Vicki Pettersson - The Given

After that, they all agreed they next needed to find out what was on those flash drives. Yet after the standoff at Sunset, Kit no longer felt safe heading home. If Dennis had signed her name in the Sunset guest book, then Justin and company now knew who she was, and likely where she lived.

“What about the paper?” Zicaro said, eyes glinting as he wheeled himself back out to the car. He was practically salivating at the chance to get back into the newsroom, and his craggy face fell a good inch when Kit shook her head.

“I can’t go around Marin. Not on this.” Though it was possible. Ever since Marin’s life had been threatened the previous summer, she had loosened her grip on her reins at the paper. She no longer overnighted in her office, and even took a full day off each week without going in at all. Most would still consider her a workaholic, but Kit had watched her aunt work a seventy-five-hour workweek for years, and the difference was glaring.

Grif finally spoke, saying what she knew he would, even though it was the last thing she wanted to do. “So maybe she could help.”

Of course, she could . . . and she would, too. But it still galled Kit to ask.

Seeing it, Grif put a hand on her shoulder. “Now is not the time for pride.”

No . . . and so they headed directly to her aunt’s town house, located on a west Vegas golf course with sprawling views of the ninth green. Kit didn’t call ahead, and the guard at the gate recognized her, or at least her vintage Duetto, and just waved her in. That’s why her breath caught when Marin answered the door in a silk robe, one far too decadent for the late-afternoon hours. Zicaro whistled softly from his wheelchair, and Grif tilted his head like he’d never seen her before. As for Kit, she blushed the same bright hue as Marin before clearing her throat. “We need help.”

Six months earlier, she’d have thought nothing of showing up on Marin’s doorstep with her former lover and a paranoid senior citizen. They were family, and Marin would know in a glance that Kit was desperate, and that would be enough. Yet an ever-widening wedge had grown between them since Kit discovered that Marin had knowingly withheld information about the murder of Kit’s father. They worked in the same office, they saw each other daily, but conversations were short and never personal.

And now Kit was on her doorstep with another case that could bring harm to them all. She bit her lip, wondering if that was immediately apparent. Probably, from the way Marin’s eyes narrowed as she spotted Grif. She opened the door wide anyway.

“Hello,” said Zicaro, holding out a hand. “I’m—”

“Crazy Uncle Al,” Marin finished shortly, earning a scowl from the old man. Grif flared his eyes at Kit, but she only shrugged. Marin ran the paper like a sea captain facing down the perfect storm. The longitudes and latitudes, and indeed all the workings of the bowl-like valley, were seared in her brain. She knew exactly who Al Zicaro was.

And it was that mental cache of information that Kit needed now.

“The Wilson family archives are infamous,” Zicaro enthused when Kit told him where they were going. “Is it true that she’s ferreted away every story ever brought to her in her whole tenure as editor in chief?”

Not just every story, but every rumor, old wives’ tale, eyewitness account, and bedroom gossip . . . whether it could be substantiated or not. It was a habit she’d learned from her own father, and no matter how great or minute the information, if there was even the hint of truth to it, she squirreled it away. “Some people hoard money or collect tchotchkes,” Kit told Zicaro. “Marin stockpiles information.”

And so focused was Kit on getting that information that it was only after the door had shut behind them, and Kit was leading the way into the familiar living area, that she smelled the vanilla-scented candles burning in the air, accompanied by the remnants of what could only be a late, or very extended, brunch.

“Hello.” The sight of the petite blond woman seated in the corner of Marin’s slipcovered sofa had Kit pulling up short.

“I’m sorry,” she said, turning toward her aunt. “We interrupted your evening. Er, afternoon.”

“You’re not sorry,” Marin replied, sweeping into the room with the wave of her hand, before resecuring the sash at her waist. “Would you like some wine?”

Zicaro, missing the sarcasm in the question, wheeled past Kit to enter the room, heading straight for the dining-room table. “Absolutely.”

“No,” said Kit, putting one hand on his chair and the other on her forehead. “Oh . . . shit.”

Chuckling, the other woman rose from the sofa and offered her hand. “I’m Amelia. It’s good to finally meet you.”

“Kit Craig,” Kit replied, shaking hands.

The lines bracketing Amelia’s eyes deepened with her smile. “I know who you are.”

A sense of sadness swirled in Kit’s gut as she realized she couldn’t say the same. Pulling away from Marin didn’t just mean they were out of touch at work, it meant she was disconnected from the only living family she had left in this world. Strange how sometimes you didn’t notice how much you missed that sort of connection until faced with it again. Blowing out a hard breath, she tried to ward off her sadness by motioning to the others. “This is Griffin Shaw and that’s Al Zicaro.”

Grif shook Amelia’s hand as well, but Zicaro had already made his way to the wine. Apparently they didn’t offer sauce with the meds at Sunset.

Marin just smirked. “So what’s a reporter, a P.I., and a washed-up newshound—”

“Hey!” That finally drew Zicaro’s attention from his wineglass.

“—doing on my doorstep on a Sunday afternoon?”

The uneasiness fell away as Kit explained about Barbara McCoy’s murder, Zicaro’s kidnapping, and the beef that’d chased them from Sunset. Marin was silent throughout the telling, just biting her lip while Amelia stood behind her, head tilted attentively. Kit didn’t worry about her presence. If Marin trusted her, she was worthy of it.

It made Kit’s feud with her aunt, she thought, pointedly ironic.

“Can I see the flash drives?” Marin finally asked.

Zicaro immediately stuck his hands down his pants. When he tried to hand the plastic drives to Marin, she leaned back in her chair and gestured for Amelia to take it.

“Wait a minute . . .” Zicaro drew his arm back.

“Amelia is a computer nut. I can locate information easily enough in the family archives, but if those things are encrypted she’ll be able to crack them well before me. Not to mention flag any unusual files.”

“And why would she?” Grif asked, earning a glare from Kit, even though she was thinking the same thing herself.

“Because I’m happy to help Marin’s beloved niece in any way I can.” Amelia smiled, once again holding out her hand. “And I owe Marin for saving my nonprofit with a particularly timely piece on the city council member who was trying to shut it down.”

Marin scoffed, a sound that meant Amelia owed her nothing. The sound stuttered when her gaze found Kit’s.

You owe me, Kit thought, but said nothing as Amelia gave Marin’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze.

“What else do you know about the men who chased you today?” Marin asked.

“One of the guys’ name is Justin Allen,” Grif put in. “Calls himself ‘Fuck You,’ though.”

“The others were Larry and Eric,” Kit said. “Surnames—and, uh, nicknames—unknown.”

They all looked at Zicaro. The old man shrugged, eyes never leaving his full glass. “I never thought to ask while they were drugging me up to my eyeballs.”

Marin, at her writing desk, was already scribbling the names down. “Of course I’m going to want something in return.”