Page 50 of Over Her Dead Body

Of all the places he could have followed me, he chose the one where I have to smile while he does it.

I look down before my face gives me away.

The cuffs of his white shirt are clean tonight.

That is where my mind goes, because the alternative is Lisbon sunlight, blood, and the knife disappearing into his waistband.

The Reid I knew would never.

I saw what I saw.

And now he is standing beside my boss.

“Ms. Calloway,” he says.

His voice is lower than it used to be. More finished. Reid always sounded like he was still deciding whether he wanted to be in the room. Martin Hale sounds as though he has already bought three people in it and is considering the fourth.

I have heard this man say my name half-asleep. Angry. Laughing. Against my mouth.

Now he says it like we are strangers at a preview.

Beside us, Celeste is still smiling through the introduction.

“Martin’s considering the Austin market, and I told him there’s no one better to help him get acquainted.”

I give him the smile women in my profession learn early: pleasant, measured, and final enough that a sensible man knows not to ask the wrong question.

“Mr. Hale.”

Only then does he release my hand. He gives the room exactly what it expects from a wealthy man being introduced to someone useful.

Owen is watching me.

I straighten without meaning to and tighten my grip on the champagne.

His eyes drop to the glass, then back to my face.

Todd, because God likes comedy, chooses that moment to lean close.

“A new client? It’s your lucky night.”

Reid gives no sign he heard him.

Celeste notices none of this, or notices all of it and considers it irrelevant. “Martin is interested in estate work, private acquisitions, the sort of pieces that don’t usually make it this far onto a wall.”

“Ambitious,” Genevieve says.

She says it lazily, like ambition is a perfume she has smelled before and found a little obvious. Then she turns to Reid and gives him the full gift of her attention.

“Austin is generous to new collectors,” she says. “For a while. Then we become impossible.”

Reid smiles. “I’ll try to enjoy the generous period.”

“You should,” she says. “It’s always the briefest.”

“This is the one I was telling you about.” Celeste angles us toward the painting at Reid’s shoulder. “Emma knows this Voss better than anyone here.”

On the canvas, a woman stands in a yellow kitchen with one hand resting beside a glass of water she has not touched. Beyond the window, a field burns orange beneath a pale sky.