Jane dropped her pen and steepled her fingers. “How’d your mother meet these men?”

“Turnin’ tricks.”

“You’re saying she was a prostitute?”

“She had to pay for her drugs somehow.”

That explained a lot. “What’s so scary about Lucifer-I mean, Luther?” she corrected.

“He was her pimp, and he beat the hell out of her.”

Now Jane knew she was in over her head. She liked to believe a bottle of bleach and a couple of tattoos made her look tough. But at five foot four she was no match for an angry pimp. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Standing, she managed a smile. “Thanks for coming in. I’ll call you when I’ve had a chance to do some checking.”

When Jane walked her to the door, Gloria said, “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Jane wasn’t prepared for the embrace that accompanied those words, but as Gloria’s shoulders shook beneath her arms, she felt a renewed determination. She wanted to help, but could she handle this case?

Pimps. Prostitutes. Drugs. She’d never been part of that world. She’d lived with a psychopath, but Oliver was dead, and she was safe. She’d been safe for nearly five years…

Jumping into this was asking for trouble. Most people were kidnapped or killed by a family member or friend, which meant she had to contact Latisha’s father. She had to talk to everyone associated with the missing girls. That was one of the cardinal rules of a good investigation.

But if Luther had anything to do with what had happened to his daughter and her sister, he certainly wouldn’t want her snooping around…

Two

Sebastian Costas held the slip of paper the ATM had just spit out closer to his face. This wasn’t a pleasant way to start the week. Was the damn machine running out of ink? Because the figure he saw had to be missing a zero. He knew he was getting low on funds. It’d been more than a year since he’d worked. In addition to the payments on his Manhattan flat and vehicles-not to mention parking for those vehicles-he’d spent a fortune on private investigators, skip tracers, airfare, hotels and rental cars. But…

“Shit, I must’ve thought the money would last forever.” Apparently, he’d gotten too used to being able to buy whatever he wanted.

What now? he asked himself. He couldn’t keep on like this.

“Excuse me. Are you finished?”

A woman stood behind him, waiting to use the ATM. He hadn’t heard her approach, hadn’t sensed her presence. He’d been too absorbed in considering what the paltry figure on that receipt signified.

Muttering an apology, he crumpled the paper and tossed it in the garbage on his way to the car. Nearing the end of his money meant he was almost out of time. He had a month, max. Then he’d be absolutely broke and the effort he’d put into his search would be wasted because all progress would grind to a halt.

He couldn’t let that happen. He was closer now than he’d ever been.

His cell phone rang. Caller ID showed it was Constance, the woman he’d been dating when he left New York two months ago. They’d been together since before Emily and Colton were killed. But she was growing impatient with his lengthy absence and the intensity of his preoccupation.

He almost silenced the ringer and let it go to voice mail. He didn’t want to talk to her right now. But ignoring her call could very easily mean the end of their relationship. He was already hanging on to her by a very thin thread. Did he want his life to be in total ruins after the nightmare he’d been living was over?

No. He needed to fight for her, fight for what was left of his former existence. “Hello?”

She didn’t bother with a greeting. “Have you thought about it?” she demanded.

“Thought about what?” He knew exactly what she meant, but he was stalling for time. Although he’d had all morning to think about it, he wasn’t any closer to making a decision now than when she’d delivered her ultimatum late last night.

“About coming home! Will you give up this…this obsession, Sebastian?”

Obsession? Was that what it’d become? He supposed so. A man didn’t abandon the kind of life he’d led for less. He’d been making more than half a million a year as one of the best investment bankers in NYC-until his ex-wife and son were murdered. After that, all he’d cared about was finding the man responsible.

Of course, given what the market had done since he’d taken leave from his job, he probably wouldn’t have continued to make that amount even if he’d kept on working.

He unlocked the Lexus he’d rented. “Why the sudden rush, Constance?”

“Rush?” she echoed with incredulity. “I’ve waited eighteen months for our lives to return to normal.”

“I’ve only been gone two.”

“Are you kidding me? In the past year and a half, you’ve traveled all over the country, talking to various people, researching leads. Even when you were home, you shut yourself up in your condo and worked like some kind of mad scientist. This case is all you’ve been able to think about since the night it happened. We haven’t made love in four months, haven’t had a decent conversation since you turned into Dick Tracy.”

He’d loved her, would’ve married her if murder hadn’t disrupted his whole world. But what used to be didn’t matter. Colton and Emily were dead and Emily’s money was gone. Why? He couldn’t give up the quest to uncover the truth. He was Emily and Colton ’s last hope-the only person, besides his own mother perhaps, who truly believed Malcolm Turner was still alive.

“I can’t blame you for being disappointed.” He slid behind the wheel and cranked the engine. A Sacramento winter wasn’t nearly as cold as a New York winter, but it was chilly enough to require a heater.

“Then what are you going to do about it?”

She was far more direct now than she’d been before, which made him assume she might’ve met someone else. He’d expected it to happen a lot sooner, couldn’t blame her for being ready to move on. A model-turned-stock-analyst, she was intelligent, successful, beautiful.

And yet, every day he widened the chasm between them. He couldn’t promise to fly back to New York because he knew he’d break that promise. When he and other family members had gone through the house and boxed up Colton ’s and Emily’s belongings, they hadn’t found several things they should have. One was evidence of where the money had gone, money Emily had mentioned to him a week before her death. She’d said there was a safety-deposit box containing the five-hundred-thousand-dollar insurance settlement she’d received for being hit by a drunk driver. She’d said she was keeping it liquid, saving it for a new life, one without Malcolm in it, and showed him where he could find the key in case something should ever happen to her.

Planning to donate it to NYU-where Colton had hoped to go to school-Sebastian had attempted to claim it. The key was there. But the box was empty. And there was no indication of where the money had been moved.

Malcolm had not only killed Emily and Colton, he’d profited from it. Sebastian was sure of that.

“Malcolm didn’t die in the crash, Constance.”

“Oh, God, here we go again!”

It was beginning to rain. The windshield wipers came on automatically-a minor luxury he wouldn’t be able to afford much longer. Considering his financial situation, he’d have to get a cheaper rental car.

“And what evidence do you have?” she went on. “That insurance settlement you’re always talking about? You told me yourself Malcolm liked to gamble on football games, basketball games, any kind of sporting event. Did it ever occur to you that he paid off his debts with that money?”

“If he paid off his debts, why didn’t he pay off his credit cards, some of which were at almost thirty-percent interest?” Sebastian had seen the bills when he cleaned out the house. Emily’s parents had died in a plane crash just after he and Emily had divorced, so even her stuff had fallen to him.