Page 31 of Look, Don't Touch

“Two weeks and one day,” I counter, shoving from the gloriously steamy water with fully disengaged muscles and a fuzzy head. “And no. Though, it’s not from lack of trying.” I’d circuitously questioned every acquaintance and years-long client with a healthy bank account and a giving heart.

“Where do you think you’re going?” My aunt still hasn’t moved a muscle from the stone recliner she’s draped across in the hot bath.

“I’m going to get dressed and head to the residence.” I don’t bother looking for a clock in the spa. I won’t find one. My raisin-like fingertips are all the evidence I need to know it’s time to go. “If I don’t leave now, I’ll miss dinner. They start serving at five, and Daniel is expecting me.”

“Daniel?” That widens her eyelids and turns her head. Her smile is Cheshire-ish. “Who’s Daniel?”

“Don’t get excited. He’s married and has been for the last three decades to a lovely woman named Emily.” Her smile dies. “They’re very happy together.” It doesn’t revive her grin.

“Then why do we care about Daniel?”

“He’s the director of the residence and my only link to finding out who donated that money.”

“Fine.” She gives a dramatic sigh and peels herself off the rock lounge. “Next time, we’re volunteering and then going to the spa. We did this so backward.”

Only because she was hoping I’d forgo this next part. Perhaps I would have if I focused on Matt’s absence. Curiosity about this million dollars and where it came from has kept my mind busy for days. I have many wealthy clients, but none are so generous or invested in my charity cases. Getting them to attend my annual domestic violence fundraiser is a feat unto itself.

If I’m focused on this mystery, I won’t have to face my newest loss. And I can continue ignoring the old ones.

We head to the dressing room and pull our pampered selves back together.

Astor says I’m obsessed because it’s a distraction, safe from the emotions of losing Matt. She’s right, obviously. I don’t care. She’s obsessed too, texting me about it practically nonstop. It’s a nice distraction, a fun mystery. Better than Crave, in her eyes.

I’ve been itching to go back, but I’m about to start pushing Mr. Judge in therapy, and I’d feel like a farce of a therapist not to stretch my discomfort as he’ll soon have to. Unless he leaves.

Nat and I bid the staff farewell, climb into the Town Car, and head for the Queens Midtown Tunnel.

“Traffic sucks.” Nat huffs.

“It’s two o’clock traffic.” I wave her off and pull my laptop from my bag to catch up on notes I’ve neglected for too long. “Just wait until we head back.”

“Did I mention I hate going to Long Island?”

“Once or twice.” I open my computer.

Nat huffs again.

“What?” I input my passcode.

“You’re working? It’s Saturday.”

“It’s going to take us an hour and a half minimum to get there.” I grin at her. “Would you rather I spend my time examining your current relationship?”

“Not a chance.” She flicks a dainty hand in my direction as though brushing me off. “Work away.”

“I mean, you have seen each other every month for the past four months.” I look at her through my newly stained and curled lashes.

“Five,” she corrects.

“Should I be excited for a new uncle?”

Her cheeks blush. I know it’s not just the manual exfoliation and light chemical peel she had done.

“What’s that look?”

Again, she waves me away, but I’m keyed in. I’m a shark, and I smell blood. My head cocks and brow hikes.

“It’s nothing.”

---