Hospital food sucked. It sucked even worse under the watchful gaze of the head of your security detail, who you also happened to have boned twice and who then had an unrelenting thing for you that you didn’t understand. It sucked more still when you felt like wrung-out laundry and all you wanted to do was leave, but you couldn’t until the doctor you didn’t remember evaluating you evaluated you again. And it sucked a bit more still when you didn’t have a phone or computer, and you didn’t remember the phone number of anyone who could get you out of this predicament.

“Miss Ashford?” A firm and decisive double knock filled the room after the sure feminine voice.

“Yes.” Larkin answered with a gust that was honest, only in the fact that she wanted out of this place. The doc was her ticket home. “Come in.”

A woman dressed in sleek black slacks and a leather jacket pushed inside. Her near-black hair was pulled into a tight bun at the base of her neck. The jut of her jaw spoke business.

Maybe the doc was heading out and wanted to sign her discharge papers. Larkin held out hope until the black gun on her hip holster shot it from the sky. The woman surveyed the room in a quick glance and stopped less than a foot from Larkin’s bed.

“Larkin Ashford?” she demanded.

“Yes.” Larkin sat as straight as she could with the persistent cramp in her side.

“I’m Detective Fitzgerald with the East Hampton PD. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Okay.” Larkin couldn’t figure out why a detective would ask questions about a fire, but she’d answer them all the same, despite Douglas’s warning. She had nothing to hide.

“Ideally, we’d have done this right after the incident, but you were unconscious,” the detective said.

“She came to once during the night but didn’t say much,” Lucas offered.

The detective’s gaze remained on Larkin. “This will be your first formal statement about the incident. You are permitted to have counsel present, should you choose to do so.”

“No. I don’t need my lawyer.” The moment the words were out, Larkin wished she’d taken the opportunity to request Genevieve’s presence. Not for legal counsel, but for support.

“You may also request to do this in private or at the station upon your release from the hospital,” the detective added.

“I’m ready.” Larkin grabbed her water from the tray and sucked down several gulps.

“All right. To the best of your ability, please recall the events of last night.” Detective Fitzgerald stood with her hands at her side without a notepad or recorder. Her keen eyes watched Larkin’s every move.

Larkin gave up the pretense of whole health, slumping back on the bed, and told the detective about the day and evening from fishing, the bonfire, all the way until she passed out. To Lucas’s credit, he didn’t say a word.

“So, to your knowledge, no one was with you inside the house last night?” the detective asked.

“No. Douglas and the girls left at about eight thirty. My driver would be able to give you the precise time. I was showered and in bed by nine ten; I know that because I worked on my laptop until ten after midnight.” Why did she feel the need to explain what’d she’d already plainly said? Because the detective asked questions that Larkin had already answered. It made her squirm, and she had no reason to.

“And the women in your company until your driver showed to escort them home were?”

“Libby Irish, Genevieve Holst, and Marlis McCain.”

“Do you have any enemies, Miss Ashford?”

“No.”

“None?”

Larkin took another drink and thought. “Not that I know of. I run a large company that has been in the media as of late. Only local news and it’s not news at all.”

“And that news, not news is?”

“I’m trying to decide whether or not to go public. My board thinks I need to marry to firm up the company’s place in the market, but I disagree. There was a leak to the media, saying that I was on the hunt for Mr. Ashford.”

The detective’s upper lip curled.

“Exactly. Thank you.” Larkin smiled.

The woman was about business and schooled her features. “Any disgruntled lovers?”

“She’s been receiving threats.” Lucas stood like he was a jack-in-the-box, waiting for someone to turn his lever.

“Who are you?” Fitzgerald assessed Lucas full on for the first time.

My disgruntled lover. Larkin gnawed on her lips.

“Lucas Backstrom. Head of security for Miss Ashford.” Lucas answered the question with his hands behind his back, his shoulders back, and chin up as though he was back in his uniform.

“And where were you last night?” The detective struck so swiftly Lucas’s mouth dropped wide and hung slack for a second too long.

“Miss Ashford requested that no security escort her to or stay at her Hamptons house.” Lucas hadn’t exactly answered the question, but Fitzgerald’s gaze rested on Larkin, which likely had its desired effect.

“Why not?” the detective demanded.

“Very few people know about my Hamptons house. I was bringing three guests, which met the house’s capacity. And I wanted to get away.” Larkin shrugged.

“From the head of your security.” Fitzgerald didn’t blink at her blunt statement or wait for a rebuttal. She turned to Lucas. “What kind of threats?”

His gaze shifted this way and that, trying to find steady ground. The detective’s questions were quick and precise.

“Foul words on the greeting cards of freaky flower arrangements.” Lucas was back to his ma’am-yes-ma’am stance.

“Freaky flowers?” The woman’s brow hiked.

“Dolls eyes, black roses, flesh-colored calla lilies.” He listed them off as though it were natural for him to know flowers on sight. As though he’d known about them all along. Because she hadn’t said anything to him about the flowers or the cards.

“Doll’s eyes?” Fitzgerald asked.

“It’s a plant with thick red stems. They have white berries with black dots on the tip that look like eyes. If ingested, the berries can cause cardiac arrest and death.”

“Death?” Larkin gasped. Someone sent her death flowers. She set the cup to the side and drew a deep breath, then another to keep from being sick.

“Black roses represent mortality and the pink calla lilies pair too well with the cards’ messages,” Lucas continued. His voice was a distant muddle of sounds.

“Which was?” The detective braced both hands on her hips.

“Cunt,” Larkin offered.

Fitzgerald nodded. Her gaze slipped from Lucas to Larkin and back. “Mr. Backstrom, you seem to know an awful lot about flowers and their meanings.”

“I researched them after Douglas told me about them.” Lucas stepped closer to the bed. “You should have told me about them as soon as they arrived.”

“It was nothing,” Larkin snapped.

“It’s not nothing anymore,” he bit back. His gaze jumped to the detective. “They poured paint over her building downtown, The Ashford.”

“They?” Fitzgerald was quick. The detective picked up on things faster than she did. Larkin was pretty sure she knew that they’d slept together at some point.

“The culprit.” His hands flapped. “Whoever did it.” Lucas focused on her again. The crests of his cheeks were pink, and a line of sweat broke out in a crease on his forehead. “You should have let me put cameras up there and lock it up tight,” he bellowed. “No one saw anything.”

“Why would I let you invade my space?” Larkin hated being anchored to the bed. She hated being questioned by a man whose paycheck she signed.

“Because of the man on the roof.” He grabbed the bedrail, jostling the mattress.

“That was a fluke thing. A one-off. A misunderstanding.”

“What’s to misunderstand about a man who’s not supposed to be on your roof, being on your roof? What’s to misunderstand about him putting his hands on you?” He openly shook the bedrail.

“Miss Ashford needs more water.” Fitzgerald shoved the Styrofoam pitcher against Lucas’s chest.

The slosh of ice and contact broke Lucas’s single-minded concentration on her. He released the bedrail from his forceful grip and staggered back a step, catching the wayward pitcher in the process.

“I’ll let you back in when we’re finished.” The detective rivaled Lucas in height. He had her in width by a mile, but the authority in her voice brooked no contest.

He let loose a long breath and headed for the door.

When the door closed, Fitzgerald propped a hip on the side of the bed. “Is he always that intense?”

“No, not always. It’s never been that bad. It’s gotten worse each time I refuse a relationship with him.”

“How many times did you two screw?”

Larkin smiled in spite of herself. “I figured you picked up on that. It should have been zero.” She groaned. “Twice.”

“How long ago?”

“A month. Six weeks. When I get back to my computer, I can tell you for certain.”

“You haven’t faltered once since the time of the severing?”

“No. And I was clear from the beginning, as I am with every man I fuck, that the interaction is all there is and will ever be between us.”

“Ever faltered on that?”

“No.” To the detriment of her heart.

Detective Fitzgerald’s phone beeped once. Then twice in a row.

She ignored it. “Tell me about the man on the roof.”

Christ, she’d walked right into that trap. Had Fitzgerald set it intentionally? Her story remained the same, regardless. She told her about the night on the roof and explained the misunderstanding.

“Have you seen him since?”

“No.” How the hell could she lie so easily? Because everything inside her said, ‘Protect Beckett.’ “I think I scared him as much as he scared me.”

“What do you think he was doing on the roof?”

“I don’t know.” She still didn’t know. Not exactly.

“You said the roof is your haven. Who knows that?”

“My girlfriends. Douglas. Lucas.”

Her phone beeped once more. She wasn’t taken off course. “Does your assistant know about it?”

“I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. She was in and out of the occasional lunch I had with the girls. Why?”

“Did she know about your house in The Hamptons?”

Larkin hated the detective’s evasion, but she was doing her job. “Yes. She wouldn’t have, normally, because I only use the house for personal retreats, but over the summer, I hosted a party there for potential board members. It was a small affair with only twelve people, but Reagan helped me coordinate the caterer, rentals, and the one-man band.”

“So you could make me a list of all the people you’ve invited into the house?”

“I think so. It would only be those people, my girlfriends, my security, and the cleaning company I have come in at the end of every summer.” Larkin rubbed her gently throbbing head. Thinking hurt.

“What do they clean?”

“Everything. Rafters to baseboards. I leave the doors open when I’m there in the summer, and the sand is everywhere by the end of season.”

“How often are you at your house in The Hamptons?”

“Last summer only twice. Once with the girls and once for the board candidate party.” She rubbed her head, trying to remember dates. “June. The party was June third. I haven’t had anyone there except the girls since the cleaning.”

“I’ll need that list as soon as you’re released and back in the city.”

“Okay.” She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“And we need to find out who this mystery man is from the roof.”

“Why?” Larkin’s hand dropped. She hoped she didn’t sound too desperate.

“Because someone is trying to kill you.”

Larkin scanned the room, looking for the threat. Antiseptic white surrounded her from the linoleum floors to the privacy curtain that hung in a clump at the far corner of the room.

“I don’t understand.” Larkin’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She tried to swallow, but nothing moved.

“The fire was intentional.” The detective might as well have flipped her mattress and toppled her to the floor. She’d have socked her less.

“Are you sure? We had a bonfire on the deck last night. Maybe it didn’t get banked adequately.”

“I’d hardly call that fire pit a campfire. It’s nowhere near a bonfire.”

“Still, it could have been it. Right?” Larkin needed something to make more sense than the bullshit this lady was peddling.

“It originated from the kitchen—”

“Electrical? They happen all the time. I hear.” She chewed the edge of a fingernail. A nervous tic when someone was trying to kill her … apparently.

“From the kitchen and guest room, closest to yours, almost simultaneously. A third origin point was found in the garage.”

Tears slipped down Larkin’s cheek. She blinked furiously, but it was too late. Fitzgerald’s gaze locked on the streaming emotion.

“Why are you crying?”

Her teeth ground together to staunch the flow, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped. “I don’t understand this. Libby and Douglas made certain I was trained for an attack, but how do you fight someone who won’t face you?”

“You’ve seen them. Talked to them.”

“I’ve talked to them?” She wiped her nose and ignored the tremors in her hands.

“Yes. They’re not stepping out in plain sight yet, but they’re leaving tracks.”

“What kind of tracks?”

“A body.”

Larkin stared at her as if she’d spoken in an alien language. She replayed the words, but they made no better sense by the fourth repeat. “I don’t …” Nausea flopped her belly this way and that. “What do you mean?”

This was one of those turning points. A thing you couldn’t wipe from your memory. A thing that would change everything. The image of her mother’s body hunched inhumanly on the sofa in their living room stamped itself on the back of her lids.

“There was a body in your garage.”

A body in the house with her …

“No.” Her head shook. “No. That’s not possible. I was there alone. No.” She cupped a scream in her hands. Her skin crawled as though it’d never been cleaned, not in her entire life. Bugs. Viruses. Dirt. They clung to her like six feet of earth burdened the dead.

There were signs of forced entry fresh on the garage door.

Larkin heaved.

Fitzgerald jumped from the bed, grabbed an ugly pink bucket from under it, and held it out.

There was so much Larkin had handled over the course of her years. A creep in her house, killing while she was there, and intending her harm weren’t on the list. She couldn’t take it. If her hands moved from her mouth, she’d surely explode. Or implode.

“At first, it read murder cover-up with you as our number one suspect.”

Larkin couldn’t react. All her focus was on not puking all over herself.

“But after the arson investigator studied the scene and now after questioning you, I realize there’s no way. You should’ve been dead. Would have been, if your alarm hadn’t dialed the station directly.”

“It didn’t go off. The alarm.” She spoke into her palm.

“Nope. You have a central unit. Whoever did it thought they’d disabled the alarm, but they only paralyzed the bells, not the call.”

“The body. Who is it?” Her breaths came slowly through her fingertips.

“Best the medical examiner can tell at the scene, a Caucasian female between twenty-five and fifty years of age. He’s already sent off the DNA.”

The thudding in her head increased to the point of shattering her skull. The girls. Larkin used the bedrails and leaned forward as best as she could. “I know they left because I watched the car pull away, but can you please call my girlfriends? I don’t have my phone, and goddammit, I don’t remember their numbers. Please,” she begged. “I need to know they’re okay.”

“All right.” She nodded. “I’ll look them up as soon as I get back to the station.”

“No. Now. Please.” She shoved the hospital phone toward the woman. “I’m sure you have someone at the station who can look that up for you. Please call them.”