--LUKE--

The woman removed her over-sized sunglasses and revealed a pair of red-rimmed, tired eyes. "Do you have the photos?"

I hesitated. This was my least favorite part. It was one thing to provide closure for a family who'd been through a trauma. That was one of the reasons I'd become a private investigator in the first place. It was another to provide evidence that the life you'd been leading had been a lie. Where one outcome attempted to mend a broken family, the other tore it apart. Today, inside a dark town car with tinted windows and a driver who'd stepped outside, and was currently leaning against the hood, I would break a family apart.

"Luke, I need to know." The woman's lips trembled. She already knew. It was in her eyes. She just needed confirmation.

"I'm sorry, Deliah. He's having an affair." I pulled the thumb drive from my pocket and placed it in her slender hand. Her fingers closed over the device, swallowing it up as if her cherry painted nails could make the evidence disappear forever.

"Are you sure?"

They always asked that question. It was a reflex, a coping mechanism. Maybe I hadn't done my job right or maybe there was an innocent explanation. Maybe one day there would be. That day wasn't today.

"Give the drive to your lawyer along with the receipts you found in his office. They'll put together a case against your husband. Don't let on that you know about the affair. Pack up the kids and go visit your mother for a while."

She nodded as tears welled in her eyes. The sunglasses came back on. "Thank you, Luke. I've already transferred the money into your account. It's from my trust so Richard won't see the bill."

"Take care of yourself, Deliah. Call if you need anything." I reached for the door handle, but Deliah placed her hand over mine.

"Wait." She paused, gathering the confidence to continue. "In your line of work, do you think it can ever work out between two people? I mean are we all destined to fall apart?"

I didn't get that question often. The truth? I was cynical. I'd seen too much. The ways in which people hurt each other were endless and yet, they tried again and again, hoping the next relationship would be different. Blind fools. Too much optimism and not enough reality.

Deliah laughed softly at my silence. "Don't answer that. I don't need to be a PI to solve that one. But, you know what? Even though I'm holding a fist full of photos to the contrary, I think it can work out for some people. Maybe even for me someday." Another laugh, this one closer to my ear. Her breath skated down my neck. "Maybe even for someone as disbelieving as you."

Her thumb traced the skin along my wrist, delving beneath the cuff of my sleeve. I grimaced. See, too much optimism and not enough reality. She'd figured I'd solved one problem, and now, maybe I could solve another. I didn't work like that though. My clients were often raw, emotional, even traumatized. They acted in ways they wouldn't normally. Sometimes they wanted to take revenge, and I was the closest option. I didn't take advantage, not with a client, ever.

"See you around, Dee."

She nodded, unsurprised by my refusal. She knew the rules. The driver took his place in the front seat and I exited the vehicle. I watched it pull into the heavy city traffic and disappear around a corner. Another job completed. I made a mental note to tell my scheduler to pass on the next few cases involving cheating spouses. I needed a break from snapping photos in seedy bars and darkened parking lots.

I walked the block and a half to my building and entered the sparse lobby, noticing instantly the missing doorman. The owner was going to have to get his act together and make sure the desk was manned at all times. This neighborhood might have a safe reputation, but crime was everywhere, and a half-empty building of rich tenants was ripe for the pickings.

My apartment was on the fifth floor, one of the few floors that had occupants. So far, I'd only met two of my neighbors. Across the hall, was a sweet old lady who liked to talk to her Pomeranian while she cooked, and to my right was Mr. Wallstreet. At least that's what I'd nicknamed him.

He looked the type. Expensive suite, hundred dollar hair cut, nose glued to his phone, and a different woman every night. Well, except for the last couple of weeks. The female parade had stopped, which meant one of two things. He was either on travel and took the parade on the road or he'd settled down with the right woman. Ha, scratch that, he was probably dead. A guy like that didn't settle down, and he'd been picking up his mail so not on travel.

The elevator doors opened, and I moved down the hall. Overhead, one of the newly installed globe lights flickered. A fire door at the end of the hallway closed, echoing down the corridor. I must have just missed whoever decided to take the stairs. A prickle of unease started at the back of my neck. This was why we needed a doorman. Anyone off the street could be up here walking around.

I slowed as I reached Mr. Wallstreet's apartment. His door was open. Looking over my shoulder, I checked the hallway. Maybe he'd been the one to take the stairs, but why leave his door wide open? The slide of a chain releasing turned my head.

"Luke, is that you?" Nora, the Pomeranian owning neighbor, peeked through the crack in her door. "I heard a loud noise, and I think someone is hurt across the hall. I called the police."

Unease morphed into action. "Stay inside, I'll check it out."

Nora's door swung open and her Pomeranian gave a little yelp. "I'm a retired nurse. If someone is hurt, I can help. I just didn't want to go over there alone." She locked her dog inside her apartment and tiptoed over the hardwood floors in fuzzy slippers.

"Let me go first." I inched down Wallstreet's narrow entryway and into the open plan living room and kitchen. "Hello? Is anyone here?" My voice echoed in the rafters. Nothing moved. I faced the kitchen, noting the brand new appliances and a fresh coat of white paint. A soft moan reached my ears as Nora lifted a shaking hand to her lips.

The walls were covered in splotches of red. Red everywhere. On the countertops, the stainless steel, and splatted in globs on the tile floor.

"Is that blood?" Nora gripped my arm.

I moved closer, careful not to touch anything or disturb the red stains. Nora gasped at the same time I saw the woman lying on the floor. Her dark curls lay spread out around her face, skin deathly pale, and more red covered her torso. Something in my stomach twisted, like getting kicked in the gut, and losing your breath for a second. I'd seen dead bodies before, plenty, but there was something about this one that affected me.

"Is she dead? We need to check for a pulse." Nora stepped forward, but I stopped her. I didn't know why exactly, but I needed to do it. As if it would make a difference, as if my fingers on her pulse might be the thing that kept her alive. Moving closer, I heard Nora gasp again. There was a second body, near the fridge. A man. His eyes were wide open, sightless. He was dead, no question about it. Mr. Wallstreet, I presumed.

I knelt at the woman's side. Glass was everywhere, biting into my knees, crunching under my feet. I shouldn't be this close. It was a crime scene and I could be disturbing evidence. I didn't care. There was blood on my shoes...wait not blood. What was that smell? Familiar and pungent, it assailed my nose.

Nora smelled it too. Her face scrunched in confusion. "Is that...?"

My fingers touched the base of the woman's neck. Her skin was warm, soft. A pulse beat steadily beneath my hand. Relief swamped me, unlike any I'd ever felt.Her eyes opened, green irises, like fresh cut grass. In the distance, sirens wailed, but our gazes were locked. Time slowed...then...

She screamed and sat up with such force our foreheads cracked together. My head throbbed, ears echoing with her cries.

"He's dead! I'm dying! Someone shot me."

I rubbed my temple as Nora rushed to her side to calm her down.

"You're not dying, dear."

"I've been shot." Her hand covered a spot on her shoulder.

"You're fine. Stop screaming," I muttered, blinking as the last wave of pain left my skull.

The woman whipped her head in my direction. Her eyes narrowed into slits. So much for that split second connection we'd shared. "Are you seriously minimizing my death, right now? Do you not know blood when you see it?"

Nora's fuzzy slippers slid a little in the red substance. She patted the woman's thigh in a comforting gesture. "Relax, you are bleeding, honey, but not from a gunshot. You have a cut on your shoulder. Probably from a bit of glass."

Confusion speared across the woman's face, then clarity returned. Her eyes widened, mouth dropping into a little O.

"Most of what's all over you is tomato sauce," I said, pointing to the jar lid resting near her ankle.Her hand came off her shoulder, palms covered in red paste. She lifted it to her nose and took a gentle sniff. "Oh." She took a second whiff, then dropped her gaze to the red splotched floor. The kitchen was a blood splatter analysis' dream...except with sauce.

"What's your name, dear?" Nora asked.

"Paige. Paige Wilson." Still dazed, her eyes danced over the scattered glass. "He shot at me. I saw it. That jar saved my life."

"Looks like it. The bullet struck it instead of you."

"I'm going to have to write Ragu a letter," she whispered under her breath.

I flattened my lips to stifle a chuckle. Impossible as it seemed, with a dead body four feet away, this girl made me want to laugh.

"I'm sure their customer service department will be glad to receive your letter."

Paige slanted a glance at me. She could hear the amusement in my tone, but I couldn't do anything about that.

Heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway and a team of police entered the apartment, followed by an EMT. Nora and I stepped back to allow the medical personnel in. Paige followed our movements, the look on her face appeared like we were abandoning her to strangers with needles. It was a look I'd seen before, betrayal. Not that I blamed her, needles were terrifying.

The cavalry had arrived. I looked around the apartment, at dead Mr. Wallstreet, at the bullet hole lodged in his mahogany cabinet, a bullet off its mark because of tomato sauce. It was a surreal scene. And at the center was a young woman, babbling about—I leaned in and listened— ghosting and bringing a jar of sauce to a gun fight.

I stifled another laugh.

Yea, it looked like I might have found my next case.