So About the Money

By Cathy Perkins

When Holly Price trips over a friend’s dead body while hiking, her life takes a nosedive into a world of intrigue and danger. The verdict is murder—and Holly is the prime suspect. Of course, it doesn't help matters that the infinitely sexy—and very pissed off—cop threatening to arrest her is JC Dimitrak, her jilted ex-fiancé.

To protect her future, her business...and her heart...the intrepid forensic accountant must use all her considerable investigative skills to follow the money through an intricate web of shadow companies, while staying one step ahead of her ex-fiancé. She better solve the case before the real killer decides CPA stands for Certified Pain in the Ass...and the next dead body found beside the river is Holly’s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cathy Perkins
• Release date: Nov 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781942003021

Cathy Perkins

An award-winning author, Cathy Perkins works in the financial industry, where she's observed the hide-in-plain-sight skills employed by her villains. She writes predominantly financial-based mysteries but enjoys exploring the relationship aspect of her characters' lives. A member of Sisters in Crime, Romance Writers of America (Kiss of Death chapter) and International Thriller Writers, she is a contributing editor for The Big Thrill and coordinated the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Mystery/Suspense.When not writing, she can be found doing battle with the beavers over the pond height or setting off on another travel adventure. Born and raised in South Carolina (the setting for CYPHER, HONOR CODE and THE PROFESSOR), she now lives in Washington (setting for the Holly Price mysteries) with her husband, children, several dogs and the resident deer herd.

Book preview

Chapter One

Big Flats, eastern Washington

Holly Price picked the wrong moment to admire the Snake River. She managed a quick glimpse of blue water rushing between barren black cliffs before she tripped and staggered off the narrow trail.

Alex Montoya glanced back. You okay?

Yeah. Her hiking boot caught another of the rocks littering the sagebrush-studded plateau. Arms windmilling, she fought to stay on her feet. Don’t face plant. Do. Not. Face plant.

She stumbled through a clump of tall grass and a pheasant burst out the other side.

Rooster! Alex snapped his shotgun against his shoulder, pivoting to track the bird.

The pheasant struggled into the air with a flurry of feathers. A handful of pellets dropped as it made a break for freedom. Who knew scare the crap out of you could be literal, was Holly’s next thought—and probably the bird’s last.

Two seconds later, a head-rocking blast hit Holly’s ears and the pheasant tumbled from the sky.

Damn.

Did you miss? She tried to suppress the hopeful note.

I winged him. Find him, Duke.

The German shorthair raced ahead, intent on the falling bird.

It’s alive? She gave the rocky field a dubious inspection—not many places for an injured bird to hide.

Don’t worry. Her date tossed the words over his shoulder. He jogged to the edge of the cliff. Duke’ll find him.

Holly’s shoulders sagged. Great.

She followed Alex, but stopped a cautious two feet from the dropoff. Below her, Alex scrambled toward the mushiest patch of ground she’d seen since moving back to godforsaken eastern Washington. Why are we going down there?

That’s where the bird went. His teeth gleamed against his tanned skin. Stay close.

Feet sliding on the rocky soil, he charged after his bird dog and vanished into the tangled foliage lining the Snake River.

Well, damn.

When he’d invited her to Big Flats, she’d heard hike, while he meant hunt. Given the glorious fall day—sunshine and a blue sky that went on forever—she’d expected another picnic. Two weeks ago, Alex had taken her to a mountain meadow. A sandwich and a bottle of wine later, they’d kissed like teenagers and she’d thought about throwing both caution and her clothes to the wind.

Today, he’d morphed into some kind of Neanderthal maniac—me mighty hunter, you Jane. It was a mixed metaphor, but a slow burn started in her belly. She’d tried to be a good sport, but this was ridiculous.

She checked the land behind her—a dry plain dotted with stunted sagebrush, cheatgrass, and jumbled rocks—as if a giant exit here sign might appear.

No such luck.

She could probably find the parking lot.

Maybe.

Ditching Alex held a huge appeal, but the thought of quitting chaffed as badly as the grit in her boot.

Alrighty.

Hands spread for balance, she eased down the goat trail to the boggy tract. She dodged some blackberry canes and stepped onto a line of broken reeds that marked the path through the underbrush.

Alex had been so proud of the first rooster he’d shot that morning. He’d held it out, expecting praise the way her mother’s cat, Fonzie, did when he laid something brown, furry, and dead at her feet. All Holly had seen was the beauty of the mottled breast feathers, the brilliant bands of neck color, and the lifeless flop of the pheasant’s head.

She sighed, resigned. Chasing birds and shooting at them didn’t even register on her Fun Things To Do list. She and Alex really didn’t have much in common. Maybe she shouldn’t keep dating him.

Even if he was fun.

When he wasn’t playing with guns.

She shoved further into the thicket and followed the faint trail of bent stalks. Getting lost was so not on her agenda. She never had trouble with directions in the city, but out here she couldn’t tell one bush from another.

The trail split, the narrow ribbons churned to muck by hunters’ boots. She glanced behind her. She didn’t have any breadcrumbs to mark the way back to the cliff.

Alex?

Only vague thrashing sounds answered her.

Okay, she could figure this out. The left-hand side looked slightly more trampled, so she pushed past the leaning cattails. Willows, canes, and some kind of bushes towered overhead, crowding the boggy track. Soft mud sucked at her boots. The air stank of rotting vegetation and gulls squabbled in the distance. A dozen yards later, the trail divided again.

She peered forward and behind. Alex, she called, louder this time. Where are you?

She might be the commitment-phobe in this relationship, but surely Alex wouldn’t leave her out here. Everywhere she looked, dangling leaves and dried canes blocked her path. The sharp staccato of a dog’s excited bark broke the silence. Duke—ahead and to the right. The dog must have found the wounded pheasant.

She edged past a mushy spot. A harsher tang that reminded her of the dead fish they’d passed earlier grew stronger with each step. Nose covered with her hand, she rehearsed choice phrases to unleash on Alex when she finally found him, starting with a sarcastic, Thanks for your concern, before descending rapidly to asshole.

Something big rustled in the dense undergrowth behind her. Heart pounding, she spun around and peered into the thicket. They had coyotes out here. And drug grower/dealer guys. The only person they’d seen between the gravel parking area and this jungle was an Aryan Nation skinhead dude. Her heart stutter stepped. Oh, crap. What if this was his territory?

The noise from something plunging through the brush grew louder, closer. Blindly, she turned and crashed through the tangled foliage.

The rushes ended at a mound of dirt. She staggered into the clearing, her gaze zeroing in on Alex. Leaning over something on the ground, he tugged at Duke’s collar. The dog struggled, twisting his body in a muscular objection.

Alex. Thank God. Her knees felt weaker than she wanted to admit. I heard something in the bushes back there.

Probably a deer. Stay back. He wrestled the dog to the side.

His brusque tone shattered her mini-panic.

Well, don’t I feel silly.

A quick glance around registered the details. A drooping cottonwood canopied the clearing. Sunlit water lapped at the muddy shore. Gulls whirled overhead in a protesting flurry, lingering in a swirling complaint of dirty white feathers. The clearing looked like a teenagers’ party spot. Tattered food wrappers and empty beer bottles littered the ground. Filthy, torn clothing formed a soggy heap at the water’s edge.

The wind gusted off the inlet, carrying a stench across the clearing.

Phew. As bad as it smelled, she wondered if a dead fish was caught in the trash. A few birds remained near the river, their wings raised high, voices screeching defiance.

The pile of clothes had female-shaped contours. Eyes narrowed, Holly gave it a closer look. A pale, mud-streaked foot extended toward her. Is that a woman?

She moved closer, curiosity overriding her earlier fear. Is she drunk?

Don’t come over here. Alex clipped a short leash to Duke’s collar.

Harsh, abrupt. He’d never spoken to her like that before. A hint of unease coiled around her chest. She took in his grim expression. What’s wrong?

One of the gulls lunged. It stabbed through the matted hair screening the woman’s face and pecked at a glittering object.

Stop it. Holly rushed forward, flinging out her arms. Leave her alone!

The birds scrambled away.

Alex grabbed her arm. Don’t.

Tugging against his restraint, she took another step, then gagged as the condition of the woman’s body registered. Unnatural stillness. Carrion birds. Waterlogged, rotting skin.

Missing parts.

Not drunk.

Dead.

Oh my God. She backed away. Bile crept up her throat.

Focus on something, anything except the body.

Unable to look away, the golden shape at the woman’s throat caught Holly’s attention—a pair of hearts, a large diamond at the juncture. Recognition rippled a chill through her that had nothing to do with the wind. She immediately rejected the possibility—dozens of people could own a necklace like that.

The breeze ruffled the corpse’s dark hair and revealed more of the ravaged face. Memory replaced the dead woman's missing features. Laughing eyes filled empty sockets. Rosebud lips covered gaping teeth.

Holly’s head acknowledged what her heart already knew. The necklace was a custom piece—and she’d seen it a dozen times.

It’s Marcy.

A roaring started in her ears and her breakfast splattered her boots.

~$~

Cars, people, and a confusion of lights and sounds crowded the potholed parking lot. Holly stared at the groups of men and let the swamp of radio chatter, static, car engines, and voices form a protective barrier against too much reality. The men’s uniforms varied—she identified sheriff’s deputies, game wardens, search and rescue, highway patrol, and emergency medical techs—but the super-charged testosterone was everywhere. The murder of a young woman, especially a beautiful young woman like Marcy, had brought law enforcement out in droves.

Holly closed her eyes and hitched the blanket around her shoulders. If she wasn’t so freaked out about Marcy, being around this many cops would make her skin crawl. The small hairs on her neck kept lifting, as if they were little antennae, searching for a threat.

Stop it. Not all cops were like Frank Phalen.

Rubbing first her neck and then her temples, she hoped to somehow escape the whole nightmare. Instead, her thoughts returned to the twined hearts, the winking stone.

The empty eye sockets.

Dear God, Marcy’s dead.

Ms. Price?

Holly? Alex’s voice—the tone said it wasn’t the first time he’d called her name.

Think she’s in shock? Alex asked the deputy.

She straightened her spine and transferred her attention to the brown-uniformed man who was studying her with equal measures of concern and irritation. Just because she’d thrown up and cried while she and Alex were waiting for the police—including Officer Brown Uniform—to show up, there was no reason to treat her like she was made of glass.

I’m fine.

A gust of wind swirled off the river. She pulled the blanket closer and shivered.

Brown Uniform tugged his hat lower on his head. Let’s give her a few more minutes.

He turned back to Alex. How is it you were so deep into that bog?

Alex pushed his hands into his pockets. Normally, I wouldn’t go back there. You know how it is. Can’t get a clear shot if you flush something, and it’s a bitch to find anything if you do. I clipped a rooster. It ran. I didn’t want to leave it wounded, so when Duke caught a line on it, I followed him. It never occurred to me to tell Holly to wait up top.

Both men turned a look on her that said she wasn’t very bright.

You told me to stay with you, she said, irritated at their discussing her as if she were an inanimate object. Alex’s possessive tone and Brown Uniform’s speculative expression made her madder.

They ignored her.

Tell me one more time, how’d you find that body? The deputy drew Alex away.

His words unleashed the memory of the bloated, bird-pecked corpse. Holly’s stomach cramped. How could this happen to you, Marcy?

Part of her kept playing the dumb what-if game. What if she hadn’t tripped and spooked the bird? What if the pheasant hadn’t tried to fly away? The circular thoughts were pointless. She and Alex might not have found the body, but Marcy would still be dead.

Desperate for distraction, she focused on the activity around her. Men and dogs trailed across the causeway. They straggled through a field in the direction of the bluff and the bog beyond it. Others clumped in twos and threes, doing whatever men did.

Another man, one who wasn’t wearing a uniform, strolled across the parking lot and stopped beside her. She stifled a groan. For the past two hours, assorted law enforcement types had asked her numerous questions—the same questions.

The game warden introduced himself. Now, Ms. Price. His voice was as raspy and weather-roughened as his face. I’m mostly out here checking on hunters, making sure they’re using the right ammunition, keeping the poachers honest, that sort of thing, but seeing as how this young woman’s body showed up in my game management area, I have a few questions.

The shrewd expression in his eyes said he was smarter than he sounded. The deference the other cops showed him made her wary of the good ol’ boy routine.

He hitched his Carhartts, resettled his gear, and then pulled out a small leather notebook and pen. Tell me, how well did you know this young woman?

Is it really Marcy?

I heard tell you said it was Ms. Ramirez. Now why would you think a thing like that?

I think it is. I mean, she’s missing—she’s been missing since Tuesday—and she always wore a double-heart necklace…

That necklace the victim’s wearing, I heard you recognized it.

Marcy wore one like that. I thought it was beautiful. A flash of Marcy fingering the hearts, a dreamy expression on her face, shot through Holly’s mind and tears again filled her eyes.

If the warden noticed, he didn’t mention her reaction. Seems like a spendy piece of jewelry, not a trinket you’d pick up at the department store. You know where she got it?

Holly blinked back the tears and shook her head.

A gift? he asked.

Maybe. If it was, I don’t know who gave it to her.

He tapped his pen against his pad. You say she was missing. How’d you know she didn’t just go off with her boyfriend?

Holly raised her hands in an I-don’t-know gesture. Her sister reported it on Wednesday. I figured they were in a position to know.

Another Blazer with a set of rooftop lights rattled past the news vehicles on the state highway and continued down the narrow road into the crowded parking lot. The men parted, then repositioned themselves in its wake.

The game warden glanced at the vehicle. That’s the Franklin County detective who’ll be handling this investigation for me. I need to speak with him. Now you just hold still a minute.

He crossed the parking lot toward the Blazer.

The driver’s door opened and a tall, dark-haired man emerged. The street clothes set him apart from the assorted cops, but the aura of authority surrounding him was already turning heads.

Oh, crap, Holly muttered.

And she’d thought this day couldn’t get any worse.

A detective’s shield winked in the sunlight as the newcomer reached into his truck and pulled out a heavy coat. Uniformed men converged on him. The deputies shuffled around, reorienting themselves in some obscure male pecking order, undoubtedly ready to update him on the investigation.

It was official. This was the worst day of her life.

Marcy was dead.

She and Alex were apparently suspects.

And her ex-fiancé was the lead investigator.

Chapter Two

No, no, no, echoed through Holly’s head.

Her ex-fiancé, JC Dimitrak, hitched the coat over his shoulders and turned his attention to the surrounding officers.

Alex moved next to her. Another one?

She edged around Alex, positioning him between JC and her. At least the detective hadn’t seen her yet. She couldn’t deal with JC right now. She’d hoped to never deal with him again.

She’d managed to avoid him the entire five months she’d been back in Richland—something that had taken more effort than she’d expected in a town of fifty thousand. Why did he have to be in charge of this investigation?

Alex dropped an arm around her. How’re you holding up?

She had enough in her head with Marcy. Thank God Alex didn’t know about JC. The only thing worse than dealing with them separately was handling them together. I’ve had better days.

You and me both. This isn’t exactly our normal routine. Alex gestured at the crowded parking lot and then looked in the direction of the hidden bog.

Are they sure it’s Marcy? Her dead friend might not be her first choice for conversation topics, but talking about Marcy beat obsessing about JC and whatever he was planning, thinking, or saying. Holly scrubbed her hands over her face. That sounded horrible, but JC’s presence screwed up her ability to think straight about anything.

They haven’t told me jack. Discouragement flattened Alex’s voice. They just keep asking questions.

I know the feeling. Think they’re nearly finished?

God, I hope so. I don’t know how many more times and ways I can say, ‘I don’t know who killed her.’

Can we leave? The other police officers had her information. Maybe talking to JC wasn’t really necessary.

Alex shrugged. They have their processes. Cops never struck me as particularly flexible people.

A gust of wind eddied around them and she shivered.

You cold? He tightened his arm.

I’m freezing. She scooted closer to Alex. He definitely had redeeming qualities. Right now, they included shoulders wide enough to block both the wind and JC’s line of sight.

I’ll be glad when they’re done. The strain of the past hours showed in the gray tinge under his olive complexion. Lines pinched the corners of his eyes and mouth, and the bleak expression was one she’d never seen before. He’d known Marcy longer than she had, so her death would hit him hard. And clearly the officers had hammered him with tougher questions than the ones they’d asked her.

Men’s voices carried across the narrow parking lot. Mostly she caught words and phrases, but after all this time she could still pick out JC’s deep, rumbly voice.

Finally the cops’ conversation seemed to wind down. The couple who found the body is right over here, the game warden said.

Here it comes. She resisted the urge to peek around Alex’s shoulder.

Alejandro Montoya and Holly Price, the warden continued.

Who? JC asked.

She braced herself and stepped forward. Hands clenched, she met the detective’s hard-eyed scowl.

So they found the body? JC spoke to the game warden but his eyes never left hers. Anyone check to see if it still had a heart?

Real mature. Heat flooded her cheeks as the insult slapped her. You had to say something. You couldn’t just let it go.

Six years vanished and all the hurt and anger of their last confrontation lay between them. Everyone froze, as if wondering how to back away without losing a body part. Then a couple of officers stepped forward.

Looking to protect JC or her?

I take it you two have met.

Alex’s voice. She startled. Intent on JC, she’d forgotten Alex was there.

Damn. Think he picked up on that little detail?

Eyes narrowed, Alex’s gaze swung from her to JC.

She struggled to keep the turmoil twisting her stomach out of her words. "That’s JC Dimitrak. I thought I knew him, once upon a time. I found out the hard way I didn’t."

JC held his ground, studying her. After a beat, his attention transferred to Alex and she saw the same cool scrutiny in his expression. She’d have given a lot to know what he was thinking.

She examined the hard planes of his face. Then again, maybe she didn’t want to know.

This is hardly the place to discuss ancient history. JC’s voice was as frigid as his little black heart.

You started it, she wanted to sputter. But she wasn’t going to act like a two-year-old. Or like she cared what JC thought. Or…or…

You’re the last person I expected to see out here, he said.

His comment covered multiple levels. He hadn’t expected to see her at a murder scene. At a game management area. In Richland, at all.

She lifted her chin and hoped her voice matched his icy tone. "How would you know where I’d be or what I like to do?"

His gaze drifted down her body, his expression considering, with a trace of smug.

Her face grew warmer. Okay. There were things he’d known she liked.

She crossed her arms. My being here’s a temporary arrangement.

Alex’s face grew stonier with each barbed exchange. Are we under arrest? he asked the detective.

No.

Then we’re leaving. You know how to find us.

Not so fast there, young fella, the game warden spoke up. I need to finish interviewing Ms. Price.

He crooked a finger, calling her to join JC and him.

Alex glared. She wasn’t far from the same degree of irritation. People did not summon her like she was their…their…bird dog.

The game warden signaled again, a bigger sweep of his hand. Reluctantly, she joined the two men.

Let’s see. The older man tapped his pen against his notebook, a gesture that was starting to irritate her. Now, what is it you do for a living?

She looked from the warden to JC. Who was actually in charge?

JC smiled—a grim one—at her confusion. This is federal land. The warden’s in charge until he releases the scene.

Great.

She turned to the game warden. At least business was easier to talk about than emotions. My regular job is with the Mergers and Acquisitions Group in Seattle, but right now I’m working for Desert Accounting.

From the corner of her eye, she saw JC’s smile widen to a grin. Clearly, he was enjoying the squirm factor of her being back in Richland, working at a place she’d sworn she never would.

That’s a big change for a single woman like you. We get a lot of young people moving to eastern Washington, wanting to raise a family in a more wholesome environment.

She refrained from reminding the warden they were at a murder scene that was far from wholesome.

What made you decide to move across the Cascades and work for a local accountant? he asked.

My parents own the accounting firm. My mother needed some help.

Your mother needed help, hmm? What about your father? He didn’t need help?

She sneaked another glance at JC. Like she wanted to bring up infidelity in front of him. They separated. I really don’t see how any of that’s relevant to who murdered my friend.

The game warden’s face and voice hardened. We decide what’s relevant. You just answer the questions.

His words kicked over a dozen memories, none of them good. The Seattle cops had dismissed her concerns about Frank. Overlooked the stalking, the growing threats. Refused initially to enforce the restraining order against one of their own.

You can’t trust cops.

The game warden’s insistent voice intruded. A lot of couples separate over infidelity. I heard the victim was a pretty little gal. Worked in the office right across the hall. From you. Your dad… So where is your dad these days?

She slammed the door on the past. This guy was not going to build a conspiracy theory about Marcy having an affair with her father. The blasted yoga instructor, yes, but not Marcy. He moved to Arizona. Last I heard he was living in a sweat lodge. And he certainly isn’t the only man I know who can’t keep his pants zipped.

The smile left JC’s face.

Stop it. Ignore JC. Just give them the facts. They don’t need the details.

Hmm. The warden scribbled something, then waited a beat—tapping his pen—as if he wanted to see if she’d say anything else. The only shotgun and hunting license I’ve seen today belongs to Mr. Montoya. So why’s a young woman like you out here?

After another twenty minutes of answering the same questions she’d answered when the first policemen arrived, she was ready to go home and crawl in bed. To wake up and find it was all a bad dream. That Marcy was just fine.

That young man worked with the victim, didn’t he? The warden nodded in Alex’s direction.

Alex glared at her—or rather the three of them. The way things were going, he ought to watch his own back. If the body really is, was, Marcy, she didn’t work for Alex.

The warden flipped a few pages in his notebook. Says here Mr. Montoya and his family own a restaurant. Marcy Ramirez didn’t work for him?

Marcy worked for Tim Stevens. The officer knew that—he’d accused her father of having an affair with the pretty gal across the hall. Alex was Tim’s business partner in the real estate development company, but she didn’t think he needed to have that pointed out, especially with the cops already all over Alex’s possible involvement. All the officers had asked too many questions about both Alex’s and her relationship with Marcy.

The warden gave her an assessing look. You know Mr. Stevens?

He’s a client. I met Marcy through him.

Interesting the way you four are mixed up together, JC said.

She gave him a narrow-eyed glare. He was loving watching her squirm. None of us had any reason to hurt Marcy. She’s our friend. She left unspoken, So why can’t we wrap this up and you guys go find the killer?

The game warden made another note on his pad. Now, we got over 800 acres out here. How is it you two managed to find the body when it was all tangled up in the bushes?

We just followed the dog. She shuddered and shook off the memory of the body in the clearing.

Okay, I got it straight now. Mr. Montoya led you to the body.

Fresh adrenaline shot through her system. No, of course not. Alex didn’t lead me—

Then how did you know the body was in the bog? the officer interrupted.

We didn’t know the body was there. We just found her. We didn’t kill her.

He asked a few more questions, then slid his notebook into his jacket pocket. I think that’s it for now. Detective Dimitrak, she’s all yours.

Not just no, but hell no. Never in a million years.

JC’s lips twitched, as if he’d also caught the double entendre. I have more questions.

Of course he did.

She looked into JC’s cold eyes and remembered a time when his gaze was hot with desire and filled with love. The memory oozed through cracks in her emotional control. It seeped like hot acid, burning with fresh betrayal instead of lying dormant as ancient history. Her throat tightened and tears pricked her eyes.

She couldn’t handle this. Not now.

Hands fisted, she struggled to keep the tears from falling. Can we do this later?

JC’s face tightened, as if he planned to automatically turn her down.

She swallowed her pride. Please?

A silent moment stretched, then he gave a curt nod. Okay.

The tears, the tremble in her voice, or the memory of what they’d once meant to each other—she wasn’t sure what made him change his mind. Whatever it was, she could guarantee he’d make her pay for it later, but for now, gratitude sliced through the pain.

Don’t get any thoughts about leaving town. Plug some time into your calendar for us to chat, because I have questions. Lots and lots of them.

Oh, goody.

Wouldn’t that be fun.

Chapter Three

An hour later, Holly leaned her forehead against the tile wall of her shower. Warm water pounded her shoulders. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Marcy had been one of the first people who reached out to her when she moved back to Richland.

And now the woman was dead.

The pipes shuddered. The hot water ran out.

Argh! Holly dodged the freezing water and reached for the taps. Add a water heater to the list of Things To Replace.

She dried off and hung up the towels. A glance at the mirror drew a disgusted snort. Oh, let’s just make this day a full and complete disaster.

She looked like crap. Not that looks had ever been her strong point. At twenty-eight, she was still the tall, blond, scrawny kid she’d been during college.

Not that it mattered. She straightened her shoulders. A woman’s worth wasn’t defined by the outside package.

Her inner teenager whined, The next time I saw JC, I wanted to look amazing.

She told the idiot to shut up.

She’d managed to not think about JC Dimitrak for nearly six years. There was no reason to change anything today.

Except now she looked like a murder suspect. She didn’t have a choice whether or not to talk to him.

But jeez—who’d have thought JC Just Crazy Dimitrak would end up in law enforcement?

Still, it was done. Seventh layer of hell, between the reunion with JC and Marcy’s horrible death, but she’d survived. Running away, selling Desert Accounting at a bargain-basement price, sounded amazingly attractive. She could move back to civilization on the west side of the Cascade Mountains and never have to deal with any of it again.