Coughing, the man stumbled out after us. Breanne was thinner than I was, but she was also much taller, and I was trapped for a minute under her large, limp form. I squirmed, trying to turn my head, get a decent look at her attacker. I glimpsed brown pants and shoes under the long black coat. He wasn’t a giant, but he wasn’t small, either. From the floor, I had trouble estimating his height; and with the ski mask on his head and the gloves on his hands, I couldn’t even be sure of his race!

I only had a second to make an ID, and I couldn’t do it. Howling and clawing at his saturated mask, the man bolted for the exit. I heard the door swing shut, then an eerie silence.

With a groan of pain, I rolled over to check on Breanne. She was already sitting up and clutching at her long white neck, now bruised with angry red marks. Her necklace snapped off, the silver and turquoise tumbling from her throat like a dead serpent.

I faced Breanne, my heart still racing. “Are you okay?”

Breanne was gasping for air. “No,” she rasped. “Dizzy. Sick. Need a minute.”

“I’ll be back,” I said.

One of my wedge platform sandals was half off my foot. I quickly fixed it, ran out the door, and madly scanned the corridor. But no one was there. The ladies’ room was in the very back of the restaurant, beyond the kitchen entrance and even remote from the men’s room, which was off the building’s front bar. I noticed the fire exit door was hanging open, and I guessed the man had escaped through the back alley.

I could have risked running after him into that alley, but it wouldn’t have been smart. I was small, unarmed, and I didn’t want to leave Breanne alone for long. Since I’d left my cell phone in my bag, which was still sitting in the dining room, I hurried toward it. On the way, a waitress nearly collided with me coming out of the busy kitchen. I grabbed her arm.

“Call 911,” I said. “Be quiet about it. Don’t cause a panic, but a woman was just attacked in your ladies’ room. When the police and paramedics arrive, tell your manager, okay?”

I went back to the restroom and found Breanne still on the floor. There was a lingering smell of burning pepper from the Mace, and I hit the switch on the room’s powerful fans. The air cleared quickly.

“You’re bleeding.” I pointed to the hollow of Breanne’s shoulder.

She looked down. “My necklace… while he was choking me. The metal dug into my skin…”

Her voice was still raspy, and I worried about damage to her vocal chords. I pulled a wad of paper towels from the dispenser and dampened them in the sink. Then I sat back down on the bathroom floor and gently pressed her bleeding wound. She winced.

“Just hold that on there, okay?”

With an exhale, she nodded. Then she regarded me. “Are you okay, Clare?”

“Oh, sure… the scumbag kicked me pretty good.” I rubbed my aching hip where the jerk had slammed me. “But I’ll survive. I’ve got pretty good padding down there, as you already know.”

I gave her a little smile, glanced down at myself, and frowned. I’d worn a new dress of pearl-pink silk to the party (a name designer at outlet prices, thank you very much). But part of the wrap dress had unwrapped during the struggle. I stood up to secure my dress back around my body and tighten the matching belt.

“So what the hell happened?” Breanne’s voice was a lot less raspy now.

“What do you mean?”

In record time, the woman’s expression went from human and caring to cold and accusatory. “I thought you told Matt that I was out of danger.”

Wow, I thought. The bitch is back.

I folded my arms. “I thought you didn’t believe you were in danger.”

“Apparently, I was wrong.”

“Well, apparently, so was I.”

I crossed to the stall where we’d struggled and studied the floor, hoping to see something the attacker may have dropped, but all I could make out were some of the contents of Breanne’s purse. I stooped down and began to clean up the mess.

“Did this guy say anything to you?” I asked. “Demand anything? Threaten you?”

Still on the floor, Breanne shook her head. “I came into the bathroom, and he attacked from behind. I guess he was hiding in one of the stalls. When he saw me, he sprang out, dragged me in, and slammed the door shut. I tried to fight him off, but then his hands were around my neck, and I couldn’t breathe.”

I nodded, processing the tale, trying to make sense of it. I was still picking up scattered items. I found her PDA behind the toilet and returned it to her.

“I wonder how it got way back there?” I said.

“I was trying to call Matt.” Breanne studied the floor. “It was in my hand when that man grabbed me.”

I continued picking up her things. When I got to the Mace can, I held it up. “Coffee notwithstanding, chili pepper is getting to be my new favorite ingredient.” I smiled, hoping to lighten her mood a fraction.

It didn’t.

“I guess this is all pretty funny to you, too, huh, Clare?”

“Funny? Are you mental?”

“Before I came in here, I saw you getting your jollies over my distress. When Matt pitched a fit and stormed out, I saw the smile cross your face.”

“Oh, for the love of… I’ll tell you why I smiled, Breanne, and it had nothing to do with relishing your pain. I was admiring what you did. I was happy to see you finally act like a wife!”

The stunned look on the woman’s face was nearly priceless. Of all the responses I could have given her, she’d never gambled on that one. But then she never wanted to think of me as anything more than the ex-wife, the enemy.

“You’re not kidding, are you?” she said.

“Roman told me that your marriage was just one of convenience, that you really didn’t care about Matt’s playboy lifestyle; and it made me sad to think you weren’t going to demand what any real wife should: faithfulness. When I saw what you did with those announcements, I realized you did care.”

Breanne glanced away, massaged her forehead. She’d obviously cast me as the villain in this little play, someone who was only set on sabotaging her. My words now and my actions three minutes earlier flew directly in the face of those assumptions.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Okay…”

I wasn’t sure what okay meant, but her tone sounded a lot less accusatory and a whole lot friendlier. I took that as a good first step.

“Breanne, can I give you some advice-ex-wife to hopefully not future ex-wife?”

Breanne gritted her teeth, but she nodded.

I crouched down, back to her level. “Stop trying so hard to cut Matt off from his past.”

“But you just said you admired what I did with the old flames.”

“The old flames are one thing; his family and his life’s work are another.”

Breanne frowned, shook her head.

“Listen, Madame is hostile to you for a pretty basic reason. She’s picked up on your animosity vibe, your jealousy. She’s heard you say things that imply Matt would be better off not working for the Blend. Madame is afraid you’re going to pull her son away from the family business that she’s kept going for half a century, a business that started with Matt’s great-grandfather. She’s afraid you’re going to cut the strings that attach her son to her life.”

Breanne met my eyes. “You’re afraid, too, aren’t you, Clare?”

“Maybe I am. We all have threads in our lives, continuous strands that reach back years, decades, entire lifetimes. The threads are what help define who we are. Matt has always meant a lot to his mother, to his daughter, and to me. My advice to you is pretty simple: instead of trying to cut Matt off from what’s defined him over a lifetime, try harder to entwine yourself with it. Like those gorgeous wedding rings Nunzio created for you. Three different types of gold-white, yellow, rose-all weaved together into one band. Past, present, and future, right? Isn’t that why he chose the design?”