr. Colton, is another reason I’m here.” Briskly turning back to business, she gestured at the papers she’d handed him. “The Wainwright papers are on top, and the analysis you asked for is in the folder.”
“Already? You are a gem, Mrs. Alcott.”
“I am.”
He couldn’t help smiling again, rare enough in these days of worry and mystery that he appreciated it. “I should give you a raise.”
“You already did. I’m quite sufficiently compensated, Mr. Colton.” But she was smiling as she left the office.
He realized after she’d left that one of the reasons he liked her was that she imposed a sense of order on things, and amid the current chaos, that was no small accomplishment. She—
The door opened once more, and Hannah leaned in. “Hurricane Fowler headed this way,” she said.
He grimaced. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Five minutes?”
He gave her a grateful look. “Ten. I’m feeling strong today.”
She nodded and backed out once more.
His brother at full force was not how he’d wanted to spend this afternoon. He needed a back door, T.C. thought, not for the first time. He even considered a dive into the adjoining bathroom, but knowing Fowler he’d barge in anyway. He smothered a sigh and braced himself. It was easier, knowing that in ten minutes Hannah would remind him of some urgent piece of business that had to be attended to immediately. It felt cowardly to him, but sometimes it was the only way to deal with the steamroller that was his half brother.
There was a thud as the door was shoved open; the formality of a knock was usually absent when Fowler was involved. He felt—and acted—as if he owned not only the entire building but everyone in it.
“I know who killed Dad!”
T.C. stood up; he’d expected some business-related demand, or another lecture on his lack of bloodthirstiness on the Wainwright deal. T.C. believed in healthy competition, and the occasional solid partnership; Fowler believed in wiping the competition off the field.
“We don’t know,” T.C. reminded his brother, “that Dad’s dead.”
“Never mind that. I know who did it.”
T.C. groaned inwardly. Great, he thought. Here we go again. It’s not enough that Mother accused Alanna of all people. Now Fowler’s got some other crackbrained theory?
“I presume your glee means you’ve found another suspect for them to chase after besides yourself and Tiffany?”
“Oh, yes.”
Foreboding sparked in T.C.’s chest. Fowler was too gleeful. This was more than just some harebrained idea to throw suspicion off him and his self-absorbed, money-conscious girlfriend. T.C. waited silently, refusing to rise to the bait, denying Fowler some of the pleasure he seemed to get out of making people jump to his tune. Irritation flickered in his eyes.
“You’re so cool now, but you won’t be. Not when I tell you who it is, who I saw right here in town, not an hour ago.”
He’d been right. This was more. And it was aimed at him. “Just get it over with, Fowler. I have a busy schedule.”
Fowler folded his arms across his chest and smirked. “I’ve already called the sheriff, so don’t think you can stop that.”
T.C. frowned. “Why would you think I would want to stop you?” He wanted his father found, and while he doubted whatever wild claim Fowler was making now would prove true, he also felt every avenue should be explored.
“Because you’re a pushover and always have been when it comes to her,” Fowler said, in that nasty tone T.C. had learned meant he was about to spring his trap.
The foreboding exploded into full-blown apprehension. “Her?”
Fowler’s smirk widened. He was clearly taking great pleasure in this.
“Jolie Peters.”
Jolie clutched her still-weeping daughter close, rocking her, cooing at her, trying to soothe her. The police were being kind, but as grim as she would have expected them to be, dealing with a cold-blooded murder. The Central Business District had its own dedicated police. They knew the area inside out and were coolly, briskly efficient. If she wasn’t in such shock, Jolie would have been impressed.
And if it wasn’t for Emma, she might feel safe.
“It’s all right, honey,” said the uniformed woman kneeling before them as they sat on the edge of the police unit’s front seat. Jolie had purposely put their backs to the bloody scene. The sight of a woman who just a couple of hours ago had been alive being put in a cold, dark bag and loaded in the back of a van was not something she wanted added to Emma’s already horrible images.
The woman’s voice was soft, gentle, and Jolie liked the way she looked at her for permission before she reached up and brushed her fingers over the child’s tearstained cheek. “Maybe you’ll remember more later when it’s not quite so scary.”
“I’m sorry,” Jolie said, “but she’s too upset.”
“Of course she is. Who wouldn’t be? And just knowing we’re looking for a woman helps a lot.”
“You believe her?”
The other officers had seemed to doubt Emma’s account, which Jolie understood, given that the girl had been practically hysterical. Although she seemed to be calming down now. As if the quiet, adult conversation going on over her head was soothing her. Jolie’s gaze flicked to the woman’s face and saw she knew that and was doing this intentionally. She glanced at the name tag over her left pocket, which read T. Wilcox.
“I have a three-year-old boy, Tyler,” she said, “and I know when he’s making things up. I trust you do, too.”
Jolie gave her a grateful smile. “I do.” She glanced at the people both in uniform and civilian clothes clustered around where the body was, at last, being removed. “But I’m not sure they believe her.”
“It’s