“A—?”

“Sliding scale. Your aunt offered me one for her services.”

“My aunt and I are hardly in the same line of—”

“A matter of opinion. I want one day of your time for free. Then the rate will increase on a predetermined schedule, as you prove your worth.”

His brows shot up. “Prove my—?”

“Yes. You won’t use your usual scale of billable hours, either. I’m not paying fifteen minutes for a two-minute phone call or thirty for an e-mail.”

“That’s standard practice—”

“—in a law firm where the partners are breathing down your neck, making sure you put in eighty billable hours a week. You’re your own boss. You can set your own rates. I want real-time charges, and I don’t want you doing anything that I could do myself—phone calls, e-mails, letters, library research—unless we’ve agreed to it in advance.”

“I believe you’re overestimating my interest in this case, Ms. Jones.”

I met his gaze. Hard to do when he was still wearing his shades, but I approximated. “No, I don’t think I am.”

His lips pressed together. Annoyed with himself for tipping his hand.

When I’d looked up Gabriel online, his work record suggested he was no more than thirty. In other words, he might act like a seasoned professional, but he wasn’t really. More of a quick study, passing the bar, then attacking his job with a single-minded ferocity that earned him a reputation fast. Young enough that he could screw up and act rashly.

“Those are my terms,” I said. “I’ll give you a minute to consider them.”

I wandered over to the fence, gripped the cool metal mesh, and peered into the school yard. Picture-book quaint, like most of Cainsville. A small enclosure with a bright colored play structure, freshly mown grass, and asphalt decorated with a chalk hopscotch court. I didn’t think anyone played hopscotch anymore.

A sprinkler turned on. It was dry here, the warm spring having sucked up any moisture from the other day’s storm. Yet right under the fence a line of darker colored soil looked damp.

I bent and touched the line. No, it was dry. Just darker. I rubbed my fingers together. Brownish-red. Odd.

“Thinking of taking up gardening?”

I stood as Gabriel walked over. “Maybe. Depends on if I get my murder investigation or not.”

“And that depends on what you’re willing to pay for it.” He waved to a bench outside the fence. “Let’s discuss that.”

• • •

I suspect that my terms cost me any “discount” he’d originally been willing to give. I tried to dicker, of course. He stood firm, and the set of his jaw told me he wasn’t budging. It was, admittedly, a fair price for his services.

So I agreed.

“Good.” He tucked his shades into his suit-coat pocket. “We’ll begin tomorrow. I have an idea where we can start. I’ll call you in the morning.”

He started to stand.

“One more thing . . .” I said.

His shoulders tightened.

“I want a gun,” I said.

He turned slowly and looked down at me. “A gun?”

“It was your aunt’s idea.”

A faint sigh.

“Hey, you wanted me to talk to her.”

“No, I believe I said—”

“Don’t talk to her, which you knew would make me talk to her, so in the event that I didn’t take you up on your offer, you’d have a second crack at me.”

“You give me too much credit, Olivia.”

“No, I don’t think I do. Anyway, she’s right. I’m the daughter of two very unpopular people. I should have a gun.”

“And you think I can provide it?”

“Ask your biker gang buddies.”

“They prefer the term ‘motorcycle club.’”

“I’m sure they do.”

He leaned farther into the bench, lips pursed. “While I’m not against such a thing in theory, I’d need to provide lessons, too. Otherwise, I’m liable to lose my client to a fatal gun cleaning incident before she ever sees her trust fund.”

“How much will you charge for those lessons?”

He considered. “A hundred dollars each. Discounted because it’s in my best interest to keep you from shooting yourself.”

“Fine. I want a gun I can put in my purse. Small, reliable, and cheap.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

• • •

Gabriel called at eight thirty the next morning, as I was in the clothing store looking for jogging sweats.

“I’ve arranged our first appointment,” he said.

I flipped through a stack of pink T-shirts. Were they all pink?

“Who is it?”

“Jan Gunderson’s sister.”

“Anna?” Damn it. My one lead and he already had her contact information. And I was sure he hadn’t needed to break into an apartment with a dead body to get it. Figures.

He continued. “You’ll pose as my intern. Dress—”

“Businesslike. I know. Unless we’re interviewing hookers or bikers, that’ll be my default. If we do interview hookers and bikers, warn me in advance, because I have nothing to wear.” I looked around the shop. Fifty percent polyester. Fifty percent loungewear. “And I won’t find it in Cainsville.”

“Jeans and a T-shirt would suffice for such situations.”

I’d been joking. Was he? I honestly couldn’t tell.

He continued, “Business wear for this one, but dowdy.”

“Dowdy?”

“Frumpy. Plain. No makeup. Tie your hair back if you can.”

“What is she, Amish?” I found a navy and white sweat suit in my size and pulled it out.

“Just do it, Olivia. I’m in court this morning. The interview is at noon. I’ll—”

“I work at three. I’ll need to be back by then.”

A pause. “So you intend to keep playing server, even though you have something else to occupy your time?”

I gripped the phone tighter. “I’m not playing anything. It’s my job.”

“You have an Ivy League education, and you’re working in a diner.”

“That’s not your concern.”