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“McMillan and Wife.”
“Scarecrow and Mrs. King.”
“Simon and Simon.”
“Turner and Hooch.”
Win gasped. “Don’t we wish?” Then he snapped his fingers. “Tango and Cash.”
“Ooo, good one.” Then: “Michael Knight and KITT.”
“KITT, the talking car?”
“Yes,” Myron said. “Plus, it has to be the Hoff playing Michael. None of these crappy reboots.”
“Michael and KITT,” Win repeated. “Which one of us is which?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does not,” Win said. “So first steps?”
“Follow the money trail from the offshore accounts.”
“Negative,” Win said.
“Why not?”
“We won’t be able to trace the money,” Win said. “I’m that good.”
“Then look at the Callister murders maybe.”
“On it already. And you? Where do you go?”
Myron thought about it. “To my destructive ex.”
CHAPTER THREE
Emily Downing, the destructive ex, answered the door of her apartment on Fifth Avenue with a wide smile. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the good one I let get away.”
“You use that line every time you see me.”
“It’s what always comes to mind. How long has it been, Myron?”
“Three years. Greg’s funeral.”
Emily knew that, of course. For a moment they just stood there and let the history wash over them. They didn’t try to stop it or pretend that it wasn’t happening. They’d met in the Perkins Library at Duke University the first month of their freshman year. Emily met Myron’s eye and gave him a crooked smile from across the study table. Boom, Myron was a goner. They were both eighteen, both away from home for the first time, both inexperienced in the ways that teenagers pretend they aren’t.
They fell in love.
Or at least, he did.
Standing in front of him now, all these years later, Emily said, “You don’t really think Greg’s alive, do you?”
“Do you?”
She gnawed on her lower lip, and boom again, Myron fell back to those cooling autumn nights in her dorm room, the lights low, the moon in the window over the quad. After almost four years of college dating, Myron broached the subject of marriage toward the end of their senior year.
Emily’s response?
