Tourist Trapped

By K. J. Klemme

Chaos shatters Amanda Sloane’s controlled world when she trades Chicago courtrooms and designer suits for sweat-soaked ventures into the Yucatan to find her missing sister. She searches old haunts and uninhabited lands, and learns to trust no one. Racing against time, Amanda faces death threats, deceptions, and ghosts from her past. Will she escape paradise?

TOURIST TRAPPED
Book One in the Trapped trilogy

Crackerjack divorce attorney Amanda Sloane spends her life defending the soon-to-be-ex-wives of Chicago’s upper crust, but her orderly world crumbles when her estranged father persuades her to help search for the half-sister she’s resented for thirty years.

Amanda drags along computer-geek-turned-attorney Chad Cooper, and together they chase across the Yucatan, pursuing an ever-changing string of leads. The duo encounters treacherous alliances, attacks on their associates, and a deadline for a hefty ransom.

Amanda digs up more than clues when their search collides with the past she believed long buried. Old memories chip away at pretenses, threatening to crush Amanda’s carefully constructed life.

Time is running out. When the bullets start to fly, Amanda and Chad wonder: who will survive Cancun?

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. J. Klemme
• Release date: Apr 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9780990728429

K. J. Klemme

Karlie Klemme spends her days supporting software systems with nervous coworkers—all fearing Karlie will kill them off in one of her stories. Decapitate a developer? Asphyxiate an analyst? Maybe maim a manager? When Karlie gazes off in the distance, everyone starts to sweat. Desperate to use her powers for good, Karlie put pen to paper and wrote Tourist Trapped, a suspense novel that debuted in 2014. She set the story in Cancun, tapping into her experiences from numerous jaunts to the Yucatan. When not torturing characters or frolicking in the tropics, Karlie enjoys kayaking, gardening, skiing, and joyrides in her roadster. She lives in Wisconsin with a Westie and a Scottie-mix who allow Karlie to cohabit with them...as long as the treats cupboard remains well stocked.

Book preview

ONE

Monday December 7, Morning

The snapshot teased at Amanda Sloane’s memory. The naked, copulating couple in the foreground wasn’t of consequence, but the painting—where had she seen it? The portrait’s primitive strokes in vermilion, chartreuse and cobalt blue reminded her of Picasso colliding with Warhol. Not a painting easily forgotten.

Enough with the picture. She refocused on the divorce petition for Veronica Thornton, needing to squeeze every drop of productivity out of the precious thirty minutes between meetings, if only to eliminate one item from the looming pile of lawsuits.

Litigation, her arsenal of spears and arrows in the crusade for women wronged.

But the painting taunted her psyche, drawing her back to the vibrant image. She cropped out the adulterer and his hooker in their unimaginative pose and printed a copy of the artwork. Certain she had seen it before, she closed her eyes and attempted to fill in the room around the canvas. A stark white wall slowly formed behind the painting. Amanda tried to recall the floor and furnishings. In her memory, the fuzzy location felt familiar but impersonal.

A Darth Vader ringtone ripped through her thoughts. Dad’s calling? Now? As the mental picture faltered, she focused her attention on the memory.

Like a bad stalker, the phone continued its rasped breathing and the image faded away.

Crap.

Her father, Don Sloane, knew better than to interrupt her day. It must be something important. She growled and tossed the printout on a mound of memos and motions. Amanda searched for her phone, fumbling through the heap that threatened to swallow her.

Paperless society, my derrière. The concept had failed to penetrate the bunker-like walls of legaldom, where they documented, signed and notarized every movement. And, of course, billed. She found the phone on the edge of her maple desk, wedged beneath a pile of Illinois court bulletins on the verge of toppling over.

Hello Dad.

Mandy, I’m glad I caught you. Her so-called stepmother wailed in the background. Honey, it’s okay, we’ll find her.

Are you talking to me?

No, sorry. Miriam’s a mess.

You’re just noticing? Her assistant laid a note on Amanda’s desk: Harding meeting in ten. Amanda nodded.

We’ve got a crisis down here and I need your help. Your sister’s missing. She and Trent disappeared in Cancun sometime yesterday.

Only Trent would get Rebecca and himself lost in Cancun. Based on the few holidays Amanda had endured with the family, she couldn’t decide if her butt-kissing brother-in-law best resembled a slug, snail or eel, uncertain which species mankind deemed the slimiest.

Okay…knowing your beloved son-in-law, he probably made a back alley deal on some fantabulous excursion to Tulum or Chichén Itzá that provided a one-way trip. Chances are, the two of them are making their way back as we speak. Images of Planes, Trains and Automobiles motored through her mind. Maybe Trent incinerated the rental car.

The court bulletins slid to the floor like a deck of cards shuffled by a Vegas dealer. You’re in Florida and I’m in Chicago, Amanda said. Why are you calling me?

We need you in Cancun to help with the search.

She flicked on the speakerphone. You’re kidding, right? She knelt down to straighten out the puddle of splayed periodicals, contorted from their crash to earth. You’re not seriously asking me to drop my caseload and jet down to the Yucatán to give Trent and Rebecca a lift back to their hotel, are you?

Yes. I’m expecting you to act as a part of this family and help find them.

My dear father, the Sloane-Adams clan is your ‘kin,’ not mine. Amanda set the neatened pile of bulletins on an end table abutting a navy sofa. If you recall, my family fell apart the day you divorced Mom, and then died with her.

Mandy, enough with the drama. We can quibble about events that happened decades ago on another day. Right now we need to focus on finding your sister and her husband.

Didn’t he miss her mother at all? Amanda’s heart ached as if Elizabeth Sloane had died yesterday. Eighteen years hadn’t done much to dull the pain. She crossed the room and picked up the photo of her mother that watched over her from the credenza. The picture had been taken when Elizabeth still had a headful of platinum curls, before the final rounds of chemo. Amanda set the frame back in the exact spot, denying the urge to hug it.

From what I can discern, Dad, Rebecca’s reasonably intelligent. I’m sure she’ll be able to make her way back to a phone and call you later today. They’re in one of the world’s most popular vacation spots, not hunkered down in some drug-infested border town like Juárez.

Amanda grabbed a dark chocolate from a bowl on the conference table, unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth, letting it melt over her tongue. The thick sweetness frayed the edges of her annoyance.

You’re refusing to help. You’re turning your back on your sister.

You keep referring to Rebecca as my sister.

Of course. She is.

In DNA only—I’ve barely spoken a dozen words to her. Other than the few times we’ve been together at Christmas, I haven’t seen her or communicated with her. She may be your daughter, but Rebecca Sloane-Adams is not my sister.

We’ll see about that, Amanda. We’ll see.

* * *

The Harding divorce bothered Amanda as much as the mystery painting, and her father’s audacity. Something about the case stunk like sardines in a sauna. As for Rebecca, there had to be a reasonable explanation for the couple’s disappearance. Probably a case of an overextended umbilical cord snapping like the elastic band in an old pair of undies. Worn and frazzled, it finally ruptured when stretched all the way to Cancun.

Amanda and Chad Cooper sat across the office table from Celeste Harding, their latest client and, forty years ago, Amanda’s babysitter. When Celeste’s best friend caught multimillionaire Gordon Harding emerging from a room at the InterContinental Hotel with his beguiling personal trainer on his arm, Celeste immediately called Amanda. Another divorce, no different than the hundreds before it and the hundreds after it under Amanda’s watchful guidance.

But why now? No doubt Gordo had strayed before. Rumors had him sleeping with anything wearing lipstick and heels.

The sun sifted through the wooden blinds in Amanda’s office, slivers of light striping across the wall of leather-bound law books behind the conference table, and a squinting Celeste. Amanda rose and adjusted the shutters behind her desk.

Cooper perched on the Herman Miller chair in a JCPenney suit and aviator eyeglass frames that went out of fashion with spiked hair and flipped up shirt collars. For the last six months, Amanda had endured his wardrobe of three cheap suits, eight shirts and six ties. She’d seen all combinations, each one worse than the last. She had hoped the guy would upgrade his attire once he noticed the dress code of his coworkers, but no luck. At some point she’d have to explain he’d need a lot of work to continue as the second lawyer on her cases. Major overhaul.

Cooper cleared his throat and looked at her.

Go ahead, Amanda said, noticing his hair as she sat down. He probably frequented a barbershop for his haircuts: parted on the side and combed across. The style of a balding man, although Cooper had a full mane. If it were on another man’s head, she might be tempted to run her hands through the thick, wavy mass—that is if she weren’t involved with a member of Chicago’s pol-itterati. More involved than she wanted to be.

As for Cooper, good thing he wasn’t bald; he couldn’t pull off the shiny pate persona. Too geeky, which made sense since he came from that foreign world of information technology. Something called a DBA. Amanda’s techie friends Lauren, Terry, and Dylan would understand what he did before he attended law school later in life. To her it translated to blah, blah, blah.

Based on her experiences with Dylan and Terry, Amanda assumed Cooper once lived in a world filled with computers, plaid shirts, and khaki trousers. He probably had bantered with others in nerdom about Star Trek, Star Wars, and any other media outlet that embedded star in its title. And yet, many of the precious memories she savored included her two favorite dweebs.

Mrs.—I mean Ms.—or do you prefer Mrs.? Cooper said.

Amanda groaned and rolled her eyes. Ask your question, man, we don’t have all day.

Cooper cleared his throat again. Um, how did you find out about your husband’s affair?

Celeste started explaining. Amanda pushed the box of tissues over to her former babysitter. She’d need them. They always needed them. Betrayal by husbands. Amanda advocated for wives day-after-day because she hadn’t been able to help her own mom when her dad walked out on them to move in with his secretary-slash-mistress and their love child.

From what I understand, you hired someone to follow your—I mean Mr. Harding—to obtain proof. How did this come about? Cooper said.

When my friend, Georgia DuPont, told me what she’d seen at the hotel, she suggested an investigator, a Reinhold Schmidt, to track Gordon’s activity. As you’ve seen by the photographs and logs, he did a thorough job.

Cooper paged through the file. I agree. Mr. Schmidt provided a great deal of detailed information.

She contemplated if Cooper would work out. Similar to Amanda, he entered family law because of personal strife. The details hadn’t interested her, but evidently it was a big enough deal that some of the other partners had wanted to hire the middle-aged fledgling. Amanda didn’t care that he, like her, had reached the half century mark. As long as he possessed excellent transcripts and impeccable references, she had been willing to kick his tires. The guy produced top-notch research and interacted well with their clients, but he seemed…preoccupied.

Cooper sported a wedding ring and her assistant, Jasmine Peters, mentioned he displayed pictures of two young kids in his office. Amanda hadn’t seen the photos; she never entered the junior lawyers’ part of the building. She concentrated on the personal details of her clients, not the law firm staff. With her caseload, she had no time for birthdays or anniversaries; Jaz took care of that, but Amanda took care of Jaz, her dear friend and personal Wonder Woman.

Celeste grabbed a tissue and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. I can’t believe it’s come to this, but I’m finally ready to leave Gordon.

The session was the first time they met in Amanda’s office. Previously the trio had rendezvoused in private rooms at restaurants. Mrs. Harding married a man who frequently had her followed, his appetite for control continually growing.

Celeste, now that we’re making this official, Amanda said, I need to know what triggered your exodus. It could help us with the case.

The petite, trim body beneath the herringbone Gucci suit crumpled, like a tent when the center pole is pulled. Tears rolled down Celeste’s face. He hit Cole.

Your…eighteen-year-old son? Cooper shuffled through his notes.

Celeste nodded. Gordon waited so long for a boy. When Cole was finally born, he expected so much of him—how could any child live up to my husband’s expectations? She wiped her nose. Gordon constantly belittled Cole.

What happened? Amanda said.

Cole brought a friend home after school and Gordon caught them kissing. Her chest heaved. It was a male classmate. Gordon flew into a rage and pummeled Cole, breaking our son’s nose and bruising his kidney.

Amanda reached across the table and grabbed Celeste’s arm. When did this happen? How is Cole doing?

In September. He’s okay now, but I’ve sent him to stay with my parents. I’m afraid if Gordon sees Cole again, he’ll kill him. Celeste patted her mascara-lined cheeks with a tissue. He’s changed so much. With every million he’s hoarded, part of Gordon’s heart died. There’s nothing left of the man who swept me off my feet thirty-five years ago. I’m married to an ogre.

The meeting wrapped up after running through a box of tissues, three bottles of water and a pot of coffee. As Celeste slipped on her coat, she wandered over to Amanda’s desk.

Who owns this portrait now? Celeste pointed at the enlarged printout of the artwork. Gordon sold this a year or two ago—I couldn’t believe he’d part with it. This was the first Gabriel Carter work he purchased. I thought he’d keep it forever.

The dam broke. Of course. She had noticed about a dozen such paintings at the Harding mansion. Amanda visited Celeste’s home each year to dine with the rest of the board members of Annie’s Place for Homeless Women. Celeste had started the tradition when she joined the board seven years ago.

Tell me, Celeste, what would provoke Gordon to let go of something he deemed precious?

Absolutely nothing.

Amanda studied the photo. I’m going to find out your story, if it’s the last thing I do.

* * *

Amanda tossed Celeste’s file on her desk and leaned against the corner, crossing her arms. Jaz walked in with a hot mug of coffee and handed it to her boss. You look like you could use something stronger than Folger’s.

You don’t know the half of it. She looked at her watch. I’ve got at least an hour before my next meeting, right? Can you give me some cave time?

You’re free until the one o’clock session with Mrs. Briggs, Jaz said.

Great. Shut me down for thirty.

Nobody?

Except God.

Got it. Jasmine left and closed the door behind her.

Amanda picked up the phone and dialed Lauren Kessler.

Calling before noon on a weekday? It’s got to be serious.

What do you want first, the latest run-in with my father, or the fact I’m engaged?

The sounds of a woman choking echoed through the phone. You? Engaged? To Matthew Baird? Lauren said. You? Engaged?

Yeah, well, under duress.

I can’t, in my wildest dreams, imagine a situation where you’d agree to marry. What did he do, threaten to impale you with a red-hot pitchfork? Press a razor-sharp machete against your throat?

He dropped to one knee last night at his grandmother’s ninetieth birthday party, in front of about a hundred of his relatives. His grandmother, who’s about to keel over at any second, looked so happy. I just, I just couldn’t refuse—stop laughing. This isn’t funny.

If only the other men had known, all they had to do was to pop the question over the last, feeble breaths of their family matriarch.

I have to return the ring before word gets out—if it made the news, I might have to wait until after the February primary.

And if he won?

No—no he can’t. I couldn’t keep on with this—and I can’t figure out why in hell he proposed. We love each other and we have a great time together, but we’ve never talked about marriage—or anything about the future beyond, maybe six months out.

He probably figured even mentioning the ‘M’ word would send you running.

I see him tonight at a fund-raiser. I’ll talk to him afterward and hand over the ring.

Are you wearing it? How many carats?

It’s so big it’d make me walk lopsided, Amanda said.

Okay, so what’s the issue with your dad?

Rebecca and Trent went to Cancun and promptly disappeared. Dad wants me to fly down and help find them.

Disappeared? In Cancun?

Jaz rapped on the door and flew in, tossing the Chicago Sun-Times on her desk with a big red circle around a picture of Matt and Amanda…and their engagement announcement.

I’m going to kill him—wring his neck! The edge of the paper crunched in Amanda’s hand. That weasel published the announcement in today’s Sun-Times—he must have told the newspaper before he even proposed—that smug S-O-B knew I couldn’t refuse. Lauren, I have to go, I’ve a fiancé to maim.

TWO

Monday December 7, Late Afternoon

Chad hung up his coat in the closet, next to his son’s ski jacket and his daughter’s dress coat. He ran his hand down the sleeves of them, as he did every night.

He turned on the old stereo, hitting the shuffle button on his CD carousel. Kansas’ Dust in the Wind echoed through the living room and into the study where he sorted mail and checked his messages. He scanned his Internet accounts on his ancient laptop. Other than an email from his sister Kate, nothing of worth.

Again.

He gazed at Maggie’s doggie bed next to the desk, with its half-chewed tennis ball wedged in the corner.

Chad changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, tossed a frozen entrée into the microwave and uncapped a Heineken. His phone vibrated with a text. In Wyoming. No details yet.

* * *

Amanda stood next to her beau, Matthew Baird, like a faithful, adoring Black Lab, although he was the one in the dog house. Her face ached from smiling, but her feet, jammed into a pair of skyscraper Jimmy Choos, protested the most. Her charming fiancé hadn’t returned any of the dozen voice messages she had left, each one more animated than the previous. But she stood next to him, graciously greeting everyone, playing the role of the happy fiancée. The boulder glistened on her finger like a shiny new collar.

Matt, great to see you. James Wagner, CEO of Eastport Bank, shook Matt’s hand and slapped his back. Keep up the good work; we need you in Washington—and congratulations on the engagement.

Amanda gritted her teeth behind the grin.

The upper crust mingled near the bar in another of their financially incestuous events, this one to support Matt’s bid for an Illinois senate seat. The expanse of tables in the Waldorf Astoria’s banquet room and the expensive flower arrangements disquieted Amanda. A far cry from Matt’s early events. It seemed Conservatives believed Matt could beat a Democrat this year, thanks to the influence of the Tea Party. A who’s who of CEOs greeted Matt, each of them eager to install into office someone who had their backs.

She smoothed her skirt, which paled in the room full of luscious designer clothes. The wives of the Windy City’s movers and shakers made an effort to dress the part. Luxurious fabrics—silks, velvets and satins—glided past her sensible-yet-expensive navy wool suit. What recession? would be the response to the wives glistening in gold and platinum. A waiter could be cut to the quick if he walked too close to the razor-sharp creases of the men’s Armani slacks.

Why is everyone overdressed? Amanda said through an aching smile.

Matt brushed his lips against her ear. I tried to tell you. These fund-raisers have evolved from cocktail weenies and macaroni salad to canapés and brie. The business community recognizes me as their candidate.

How long had it been since she stood beside him at one of his rallies? A few weeks before Thanksgiving? Had the crowds swelled so much in a month? Her mouth went dry.

Amanda and Matt had clicked the first time they had met, in May at a charity race for Wiggles and Wags Animal Shelter, another one of Amanda’s board-of-director gigs. Matt had been there, standing a foot taller than the crowd, pressing the flesh. The long-legged senate long-shot with a big heart and a small war chest. She had enjoyed watching him interact with his fellow citizens, listening to their gripes and explaining how he’d change Washington.

Amanda and Matt filled their time alone with frenzied fun. Her abdomen tightened as she recalled their trip to Vail over Thanksgiving, ripping down the slopes all day and romping in bed all night. Matthew Baird played with fire…and her.

But now, his campaign had the feel of what she most despised in politics: a marionette among the puppeteers. She needed to carefully and quietly separate from Matt and his campaign. Although furious with him, Amanda loved Matt too much to hurt his chances.

Why did he make it so much more complicated in the last twenty-four hours? Damn him. You know, there’ll be more news about us tomorrow, Amanda said.

Yeah, hopefully we’ll make Tuesday’s front page.

Probably. Me strangling you with my bare hands should make the headlines, she whispered.

I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls; it’s been a crazy day, Matt whispered back. What’s up?

What’s up? The sonofa—what’s up? I wanted to express my delight with the preplanned engagement announcement. She slid her hand around his inner upper arm and pinched. Hard. We need to talk.

Ouch! Stop it. I can’t tonight; I need to meet with my campaign manager after dinner. Let’s discuss it tomorrow.

That’s what you told me last night.

Sorry, but it’s crazy right now.

Darth Vader gasped in the confines of her purse.

What the— Matt glanced down at her bag.

If she ignored it, eventually Vader would shut up, but guests nearby began to look over.

Excuse me. She backed away from Matt and pulled out her phone as she weaved through the circular tables, each one sparkling with china and silverware, ready for the horde of guests who wanted to see her fiancé manipulate government to their liking.

What do you want, Dad?

The kids are still missing and I can’t get down to Cancun because I can’t find my passport. Miriam is trying to make arrangements, but in the meantime we need somebody in Mexico.

Miriam can go down alone—or doesn’t Trent have family?

Mandy, please. I need your help. My baby’s missing.

Her gut burned. This isn’t the place or the time to talk. I’m at a fund-raiser for Matt.

Great—he’s got connections. Ask him to involve the authorities.

Are you nuts? The last thing Matt’s campaign needs is a girlfriend with a crazy family. Her mind flooded with images of the fiasco splashed across the front page of the Chicago Tribune. There’d be enough talk over their ten-year age difference. Now the cougar’s family misplaced a daughter? He can’t know anything about this—nobody can.

A hand braced her shoulder and Matt’s cologne, a mix of ginger and sandalwood, circled her. Is everything okay? You look a little unsettled.

Um, yes. She disconnected the call and turned off her phone. Nothing to worry about. Rebecca better get that skinny butt of hers back to Cancun. Fast.

They wandered back to the crowd, Matt smiling and shaking hands the entire way, but a number of the rich and powerful avoided Amanda: the ex-husbands of her clients. Bright, shiny new trophy wives on their arms, they politely waved at Matt but skirted Amanda. Sadly, she figured these women would be the next wave of clients in her office.

A movement on the fringe of the activity caught her attention. A pair of steely blue eyes stared back. Jonathan Wallace, Gordon Harding’s impeccably dressed henchman. Amanda had done her homework in prepping to help Celeste, and in most photos, Jonathan could be seen hovering somewhere in the vicinity of Gordo.

She tugged on the sleeve of Matt’s Dolce & Gabbana suit. Why is Gordon Harding’s right-hand man here?

Who are you talking about?

Jonathan Wallace, the doer of Gordon’s dirty work.

Well, Mr. Harding isn’t taking any of my calls, thanks to my lovely fiancée, so maybe he sent the guy to check out my prospects. Anybody willing to pay the one-thousand-dollar price tag can attend.

Matt, I noticed a number of your supporters aren’t exactly my biggest fans. Am I more of a liability than an asset? Maybe this engagement isn’t the best idea—especially with our age difference.

He wrapped his arm around her neck and kissed her temple. Nonsense. I want you beside me, all the way. But it might not be a bad idea if you lightened your caseload. I’ll need you with me campaigning from now until November. And then we’ll be heading to Washington.

Matt, it’s not what I—

Wonderful turnout Matthew. Mind if I borrow your lovely fiancée? Peggy Armstrong shook his hand and then grabbed Amanda’s wrist, pulling her to a corner. Although having a senator’s wife on the board would be absolutely marvelous, I have to ask, when did you lose your mind?

Peggy sat on another board with Amanda, the Cook County Coalition for Abused Women. She and her husband Stephen had more money than God, the emissaries of Chicago’s elite.

Trust me, I’m as surprised as you are—probably more so. Peg, I’m so glad you’re here. What’s going on? How did Matt suddenly become so popular with the Conservative contingent?

Stephen mentioned that somebody influential decided to back him and he brought along a number of moguls—which I find fascinating with you on Matthew’s arm. You’re the woman many of them love to hate, having heard tales about what it’s like to be ‘Sloane slain.’

A low, chirping ringtone emanated from Amanda’s purse. Sorry, I have to take this call. Amanda made tracks for the front entrance, pulling out her second phone on the way. Ian, I need to talk to you about that series of snapshots you sent from Miami. I need more photos. We may have stumbled onto something bigger than catching Winston Lamont porking prostitutes. That flamboyant picture in the condo’s living room? It once belonged to Marco Farms CEO Gordon Harding…and I suspect it still does.

THREE

Tuesday December 8, Morning

Panting, Chad dashed up the stairs to the third floor, taking two at a time, late for his morning scrum with Amanda. She’d make him pay for every minute he kept her waiting. A force to be reckoned with.

He threw his coat and briefcase on his desk, grabbed a tablet and pen and sprinted into Jasmine’s area. Catch your breath, she’s not in.

Amanda’s late?

Delayed. She called; she’s on her way. Grab a coffee quick and get settled in her office so she thinks you showed up on time.

You’re a saint, Jaz.

Never, ever, call me Jaz, Cooper.

Hey, that’s a great sweater.

Jasmine pursed her lips and an ebony eyebrow shot up. Really? You think that’ll work on me?

No, honestly—it’s beautiful. The rich blues reminded him of the Caribbean waters in one of those technicolor tropical paradise calendars.

He scurried back to his desk for a couple of files, filled up a coffee cup on the way to Amanda’s office and then sat down at her conference table. He jotted down notes on what he’d accomplished on the list of cases since Monday’s meeting and then checked his iPhone for an update on Wyoming. No luck.

Still no Amanda. For the first time, he was alone in her office. He’d never noticed much about her realm, always focused on the work. The contemporary lines of the sofa and conference table clashed with the heavy, traditional wooden desk. A bit unsettling, not unlike his boss.

A row of picture frames on her credenza caught his eye. In one at the Garfield Park Conservatory, Amanda stood arm-in-arm with an older version of herself. It had to be Amanda’s mother—he’d heard about Elizabeth Sloane. Longtime staff members talked about Mrs. Sloane’s geniality and her addictive double fudge brownies. With such a warm and pleasant parent, how did Amanda grow up with a crust hard enough to pulverize diamonds?

In another picture in front of Buckingham Fountain in Grant Park, Amanda hugged a teenage boy. The pair looked close in the snapshot, like family. Did she have a child? Chad had heard she never married, but no one mentioned offspring. He couldn’t imagine her mothering a gerbil, much less a son. But in the photo, Amanda appeared so blissful Chad barely recognized her—as if she had peeled off the business bitch persona and let her humanity shine through.

Amanda posed with a woman and two men in a couple of pictures. One snapshot looked pretty old. No way. He pulled off his glasses and brought the frame up to his face for a closer look. The gaudy decor—was that The Frog and Fox? They dragged Amanda into the cheesiest burger joint in the city? He scrutinized the faces of these three people who must matter to his boss.

A scenic lake filled the background in the other photo, probably somewhere in Wisconsin’s Northwoods. The same foursome looked at ease with each other. The Amanda laughing in the picture couldn’t be the same woman who kicked his butt on a daily basis. Maybe someday he’d meet the Dr. Jekyll behind the Ms. Hyde.

Chad didn’t expect to see pictures of her father and his second family, but how about the boy toy? No picture of her hotshot-attorney-senator-wannabe? How odd.

As he turned toward the conference table, a bag sitting next to the cabinet caught his eye. Yarn, the color of Jasmine’s sweater, peeked over the edge. It couldn’t be, could it? Behind closed doors the fierce fashionista knits? He chuckled at the image of Amanda in a robe and flannel pajamas, curled up on the couch, knitting—heck, maybe she even owned one of those fleece blankets with sleeves.

A wrinkled newspaper with a red circle grabbed his attention. Amanda? Engaged? The guy had to possess balls of steel. Maybe Matthew Baird would survive in D.C.

Sorry I’m late. She swooshed in, throwing her camelhair coat across the sofa and setting her briefcase and purse on her desk. Let’s start with the Entwistle case.

Jasmine stood in the doorway. Sorry to barge in, but your dad’s on the line again and he says it’s a matter of life and death.

Tell him he’s right; one more phone call and I’ll kill him. She dropped into a chair at the end of the conference table and ran her hand through her long, blonde hair.

Jasmine grimaced like she sucked on a sourball. In other words, I should tell him you’re off site at a location where your cell phone doesn’t work?

Amanda leaned back in her seat, raised her chestnut brown eyes to the ceiling and sighed. Why, oh why couldn’t I be an orphan?

Chad rose to give her privacy. She waved him down. Don’t go anywhere. I’m already behind for the day. This’ll only take a second.

He zeroed in on his notepad and started scribbling, feigning fascination with his caseload.

The phone on the conference table rang and Amanda snatched it up. Now what?

…Sister…missing…no sign of the passport… Chad picked up bits and pieces of her dad’s voice in spite of himself. He couldn’t stop glancing at Amanda, searching for softness in her eyes or grace in her smile. He’d spotted it in the pictures and witnessed it with clients, but, at the moment, she hid it well.

Thanks for the update, but you’re on your own. I’m overextended already with the number of cases on my docket. Good luck—and stop calling me. She hung up. My life’s turning into a bad soap opera.

You too?

Amanda rested her hands in her lap and rocked in the conference chair, staring at Chad. He met her gaze and waited.

My sis—Rebecca and her husband disappeared in Mexico two days ago.

Your sister.

Amanda crossed her arms. My forty-year-old half-sister, a woman I barely know. Now I’m supposed to jump on a plane and help find her.

Wow. When are you going? How can I assist?

I’m not getting in the middle of that mess. My father can clean up after himself.

What’s he found so far?

Nothing. He’s landlocked in Florida until he hunts down his passport.

Who’s searching for them?

Amanda shrugged. The police, I guess.

Chad laid his tablet and pen on the maple table. My younger brother died in a car accident when he was sixteen. His first night with a driver’s license. A semi crossed the median and collided head-on into Zane’s Vega, killing him instantly. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I still hear his voice. I’d give anything to have my brother back. Maybe you should give your sister a fighting chance.

"Don’t try to Dr. Phil me—I’ve watched this woman worm her way into my dad’s life, taking over my place in