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1
SOMEWHERE IN PHILADELPHIA
Taking pictures of a couple through the window of a trashy motel wasn’t Truly Langford-Bardot’s idea of fun. Problem was, given recent income opportunities, it appeared to be her new job. How she’d gone from celebrated photographer to Mrs. Reeser’s only chance of landing a seven-figure divorce settlement wasn’t a mystery. She’d put herself here, slouched in the bucket seat of her ’71 Barracuda, telephoto lens pointed at the lily-white ass of a man who should know better.
Or at least possessed enough gray matter to close the blinds.
Stupid. Also… gross.
Lifting the travel mug perched between her knees, she washed the bad taste out of her mouth, then framed another shot. Her camera shutter fired. The rapid clicking erupted through her open window to drift undisturbed down the sidewalk. Cracked concrete. Chilly autumn air. Just another late night in an about-to-slide-over-the-edge-into-poverty neighborhood. Shifting forward, she tilted her Canon for a better angle. She checked the images on the digital screen and…
There it was — the money shot.
Double, extra disgusting.
She hated the cheater assignments. Freelancing for workers’ comp on insurance fraud cases was so much better. Taking those pictures didn’t involve sex with prostitutes. It consisted of snapping photos of a guy claiming to have suffered a debilitating back injury at work, but didn’t have any problem climbing a ladder to clean out rain gutters at home.
Again, stupid. Also, thankfully, a lot less gross.
Slouched in her seat, she thumbed the toggle on her camera, flipping rapid-fire through the images on screen. No need to stay any longer. The shots she’d gotten worked. Mrs. Reeser now possessed all the ammunition she needed to close the book on a bad marriage and open a new chapter. Truly didn’t know what that looked like, but if Reeser could piece her life back together after twenty-five years with a jerk, who knew? Maybe there was hope for her yet.
Cranking her window closed, she put the cap back on and twisted off the long-range lens. She pocketed it along with her Canon into the padded interior of the large camera bag sitting on the passenger seat. A quick pull zipped her baby away as her cellphone rang in the holder on her dashboard.
Montrose calling.
Lovely. Just what she didn’t need. Another go-around with a guy she didn’t like, never mind want to admit employed her.
Taking a fortifying breath, Truly touched the flat screen.
A voice full of oil and smoke spilled out of the speaker. “Triple.”
“Yeah,” she said, gritting her teeth at the nickname. She’d asked himrepeatedlyto stop calling her that, but surprise, surprise, he never listened.
“You done?”
Of its own volition, her gaze flicked toward the window across the street. She grimaced. No sense looking at that again. “Money shots in the bank.”
“You coming in now?”
She glanced at the time on her phone. 12:47 AM. No way in hell was she going in now. Later was soon enough to deal with Montrose. “Tomorrow.”
“No good. Need you back at shop now.”
Suspicion uncoiled in the back of her brain. “Why?”
“Got a visitor.”
“Tell him to come back.”
“Triple, there’s a fucking troll sitting in my office.”
Truly blinked. Atroll? What the hell did that mean?
“Says he won’t leave until he speaks with you.”
“Come on, Rosy,” she said, paying him back with a nickname of his own. Fiddling with her travel mug, she snapped the tab on the top open and closed. “It’s going one.”
“Don’t care,” Montrose said, sounding more than his usual amount of pissed off. “Get your ass back to shop.”
