A throat-clearing. And as my gaze dropped from the sky, I realized it wasn’t a cloud blocking the sun at all. There was a man barely a yard away.

“Ms. Taylor-Jones?”

The first thing I saw was his suit. It was a good one. Excellent, in fact. Worth more than some of the cars parked along the road behind him. I thought, James has hired someone to find me.

There was a reason the guy seemed to block the sun. He had to be at least six foot four with shoulders so wide I had to bump up my estimate of the suit’s worth. Nothing off the rack would fit him.

Whoever sprang for a fancy suit, hoping to make him look less intimidating, had wasted his money. One look and you knew exactly what he was—a high-class thug. Property of a very wealthy man. This wasn’t the sort of person James would send. Not unless he wanted me running the other way.

My gaze went to his eyes. Instinct, honed by my dad. Look strangers in the eyes right away, Livy. That’s the only way to get a good read on them. Usually a good rule. Except when the stranger was wearing shades so dark I couldn’t see through them.

The man took a long step backward and the corners of his mouth twitched.

“Is that better?” he said, his voice deep, tone amused. “You look ready to scamper back down the path. Not what I’d expect from the daughter of Pamela Larsen.” Before I could react he pulled a card from his inside pocket and presented it with a mock flourish. I glanced at it, noting only his name—Gabriel Walsh—a Chicago address and the words “Law Firm.”

Not a thug, then. An investigator . . . probably with a little thug thrown in, for getting information people didn’t care to give.

“You work for a lawyer,” I said. When one brow arched, I continued, “Whatever your boss—”

“I don’t have a boss, Ms. Jones.”

He reached out, and I struggled against the urge to move back. He tapped the card with one huge but perfectly manicured fingernail.

I read it again. Gabriel Walsh. Attorney-at-law.

“Oh,” I said.

“A common mistake. I represented your mother. The biological one.”

I glanced up sharply. “You were—?”

“Not her original lawyer, of course.” He wasn’t old enough for that. “I represented Pamela Larsen in her most recent appeal attempt. Lost, unfortunately.”

“I wouldn’t say that’s unfortunate at all.”

His only response was an oddly elegant shrug.

“I suppose she sent you,” I said. “That heartrending jailhouse plea to see her only child? You can tell her—”

“I said I represented her, past tense. She fired me when our request for an appeal was denied.”

“And now you want to get her back.”

“No, I was fired only because she didn’t give me time to quit.”

“I really do need to be going,” I said as I hefted my paper bag. “If you’ll excuse—”

“I’ve come with a business proposition.” He turned toward Rowan Street. “There’s a coffee shop down the road. The food isn’t as good as the diner’s, but it’s quieter.”

He knew Cainsville? I checked the card again. The office address was definitely Chicago.

“How did you find me?” I said.

“I had a tip.” He waved toward the psychic’s house. “Now, about that coffee . . . ?”

I shook my head, said, “Not interested.” I stepped to the side, to go around him. He hesitated, and I thought he was going to block me. My heart picked up speed, brain calculating the distance back to the park. He let me pass, but followed, still talking.

“You may be aware that your mother wrote a book. You may not be aware that it continues to sell quite well. The proceeds, naturally, do not go to Pamela. In the absence of an heir, her royalties are donated to charity. However, now that her heir has been found . . .”

“You’ll help me gain control of those assets,” I said, still walking. “For a price.”

“Fifty percent.” He said it without hesitation. I should have been appalled, but all I could think was, At least he’s honest.

“Those proceeds are going to the victims, aren’t they?”

“Their families.” He clarified this as if it made them less worthy of compensation. A pause for dramatic effect, then he lowered his voice, “The only living victim here is you, Ms. Jones.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. He only dipped his chin, as if granting me a point in a game, which I supposed this was. For him, at least.

“I can see that your standard of living has dropped significantly as the result of this revelation. Your adopted mother has apparently disowned you—”

“No, I’m just taking some time away.”

“Oh?” He looked around. “So this is where you usually come on vacation?”

I kept walking. He followed in silence until we reached the sidewalk, where a sleek Jaguar had taken the last spot on Rowan—the one in front of the fire hydrant.

“May I suggest that poverty is not the grand adventure you expect, Ms. Jones?”

“I know what poverty is.”

“Do you? My mistake then.”

I glanced back. His lips were slightly curved, this time not in a smile but in disdain. Bastard. I climbed the apartment steps. Grace was still there on her battered lawn chair, pulled back into the shadows. She nodded. But it wasn’t me she was looking at.

“Gabriel.”

“Grace. I brought you a scone.” He lifted a small brown bag, which looked remarkably like the one . . . I looked down at my empty hand.

How the hell had he done that?

“Fresh from the oven,” he said. “Still warm.”

Grace took it with a queenly nod, then glowered my way. I started to claim the scone, but realized it would sound like whining. If he got it from me, that was my own fault. Bastard.

“You two know each other?” I said.

“We’re acquainted.” Gabriel turned to me. “I’ve made my offer, Ms. Jones, and I hope you’ll take some time to reconsider it.”

“I don’t need to.”

“I think you might.”

He nodded to Grace, then walked down the steps and headed for the Jag. Got in, peeled from the curb. I watched him go, then turned to Grace.

“You know who I am,” I said.