“Men,” she said and went back inside to retrieve her future.

WHEN DAVY came back into the office, Tilda was on the couch with Steve and her third shot of vodka, this one cut with orange juice for flavor. “You know, you never did tell me what you were looking for in her room,” she said, trying not to sound cranky.

“Money.” Davy picked up the vodka bottle. “My money. Clea seduced my financial manager into embezzling my entire net worth.”

“You had enough money to have a financial manager?” Tilda said, impressed.

“He was a colleague,” Davy said, looking for a glass.

Tilda got up and got him one from the cupboard while Steve fibrillated with separation anxiety on the couch. “So what is it that you do? With this colleague?”

“Consult.” He took the glass. “He told me he could show me how to double my money and instead he tripled it,” Davy went on as he poured. “His name is Ronald Abbott. Unaffectionately known as Rabbit for his ability to burrow into other people’s accounts. I was grateful and I got careless.”

It still didn’t sound right to Tilda. “How could he get into your accounts?”

“Rabbit is a genius with money,” Davy said. “Bank accounts are like toy boxes to him. He likes to open them and play with their insides. I cannot pretend to know the things he knows, I can only tell you that I made money in the market when I did what he told me to.”

“I can see where that would lead you to trust him,” Tilda said, sitting down again so Steve would calm down. “I guess. I mean, most financial managers aren’t crooks, right?”

“Actually, Rabbit has a record,” Davy said. “Guys who make a lot of money usually cut corners someplace.”

“He had a record,” Tilda said, incredulous. “You trusted somebody you knew was crooked?”

“Everybody’s crooked,” Davy said. “The trick is to find out how they’re bent. Then you make sure the consequences are so great they stay straight anyway.”

“Oh,” Tilda said, trying to look unbent. “Which clearly didn’t work with Rabbit.”

“Oh, it worked,” Davy said. “Until somebody came along with a bigger carrot than my stick.”

“That big,” Tilda said. “Imagine. Do I know this person? Can I get to know him?”

“Clea,” Davy said, nodding toward the gallery where Clea was smiling at Mason.

“Oh,” Tilda said, following his eyes. “Well. Yes. She does have a big carrot.”

Davy frowned. “You know, the visuals I’m getting on this are-”

“So why not call the police?” Tilda said.

“Good idea,” Davy said. “You call them about the Scarlet first.”

Tilda wanted to say, So there is something crooked here, but that would mean admitting that the Scarlets were bent, so she dropped that one. “Or have Rabbit steal it back. He took it-”

“Yeah,” Davy said. “That’s what I want, to get trapped in a conspiracy charge with Rabbit Because he’s got so much backbone, he’d never rat me out. No.”

“You have a problem,” Tilda said.

“I have many. But I’m working on the money first.”

Tilda nodded and took another drink. “Good choice. The money will probably solve all the other problems. It sure as hell would solve all of mine.”

“No it wouldn’t,” Davy said.

Tilda looked through the door to the gallery again, to where Clea was now dragging an unhappy Mason to the door. “Why you?”

“What?” Davy said, putting the bottle back in the cabinet.

“Why did Clea send him after you?”

“I had money.”

“Lots of people have money,” she said, the skepticism heavy in her voice.

“And some history with Clea,” Davy said, watching the mini-drama through the door. “And some history with Rabbit.”

“You slept with Rabbit, too?” Tilda said, feeling bitchy.

“No, I disagreed with Rabbit once,” Davy said. “We’d made another killing in tech stocks, and I watched the numbers and said, ‘This is too good to be true.’ And that made me think of my dad.”

“Your dad,” Tilda said. “The one in sales.”

“Michael Dempsey,” Davy said, turning back to her. He saluted the air with his glass. “God bless him, wherever he is now, as long as he’s not with me.” He considered that. “Or my sisters. He has many faults, but stupidity is not one of them. He always says, ‘If it looks too good to be true, get out.’”

“Your dad sounds a lot like you.”

“No,” Davy said flatly. “He is nothing like me. And I am nothing like him.”

“Oh-kay,” Tilda said, and took another drink.

Davy nodded. “So I said, ‘Rabbit, get me out of there.’ And he argued, but in the end he put me in blue chips and bonds. And then he sneered at me for six months while the market boomed and he made millions.”

“Wow,” Tilda said.

“Yeah, and then the tech market crashed and he lost everything and I still pretty much had it all.” Davy sighed. “He never really forgave me for that.”

“So he embezzled it.”

“And gave it to Clea, which is why I turned to theft for the one and only time in my otherwise blameless life,” Davy said.

So he really wasn’t a crook. Tilda found that depressing. “Did you get your money back tonight?”

“No. I found your painting and ran.”

“And now she’s seen you. She knows you’re here after the money.”

“Yes.”

Tilda leaned back, suddenly exhausted. “So we’ve completely screwed up your life.”

He looked down at her, and he didn’t look upset. “No, I’d pretty much done that before I met you, Vilma.”

Some of the warmth she’d felt for him in the closet began to ease back, or maybe it was vodka and relief. Whatever it was, it was a huge improvement over panic and guilt, and she drank some more to celebrate.

“I thought they’d never leave,” Gwen said, coming in from the gallery. “If Clea hadn’t thrown a fit, they wouldn’t have. That man was fascinated with-” She saw Davy and stopped. “Oh, good, you’re back. Tilda was so worried.”

“Were you?” Davy said, looking down at Tilda.

“Not at all.” Tilda toasted him with her glass and a weak smile. “I’d have felt no guilt at all if you’d been sent up the river for saving my butt. Again.” She sighed. “Oh, God, never again.”

“Did you get-” Gwen began, and Tilda gestured to the paper-wrapped square on the table.

“He got what we needed,” she said. “He didn’t get what he needed.”

“The night’s young yet,” Davy said, his eyes still on her.

“You’re not going back there,” Gwen told him. “We’ll help you get whatever it is you need, but you are not going back there tonight. They’ll be home any minute.”

Davy patted her shoulder. “Relax. I’m fine.”

“Oh, well, good for you!” Gwen picked up her puzzle book. “I’ve had a terrible evening. That man was absolutely rabid about this damn place and he wants to come back. I don’t think I can stand that again. I’m going to bed with a Double-Crostic and forget any of this happened.”

“Good plan,” Tilda said, keeping a wary eye on Davy, who was pretty chipper for somebody who was still broke. A little vodka and he was back to his old self. That couldn’t be good.

When the door had closed behind Gwen, Davy sat down on the couch beside Tilda and took her glass. “How much of this have you had?”

“I don’t remember,” Tilda said. “I think two. Why?”

“Are you drunk?”

“No,” Tilda said. “I know how-”

“Good.” Davy put the glass on the table.

“-to drink-”

“Bully for you.” Davy slid his arm around her.

“-and…” Tilda’s voice trailed off as he leaned closer. “Okay, if this is about the closet-”

And then he kissed her.