Page 37 of Calculated in Death

“I am.” Alva slid her arm through Sissy’s. “My choice. We really enjoyed the book.”

“It was fascinating,” Sissy said. “I feel sorry for those women, the young girls, the children.”

“So do I.” Eve got to her feet. “I appreciate the time, and the candor. From where I’m standing, you’re doing a good job with that second chance.”

•••

She put her vehicle on auto, partly because she was bone-ass tired and because she wanted to do a few more runs on the way home. She started standards on every member of the victim’s firm, every member of Whitestone’s firm.

What she needed, Eve decided, was to dig into the files McNab had copied from the victim’s home office unit. That gave them a leg up until Yung finessed a warrant.

And, she admitted, there was no way she could comprehensively analyze financials, numbers, audits, whatever the hell it was unless she cleared her head, recharged.

As she drove through the gates, she rubbed her gritty eyes and thought home had never looked so good.

November’s cold and blowing winds stripped the last of the leaves from the trees rising over the wide green lawn. But that just left the view of the house, its towers and turrets, the castlelike gray stone, open. She could already imagine herself inside—in the warmth, the color, the quiet.

She’d grab a shower first, hot, hot, hot, with all those jets pounding the endless day from her body. Maybe twenty minutes down for a quick power nap. Then some food at her desk while she trudged her way through a bunch of numbers she hoped she’d understand.

She pulled up to the grand front entrance, left her car and, so relieved to just be there, all but sleepwalked into the house.

Summerset stood in the foyer, the nightmare in her dreamscape. His bony body clad in his habitual black suit, he eyed her critically while the fat cat Galahad sat at his heel.

“If the cat had dragged anything in, it would be you.”

Deliberately, she stripped off her coat, tossed it over the newel post. “Only because he’d have figured you weren’t worth the effort.” A little lame, she thought, but coherent.

The cat in question trotted over, started to rub against her leg. He froze, arched, sniffing at her with a wild gleam in his bicolored eyes.

Then he backed up, stared up at her. And hissed.

“Hey!”

“Apparently it’s you he doesn’t appear to think worth the effort.”

For a moment she was both puzzled and mortified. This was her cat—and he had very genuinely saved her life. Twice.

Now he stood like a bloated version of a Halloween cat, back arched, hair on end, snarling.

And she remembered the panther cub.

“It’s not my fault. I was conducting an interview. She had a freaking baby panther. I didn’t invite it over for milk and kibble.”

Galahad, obviously finding her excuses as lame as her daily insult, turned away, stuck up his tail in a nonverbal fuck you, and padded back to Summerset.

“Fine. Be that way.”

Grumbling to herself she stalked upstairs. “Who brought you into this cat palace anyway?”

She sulked her way to the bedroom. Stopped long enough to turn to the house comp.

“Where’s Roarke?”

Good evening, darling Eve. Roarke is not in residence at this time.

“Fine.” So she couldn’t even bitch about the cat to her husband.

Fine.