"I know. She just left my office. She came in to tell me that you lied to me."

Oh no. "What did you say?"

"What could I say? I couldn't admit that we confessed our mutual admiration in your kitchen, before we fabricated a story."

Ellen reddened. "I'm so sorry, Marcelo."

"I shouldn't have told them you were sick. So, in theory, you lied to me, and I lied to the staff, and Sarah came in to let me know. If I had just said that it wasn't their business, we'd be fine."

Ellen had undermined Marcelo's authority. A reporter couldn't lie to an editor without consequences. The entire newsroom would be talking about it and waiting to see what he would do. "So what did you say to her?"

"I told her I'd talk to you about it when you got back." Marcelo shook his head. "For an intelligent man, I act so stupid sometimes."

"No, you don't," Ellen rushed to say, hearing the subtext: I never should have crossed the line with you.

"I can't show you any favoritism, and I don't want to have to let you go." Regret freighted his tone, but Ellen straightened up, determined.

"There's no reason to do that, not yet. I'm still away, and that buys us a few days. I have to get clear of this situation."

"What situation?" Marcelo asked, a new urgency in his voice, but all of a sudden the white Jaguar was pulling out of the Bravermans' driveway and turning left toward the main drag.

"Uh, hold on." Ellen tucked the BlackBerry in her neck, twisted on the car's ignition, and hit the gas. She launched herself into rush-hour traffic, an overheated lineup of blaring music, cigarette smoke, and cellphone conversations. She couldn't afford to let too much space get between her and Carol.

"Ellen? Are you there?"

"Marcelo, hang on a sec."

"Please tell me what is going on. I can help you."

"Sorry, but this isn't the best time for me and-" She lost her train of thought because Carol took an unexpected right turn before the causeway. Ellen steered her car into the right lane but the movement dislodged her BlackBerry, which slid off her lap and fell near the gas pedal.

"Good-bye, Marcelo!" she called out, then she hit the gas and swerved around the corner, in pursuit. She had to stay on track. She couldn't worry about her job now, or even Marcelo's. Sooner or later she had to catch a break. She ran the light, staying on Carol's tail.

Chapter Fifty

Ellen followed Carol through the carnation-and-canary-hued buildings of South Beach, where traffic on Collins Avenue was a sizzling stop-and-go. Between them was a white Hummer, like a giant bar of Ivory on wheels. Ahead, the Jag turned left, followed by the Hummer and Ellen. They traveled up a skinny back street lined with delivery entrances to a cigar store, boutiques, and restaurants. Dumpsters alternated with flashy cars parked so haphazardly that they looked strewn there. Carol pulled up behind a parked convertible, and the Hummer powered ahead, leaving Ellen no choice but to keep going or risk being recognized from the grocery store.

She cruised slowly ahead and watched Carol in her rearview mirror. The driver-side door opened, and Carol emerged, stepping out in a tight-fitting tomato red dress, her long dark blond hair loose to her shoulders. She chirped the car locked and walked around to its back fender, heading for the cross street on the far side.

Go, go, go!

Ellen parked illegally, turned off the ignition, grabbed her purse, jumped out of the car, and hustled down the street. Her clogs clopped along, and she made a mental note not to wear Danskos the next time she stalked somebody, unless it was a Clydesdale.

Carol took a left at the cross street, with Ellen tailing her on foot at a safe distance. They reached a street that was closed to traffic, Lincoln Road, and Carol plunged into the crowd of gorgeous models, crazies with face paint, gay men with matching mustaches, and European tourists speaking an array of languages. Pomeranians shared the packed sidewalk with a boa constrictor worn around the neck of a woman who had forgotten the feather part of her feather boa. Kiehl's, Banana Republic, and Victoria's Secret stores were interspersed with boutique and gift shops, and Ellen walked along, marveling. It looked like a street party, with merchandise.

She never lost sight of Carol, helped by the bright red dress. They threaded their way past Cuban, Chinese, and Italian restaurants, their tables spilling out onto large cafe areas for outdoor dining. Carol paused at a sushi restaurant and talked with a camera-ready maitre do", so Ellen slowed her step, watching them. In the next minute, a tall, dark-haired man slipped from the crowd and stopped beside Carol, kissing her on the cheek and encircling her slim waist in a proprietary way.

Bill Braverman.

She recognized him instantly from the online photos. He was slim, in a light gray sport jacket with jeans, but was too covered up to show the wiriness she'd seen online. Nor could she see his features clearly at this distance. She fake-read a menu posted in front of one of the restaurants, letting the crowd flow around her and waiting to see what the Bravermans would do. The crowd chattered away, and the sun vanished behind the palm trees, their spiked fronds waving. She glanced back at the Bravermans, and hidden by the crowd, edged closer to their table.

They were seated in the center of the outdoor dining area, and she got a good look at Bill's face. He was handsome, with his spray of black bangs over dark round eyes and a nose that looked like an older version of Will's. From time to time, he leaned back in his bistro chair, his cigarette smoldering between his fingers, and he spoke animatedly, laughing frequently.

Time to rock.

Ellen slipped her purse onto her shoulder, walked toward the maitre do" of their restaurant, and asked, "Is there a ladies' room inside?"

"In the back, to the right."

"Thanks." Ellen went inside the restaurant, and it smelled like Thai curry, reminding her that she hadn't eaten in ages. She found the ladies' room, went inside, and slipped off her sunglasses. She headed into one of the stalls, closed the door, and went into her purse. On the bottom was a white plastic bag, her DNA kit.

She took it out and checked the contents. Directions she'd downloaded, two pairs of blue plastic gloves she'd had under the sink, and two brown paper bags, which she used to pack Will's snack for school. She opened the directions and read them again, because she didn't want to screw up:

Our paternity test is the most accurate in the country! We analyze your samples at our state-of-the-art laboratory, using a 16-marker DNA test! Be thorough and collect all samples possible! Results are ready in 3 business days, but can be expedited for a small RUSH charge!

Ellen skipped the blah blah blah, which she'd read online. There had been plenty of DNA-TESTING companies on the web, including the one she was using. Her research had taught her that there were two testing options: the first was a standard paternity kit, which was admissible in court and required collection of the DNA by a cheek, or bucal, swab. She didn't need that one, and she doubted the Bravermans would offer up a sample. The second test was the one she was using, a nonstandard DNA test for paternity. Her gaze returned to the form:

For times when the bucal swab method just isn't possible, simply obtain one of the following items, place it in a brown paper bag, store it at room temperature, and send it to us. Follow precautions below!

Ellen read the precautions:

Must wear gloves so as not to get your DNA on the sample. Store at room temperature and do not get the sample wet. Must be put in a paper bag, not plastic.

She scanned the list of permissible collection items, just to make sure she remembered it correctly: