No . . . He’s still the same hard-nosed man.

Before I can think too much about it, I crank the engine and pull away, determined to find that damning video evidence today.

TWENTY-ONE

IVY

I snort into my coffee mug, my eyes still glued to the single text Sebastian sent me last night. I responded, “You too,” but he never answered. “Are you kidding? He’s not coming back.”

“Of course he is,” Dakota says in that mellow, singsong voice of hers. She’s the same from the moment she wakes up until the moment she goes to bed. If I didn’t like her so much, I’d find it highly irritating. “Here. Have a breakfast bar. I just baked them.” She holds a plate of squares out in front of me.

I eye them warily from my wicker chair. Pistachios, sunflower seeds, raisins . . . they look safe.

“Oh, relax.” She rolls her eyes. “I made them for the people at the shelter.”

I smirk, helping myself to one. Dakota’s unconventional, but even she wouldn’t drug homeless people with hash.

My gaze shifts around her rustic greenhouse, an attachment that runs along the back of the home she rents. It’s a simple frame of wooden timbers and hard plastic above and glass windows that make the sides and back. Beneath my feet are flagstones. And all around are plants. Vibrant purple orchids and blooming cacti, lemon trees with fat, yellow fruits hanging from them, even though I don’t think lemons are in season right now. Dozens of colorful planters rest on the floor and on tiered shelves. Giant trees form a canopy in the corners, vines climbing up the walls. It’s a secluded jungle in the heart of San Francisco, decorated with Christmas lights and countless chimes dangling from the beams of the ceiling.

And off to the side, hidden by innocent, floppy tropical green leaves, is her little marijuana grow-op.

“It’s really nice in here. Peaceful,” I offer.

“Isn’t it?” She beams, her almond-shaped eyes rolling over the space in wonder as she tightens her afghan to her shoulders and curls up in the wicker chair opposite me with her own coffee. Dakota has always been a natural beauty—she has Native American roots, with thick black hair that she keeps long, dark olive skin, and slender but supple curves to prove it. She wears very little makeup, if any, and in all the years I’ve known her I don’t think I’ve seen a single pimple mar her complexion. “So, what do you have planned for today?”

“Well . . .” I sigh. “I have to let the painters into the shop and call the insurance company about the house.”

“After all that you’ve been through, now this.” She offers me a sympathetic smile. “Is it beginning to sink in yet?”

I nod, avoiding an answer with another sip of coffee.

Helping herself to a square, she offers, “You can stay for as long as you need to. You know I don’t mind. And I’d rather you did. That area your house is in isn’t the safest. Clearly. I don’t like that you’re alone over there.”

I wasn’t alone. Not last night. Had those jerks not ransacked my house, I would probably be tangled up in the sheets with Sebastian right now. “Thanks. I may take you up on that.” That house isn’t fit for living in at the moment, anyway, even if I did want to stay there. “I’m going to get my things, and my car.” I glance at my phone. It’s eight fifteen. Sebastian will be here soon. If he’s coming.

He’s not coming.

“So, how did you meet this guy, anyway?”

Leave it to Dakota to change topics from grieving my murdered uncle to the guy I picked up with one sentence. “Someone referred him. He showed up three days ago, wanting a piece done on his rib cage. ” I chuckle, remembering the afternoon, how angry I was. “I turned him down at first, but then he helped me with a rusted bolt, and I felt guilty.”

“Hmm . . . So you gave him what he wanted?” There’s the mischievous twinkle in her eye that I saw that first day I met her back in Sisters. I was a high school sophomore and she was a junior, and both of us were skipping class to enjoy a sunny fall day on the grassy hill behind the school with our sketchbooks.

I smirk. “I did his ink for him, yeah. It took seven hours.”

She casually asks through a sip of coffee, “His design or yours?” The look on my face makes her laugh. “Have you ever actually finished someone else’s design without modifying it?”

I shrug. “It’s called creative license. Anyone going under my needle is warned. Even that hummingbird you sketched for Alex has a few Ivy-inspired adjustments.”

A normal person might get annoyed hearing that. Not Dakota. She sighs. “I miss Alex. She’s such a kind, strong soul.”

“I know. So do I.” Dakota is actually the reason I met our friend Alex. She sent her to the Bend shop that I was working in at the time, sketch in hand, bright ocher eyes filled with nervousness and excitement. She’s also now practically married to the only boy I’ve ever loved, Amber’s brother.

But I’ll never admit that to any of them.

The shrill of my phone’s ring disturbs our morning peace. Normally I wouldn’t even bother looking at it, but the ringtone tells me that Ian got my text about the house.

“Sorry. Gotta get this.” I answer with, “Good times, yo.” I sound like Fez.

“Jesus, Ivy.”

I love the way he says “Jesus,” in his weird Irish-American blended accent. “I know, right? Fucking crazy.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Luckily I wasn’t alone when I got home.”

There’s a moment of pause; I can almost hear Ian rolling his eyes. He’s the kind of guy who dates girls before sleeping with them, and he doesn’t date girls unless he can carry on an in-depth conversation about politics with them, using words like “banal” and “hegemony.”

So he doesn’t date a lot.

“How bad is it?”

“It’s totally wrecked. It’s gonna cost thousands to fix.”

He heaves a sigh. “I’m going to start looking for a flight back.”

Yes! Come back and help me deal with this! I scream inside my head. “No, I’ll handle it. You have school and shit.” Commitments that I don’t have. “I’ll give the insurance company a call as soon as I get to the house this morning.”

Ian heaves a second sigh. “That’s part of the problem . . .”

I can already tell by his tone that I’m not going to like this.

“I was going through some of Ned’s unopened mail. His homeowner’s insurance lapsed two months ago. I called them to see about getting it renewed, and they said it’s not that simple, seeing as he’s deceased. I’m sorry that I forgot to mention it to you earlier.”

My stomach pinches with anxiety. “What does that mean?”

“That we don’t have insurance to cover the damages.”

“Oh my God.” I stare blankly at Dakota as she watches. “We’re fucked!”

“No, we’re not. It just means that we’ll take a hit on the sale price.”

“A huge, enormous hit, Ian. You don’t realize how bad it is.” I blow a strand of hair out of my eyes. “I guess I better go get my broom and start cleaning.”

“Okay. I’m coming back.”

“No. Don’t. There’s nowhere for you to stay anyway.”

“He can stay here,” Dakota mouths.

“No he can’t,” I mouth back. He can’t throw away his PhD for this.

“Send me some pictures, will ya?”

“Sure,” I lie. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him in the first place.

“And call that detective we talked to. Make sure he knows about this. I don’t trust those police departments to talk to each other.”

“Do you really think there’s a connection?”

“Honestly, with Ned . . . yeah. Listen, I gotta run to my next class. Let me know if you need something, Ivy. Please.”

I hang up with my cousin and toss the phone to the table, troubled by what this “connection” may be.

“So, you did his seven-hour tattoo, and then . . .” Dakota prods, pulling us back to the topic of Sebastian.