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M y skull wouldn't quit ringing. As I fought my way up from the depths of drugged sleep (hey, cold medicine helps you sleep when your life is threatened, not just when you're fighting off the sniffles; they should put that on the commercials), I realized my skull was really the phone by my bedside.

Air mattress side.

I grabbed the phone. "What? And this had really better be very good. It's seven in the freaking morning."

"Nice. Do you always answer your phone like that, young woman? First you block my parking lot with a line of bums, and then you're rude before you even know who's on the line?" The man did not sound happy. In fact, the word crotchety came to mind. I sat up when the words "my parking lot," sank in.

"What? And, I'm sorry. I just had a very late night," I said, trying not to sound like somebody who just woke up.

"Your party-girl lifestyle is not my concern. The hundreds of cardboard boxes being unloaded in the parking lot outside of your – and my – offices, however, are. I'd suggest you get down here and resolve this issue immediately," he said.

"What? What boxes? Who is this, anyway? And how did you get my number?"

"This is your office neighbor, Dentist Brill. And your number is listed in the directory. I simply called information for it, Miss Vaughn. Now get down here and get these boxes out of my parking space!" He slammed the phone down in my ear.

I was so tired of that.

I pulled on shorts and one of my faded Capital Law t-shirts, and tied my hair back in a ponytail. Grabbing a Buckeyes ball cap and my sunglasses, I ran out the door to my car.

My car that wasn't in the driveway.

The total nightmare of Friday evening crashed back into my mind.

Crap.

I had to call Jake. Except everything in me rebelled against the idea, after what a buffoon I'd been around him. So I did the next best thing.

I called the cavalry.

" M y baby! How have you been? How can you possibly justify not calling us last night? Your uncle has been a nervous WRECK worrying about you!" Aunt Celia jumped out of Uncle Nathan's Caddy before he'd even come to a complete stop. Then she ran over and hugged me so hard she nearly broke my ribs. "Isn't that right, Nathan?"

Nathan climbed out of the car at a more sedate pace. "Wreck," he agreed, grinning at me.

"Why, after we saw that the paper printed such outrageous lies about you, I marched right down to. Selma Macarbee and told her that her husband was a doddering old fool, and that nobody had ever liked her peach cobbler. It is entirely too dry, isn't it, Nathan?"

"Dry," he said, walking toward us.

"Um, Aunt Celia," I said, peeling her arms off of me. "Thank you for defending me, but what does peach cobbler have to do with the article?"

"Why, Toby Macarbee is the managing editor of the Post-Union and has been for the past eighteen years, since the prostate trouble took that dear Mr. Ollo, hasn't he, Nathan?"

"Prostate," he said, giving me a big hug.

"And his wife always brags about her important husband, but she makes the driest cobbler in Claymore County, of course," she huffed.

"Of course," I muttered, looking to Uncle Nathan to bail me out.

He looked everywhere but at me, conveying "you're on your own, kid" pretty clearly.

Traitor .

"Well, don't just stand there and babble at the child, Nathan. Let's get her to work to find out what that old toad Brill is complaining about. I never did like him. He did that work on Margaret, and her gums have never been the same since, have they Nathan?"

He shook his head, then went to hold the door open for her. "Never the same since, dear."

Celia chattered all the way to my office, but I only listened with half an ear as I thought about my stalker. I really needed to call Jake and find out if he'd talked to Gina. It seemed a little weird that she would enlist a man's help to make that threatening phone call, but the way she looked, I had the feeling that she could get men to do almost anything she wanted.

Must be nice.

As we rounded the corner and pulled into my office parking lot, Uncle Nathan finally spoke in a complete sentence. "That's a big truck."

My jaw dropped open as I stared at the enormous gray and white truck blocking most of the parking lot. No wonder Brill had been upset. His patients had to park clear over by the eye doctor's office and squeeze past the big, burly men unloading . . .

"What the heck? That looks like hundreds of document boxes! I was hoping it was finally my furniture that had somehow shown up in the wrong place, but that is definitely not my furniture," I said.

As soon as the car stopped, I jumped out and ran over to talk to the men. "Excuse me. I'm December Vaughn. What is all of this?"

One of them swiped sweat off his red face with his beefy arm. "Lady, it's about time you got here. Although, signature or no signature, there's no way we're putting these boxes back in the truck. Gotta be seven hundred frigging degrees this morning."

I folded my arms. "Yes, it's hot. Now, as I asked, what is all of this?"

He scowled at me. "Delivery from Langley Cowan is all I know. What do I care what you lawyers send to each other? Bunch of tree killers, every one of you."

Nathan and Celia walked up next to me and stared at the piles and piles of boxes. Nathan looked the surly delivery guy in the eye. "That's my niece you're addressing, sir. I'll thank you for keeping a civil tongue in your head."

The man narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth, then seemed to change his mind and offered a sheepish grin. "Sorry, man. The heat is just getting to us," he said.

Uncle Nathan nodded. "I don't doubt it. Celia, why don't you go inside and sit in the air conditioning and make some phone calls? I'm going to run to the store and buy some cold drinks for these men."

All three of the moving men perked up a little at that. "We'd sure appreciate that. We're almost done here. We've already unloaded sixty-seven boxes and only have twenty-nine to go," the red-faced guy, who was apparently in charge, said.

"What? That's . . . seven and nine . . . ninety-six boxes! Is he insane?" I said. Then I remembered Addison's strange phone call to Max about "if we could handle it," and I got really ticked off.

"Thank you for your hard work," I said. "I'm going to make a few phone calls myself. Uncle Nathan, let me give you some money for those drinks, please."

He waved me off as he turned and walked toward his car. "Don't worry about it, December. Just keep Celia out of this heat. Knowing her, she'll try to lug boxes."

Celia looked offended. "Really! Although, some of those smaller ones look like something I could lift, dear. Do you want?—"

"No! I mean, no, thank you. Please come inside." There's no way I'm letting my aunt hump boxes in June heat.

Of course, I didn't much want to do it myself, either.

My cell phone rang as I unlocked the office door, and I waved Aunt Celia in and stopped at the doorway. Caller ID said Max. "Hey, Max. What are you doing up this early?"

"I didn't sleep much last night. Kept seeing wild, paint-brandishing thugs in the shadows. I finally turned on all the lights and slept on the couch. How about you?"

"I took cold medicine. Slept fine, but I had a tough time waking up when 'Dentist Brill' called to tell me that our parking lot was being overrun by boxes."

"What? What's that about? And I don't like that man. My brother's wife's cousin's aunt Margaret had some work by him, and her gums have never been the same since."

I rolled my eyes. "Small world, isn't it?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind. I know it's Saturday, and this is a terrible imposition, but any chance you can come down and help me figure out how I'm going to fit ninety-six boxes in our office, much less organize them?"

"WHAT?" For an ex-beauty queen, Max has got some lungs on her.

"Hey! That was my eardrum. Yeah, Langley Cowan dumped ninety-six boxes of what is probably our overdue discovery in our parking lot at seven o'clock on a Saturday morning. Sound sporting to you?"

I heard sputtering noises from her end. "Max? What's going on?"

"Oh, sorry. I said some bad words, and I didn't want you to hear."

"Ah. The southern upbringing. I keep forgetting. You're going to say 'Bless his heart' any minute, aren't you?"

"No! And yes, I'll be right down. I'll bring donuts," she said.

"Bless your heart," I said fervently. "It's going to be a long day."

She sighed. "Long hours and low pay. This is my dream job." Before I could apologize, or offer her a raise, or start sniffling and throw myself on her mercy, she hung up.

At least she didn't slam the phone in my ear. I'd count that as a win.

December: One.

Life: Four hundred and eighty-two.

I flipped my phone shut and walked inside to find Aunt Celia ensconced at the reception desk, with the office phone at her left ear and her cell phone at her right.

Naturally, I eavesdropped on the one-sided — well, two-sided — conversations.

"No, no, no. Stella already said tuna casserole. How about sweet potato pie?" she said into her cell phone.

She nodded and made a note on a sheet of paper, then held the cell phone a couple of inches away from her ear and spoke into the office phone. "Right. How about you for rolls? Nathan will do cold cuts."

Since it sounded like she was busy organizing some potluck dinner for the senior center, and that could take hours, I headed back to my office to call Langley. Five minutes and three "will you hold while I transfer you's" later, I finally heard his smarmy voice.

"Addison Langley."

"Interesting choice for document production, Mr. Langley. Not very sporting of you, though, was it?" I said, using my most syrupy voice.

There was a pause, probably while he decided whether to pretend he didn't know it was me.

He didn't bother to pretend. "Ah. Ms. Vaughn. To what do I owe the honor of this phone call?"

"Right. Like you don't know why I'm calling you. The number ninety-six ring any bells?"

"Hmmm. A riddle. Let me guess. The number of days you've been licensed in Florida?"

I could grow to despise this guy.

"Cute. No, I'm talking about the ninety-six boxes that your flunkies starting unloading in my office parking lot at, oh, probably six-thirty this morning. That ninety-six," I said, drawing a sketch of Langley as the devil, complete with horns and a fat belly.

He sighed. "Ah, Ms. Vaughn. Most of us who work in litigation spend all day on Saturday at the office. How was I to know that you and your associates are more . . . shall we say lax in your habits?"

Before I could singe his ears, he went on. "Oh, I'm sorry. You don't actually have any associates, do you? If this case is too much work for you, I'm sure Sarah Greenberg would be glad to take it. Just say the word, and I'll send somebody over to deliver that discovery to her. Oh, and by the way, Mr. Brody was quite amused at your predicament last night."

The floor dropped out of my stomach. Jake had been laughing it up with this pit viper about me? After how scary everything was?

After he'd asked me to make out in his car?

Scumbag.

I stabbed my pen at the paper and started drawing Jake-with-horns in slashing strokes next to Addy-with-horns. "What is the deal with you and Sarah Greenberg? Are you long-lost twins? Or secret lovers? I've already told you once that I'm keeping this case."

I finished my sketch and started added flames burning them both to cinders, then continued. "Addy, you keep forgetting that I trained with the masters of gamesmanship. You'd better hope you didn't play the 'give the plaintiff tons of paper, but too bad if it's not legible' trick. I have a motion for sanctions already in my forms file for that one."

He started to speak, but I cut him off. "And I win with that motion. Every. Single. Time. Good bye, Addy."

He tried to say something again, but I'd had enough. I gently placed the receiver in the cradle, not slamming it down despite how badly I wanted to do it. My hands might shake, but I'd faced down the big, bad wolf.

December: Two.