I started walking away. Gabriel continued trying—give him five minutes, let him explain. He wouldn’t raise his voice, though, not with a camera crew right there, and as soon as I was out of earshot, he went silent.

“Come this way,” whispered a voice at my ear.

I looked over and it took a moment to focus and realize James was beside me. Oh God, James . . .

“This way,” he said again, hand on my elbow.

The camera crew was bearing down now. They hadn’t dared approach with Gabriel there, but this was James Morgan, perfectly civilized, perfectly polite, perfectly unlikely to right-hook them if they got in his face.

“Mr. Morgan?” one called. “Ms. Jones?”

“Not now, please.” James put his arm around me and steered me across the road, calling to them, “This is a private matter. Thank you.”

The crew followed, the reporter calling questions. Shoes clomped on the pavement.

“Ms. Jones isn’t giving interviews,” I heard Gabriel say. “If you would like to speak about the developments in Pamela Larsen’s case, I can spare a minute.”

I didn’t look back.

CHAPTER NINE

If my car had been closer, I think I’d have climbed in and driven away with a distracted “I’ll call you later” for James. Fortunately, by the time we reached the VW, I’d recovered enough not to do anything so rude.

James suggested we go for coffee, and he insisted on driving. I was too shell-shocked to argue—with the coffee or handing over my keys. He drove me to a fancy shop tucked into a nearby pocket of gentrification. It was the kind of place I’d normally love—quiet and intimate. Today, though, I wished he’d just pulled into the nearest Starbucks.

I felt exposed here. A half-dozen people turned to watch me walk in. They knew who I was, from my picture in the papers. In the three weeks since the news broke, I’d been into the city almost daily. I’d probably been recognized every time, but after the first week I hadn’t given a shit. Why? Because Gabriel had been at my side, and his don’t-give-a-fuck-what-you-think-of-me attitude had rubbed off.

With James, it felt completely different.

I’d been in the paper before this debacle. When you come from money, you attend events that get coverage. The only noteworthy thing I’d ever done, though, was getting engaged to James Morgan. CEO of Chicago’s fastest-growing tech firm. Son of a former Illinois senator. Fixture on the city’s most-eligible-bachelor lists. Now here he was telling me he hadn’t abandoned me. He’d only done what I asked and given me space.

“I know…” He exhaled and rubbed his thumb on his chin, a nervous gesture I knew well. “… what I did was wrong. Stupid. Hell, the only reason you’re sitting here right now is because you’re waiting for an explanation. Waiting for me to tell you how I can justify paying a guy to protect you.”

True, though I had an idea what that explanation would be.

He rubbed his chin harder, thumb pressing in. “This is embarrassing as hell, Liv. If I didn’t need to explain…”

“You do.”

His thumbnail absently nicked his lip, and he straightened abruptly. “He talked me into it. Which sounds like a lame excuse, but I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true, because it’s damn humiliating. I walked into Walsh’s office knowing exactly what I wanted—to talk to you, apologize to you, be the man I hadn’t been when you needed me most. I walked in with a clear purpose … and an hour later I walked out having hired Gabriel Walsh to do that job for me. He made it seem…” James shoved back, chair legs squeaking. “Damn it, Liv. I feel like I was conned. I know that’s ridiculous. He’s an attorney, not a two-bit hustler.”

Actually, Gabriel was both. An attorney from a long line of hustlers. Earlier, when James said that Gabriel “convinced” him not to talk to me, I’d had a good idea how this had played out. Gabriel had seen the opportunity for profit and pounced. He’d made his case, and James had fallen for it, like so many before him. Like me.

James continued explaining. I didn’t need it, but like a sinner at confession, he had to spill all the details of his mistake. Yes, it had been a mistake. Clearly, I did not appreciate my former fiancé hiring someone to take care of me and win me back, but James knew he’d been wrong, and I knew he’d been manipulated by a master. Could I forgive him for that? Yes. I could.

There was more, too, a mistake I didn’t need to forgive him for, because apparently it never happened. Last week, I’d seen a gossip-page piece on a reunion between James and his former girlfriend, getting back together. Now, over coffee, he explained that the encounter had been arranged by his mother, in collaboration with his all-too-willing ex. It had indeed only been an encounter—a few minutes at an event where he’d spoken to Eva, unaware the photo had been snapped, and then he’d left the event, alone. After the article came out, James had contacted Gabriel in a panic and been assured the matter would be set straight. Gabriel had never said a word to me.

“I was an idiot to trust him,” James said. “I knew his reputation. Hell, I spoke to one of my firm’s lawyers and I got an earful—about the cases he’s represented, the criminals he’s set free, the allegations against him. Assault, blackmail, intimidation … There’s even a rumor he has a sealed juvenile record.”

He did. For pickpocketing. Which was, I’m sure, only one of many juvenile offenses. As for the rest? I’d seen him deck a reporter. I’d seen him arrange for drugs to be given to a reluctant witness. I’d helped him move a body to delay its discovery. I suspected that any rumors short of murder were true. And I hadn’t cared.

For James, though, I acted as if this was all a huge revelation to me.

He continued, “But when I dug deep enough, all the information I received said that Walsh could, in his way, be trusted. Hire him and he’d do what he was paid for. Apparently not.”

Except he had. He protected me, staying by my side throughout our investigation. As for playing matchmaker? The thought of Gabriel saying, “Hey, maybe you should call your ex. He seems like a nice guy,” was ludicrous. I suppose he figured warning me off Ricky Gallagher was enough.

“So…” James said. “I screwed up, and I know you’re upset—”

“Not with you.”

“Then…”

He laid his closed fist on the table and opened it. On his palm was a ring. My engagement ring.

My heart seized, and I stared as if he were holding out a vial of poison.

My God, how could I even think that?

I’d planned to marry this man. To spend my life with him. And now it was like he belonged in some half-remembered dream. I had loved him. I still felt something that could be love. He was the same guy he’d been when I’d taken that ring a year ago. James had not changed. But I had.

“Liv?”

I looked up and saw his panic, his confusion. If any part of me wasn’t already consumed with self-loathing, that look devoured it in a single chomp.

“I … need time,” I said. “So much has happened, and I’m still confused and…” I swallowed. “I know that’s what I said last week, but after that article on you and Eva, I was sure it was over. Absolutely sure. That’s not your fault. It’s not my fault. But I need…”

“Forty-eight hours before I ask you to recommit?” James tried for a smile.

“I—”

He closed his hand over the ring. “No, you’re right. I’m moving too fast. I’ll walk you back to your car, and when you’re ready—to talk, to have dinner, anything—just call.”

KING OF PENTACLES

Thursday morning, Rose watched the girl head off to work at the diner. She looked fine, perfectly groomed in that casual, understated way that made it seem as if she rolled out of bed with her hair brushed and makeup on. Poised, that was the best word to describe Olivia Taylor-Jones, the girl Rose preferred to call Eden, at least in the privacy of her own mind. Today, though, that poise was a facade, one she couldn’t quite pull off, her head bowed, gait lagging, as if she’d really rather go back to bed and huddle under the sheets.