"Jesus, Quincy, you shouldn't be reading that."

"She's my daughter, Rainie; it's the only thing I can do for her anymore. Now, come on, I'm buying."

"Buying what?"

"Dinner. It's too damn hot in here, Rainie, and you really need to put on some clothes."

"Just for that, I'm wearing the tank top to dinner. And as long as you're buying, we're going to Oba's."

Pearl District, Portland

One night out on the town, and it was easy to slip into old roles. Quincy sweeping into town and taking her out to an extravagant restaurant. Eating great food, tropical shrimp ceviche, rare ahi tuna, butternut squash enchiladas. Quincy drank two world-famous marion-berry daiquiris, served in chilled martini glasses. Rainie stuck to water, because in a place like Oba's she was too embarrassed to conduct her little ritual of ordering – but not drinking – a Bud Light.

They talked a little. They talked a lot. God it was good to see him again.

"So how is the investigative business?" Quincy asked halfway through dessert, when they had exhausted small talk and settled in.

"Good. Just got my license. Number five hundred and twenty-one, that's me."

"Doing private work?"

"Some. I got in with a few defense attorneys; they're the ones who convinced me to get licensed. Now I can do more work for them – background checks on witnesses, crime-scene reconstruction, police report analysis. Still a lot of sitting at the desk, but it beats chasing down the cheating husband or wife."

"Sounds interesting."

Rainie laughed. "Sounds dull! I spend my time logged on to the Oregon Judicial Information Network. On a really exciting day, I might access my Oregon State Police account to peruse criminal history. It takes intelligence, but we're not talking adrenaline rush."

"I read lots of reports, too," Quincy said, sounding mildly defensive.

"You fly places. You talk to people. You get there while the blood's still fresh."

"You miss it that much, Rainie?"

She avoided his gaze to keep from answering, wished she did have a bottle of Bud Light, and switched topics. "How's Kimberly?"

"I don't know."

Rainie arched a brow. "I thought she was the daughter who liked you."

Quincy grimaced. "Tact, Rainie. Tact."

"I strive to be consistent."

"Kimberly needs some space. I think her sister's accident hit her harder than the rest of us. She's angry, and I don't think she's comfortable with that yet."

"Angry with Amanda, or angry with you and Bethie?"

"To be honest, I'm not sure."

Rainie nodded. "I always wanted a sister. I figured that must be something special, to have a genetic ally in the world. Someone to play with. Someone to fight with. Someone who had your parents, too, so she could tell you if your mom really was nuts, or if it was all in your head. But it doesn't sound like Mandy has been much of an ally for Kimberly. Instead, she's been the major source of family stress."

"The rebellious older sister, getting all the attention," Quincy agreed.

"While Kimberly behaves as the model child, the born diplomat."

"Bethie hates for me to say it, but Kim will make a terrific agent someday."

"She's still pursuing criminology?"

"Psychology for her B.A. Now she's looking at sub-matriculating into a master's program for criminology." The lines in Quincy 's forehead momentarily smoothed away. He was very proud of his younger daughter, and it showed on his face. "How's Bakersville?" he asked presently.

"Okay. Moving on the best you can after these things."

"Shep and Sandy?"

"Still together." Rainie shook her head as if to say, who understood. "Shep's working for a security company in Salem. Sandy 's gotten active in revamping juvenile law."

"Good for her. And Luke Hayes?"

"Making a fine new sheriff, or so he tells me. I visited five, six months ago. The town's in good hands."

"I'm surprised you went back."

"Luke had some business for me."

Quincy gazed at her curiously; she finally gave up the information with a shrug. "He was getting inquiries about my mom."

"Your mom?" Quincy was surprised. Rainie's mother had been dead for fifteen years, murdered by a shotgun blast to the head. Most of the people in Bakersville figured Rainie had pulled the trigger. That's what happens when you leave a house with brains dripping down your hair.

"Some guy was calling around town, trying to find her. Luke thought I should know about it."

"Why after all this time?"

Rainie grinned; she couldn't help herself. "The guy had just gotten out of prison. Released after serving thirty years for aggravated murder. Yeah, my mom knew how to pick 'em."

"And apparently she knew how to make an impression," Quincy added drolly, "if the man was still thinking about her thirty years later."

"Luke gave him the score. Ran a background check to be sure nothing was funny. Passed it along to me, and that's that."

Quincy had that strange look on his face again. Rainie thought he might be about to say more, then he apparently changed his mind.

The waiter came with the bill. Quincy paid it. And just like old times, Rainie pretended it didn't bother her.

The sensible thing would've been to end the night there. Quincy had flown in, handed her some desperately needed business, and taken her out on the town. She should quit while she was ahead. But it was only seven o'clock, the temperature was just beginning to cool, and her ego still felt raw.

Rainie walked him through the Pearl District. Look at this gorgeous antique store, complete with a Porsche illegally parked out front. Here's another coffeehouse, here's an art gallery, here's a showroom for unique, handmade furniture. She led him by rows of recently converted warehouses, their facades now redone in creamy yellows and warm brick reds, modest exteriors for half-a-million-dollar condos and luxurious penthouse suites. People sat in tiny square gardens that dotted each front door. More than a few J. Crew-clad couples walked their prized black Labs down well-manicured streets.

Look at this place, Rainie thought. Look at me. Not bad for a small-town Bakersville girl.

Then she glanced down at her ripped-up shorts and ratty tank top, and that quickly, the euphoria left her. She wanted this world, with its pretty, pretty things. She hated this world, with its pretty, pretty things. She was thirty-two years old, and she still didn't know who she was or what she wanted out of life. It made her angry, but mostly with herself.

She made an abrupt about-face, and headed for the hills. After a confused moment, Quincy followed.

Touche was a local place. It had stood when poor college students were the only ones who found the declining warehouse district inhabitable. It would stand long after the SUV crowd got tired of cavernous lofts and fled for greener pastures. The downstairs of the building was a restaurant. Not bad. The upstairs was a pool hall. Much better.

Rainie handed over her drivers license and a wad of cash at the bar. In return, she got a rack of billiard balls, two cue sticks, and two Bud Lights. Quincy arched a brow, then took off his jacket. He wore the only suit in a dimly lit room filled with half a dozen bikers and two dozen college kids. He was now the fish out of water, and he knew it.

"Eight ball," Rainie said. "Junk balls count the same as a scratch. Hit the eight in first and you die."

"I know the game," he said evenly.

"I bet you do." She racked up the balls, then handed him the cue stick to break. He offered her the first pleasant surprise by rolling the stick on the table to test for warp.

"Not bad," he commented.

"They run a good show here. Now stop stalling and break."

He was good. She'd expected that. In their time together, she hadn't found his weak spot yet, something that both irritated her and held her attention. But Rainie had been living in the Pearl District for four months now, and Touche was still the only place that felt like home. The tables were scuffed from use, the carpet well worn, the bar beat up. The place had taken its lickings, just like her.