She might want to weep and scream and call him three kinds of fool for risking his life playing superhero with a cracked leg, but logic warned that she couldn’t help him.

  Fortunately, the student spoke enough English to understand, and being female, she happily agreed. Pris suspected half Dante’s classes were there because of him and not the subject.

  They were welcome to the insufferable professor who needed no one and nobody except servants.

  She eased the Fiat back to the road at a more sedate pace, promising the twins they could get out and look around. She hoped Leo would be gracious enough to offer them the ubiquitous lemonade, and hopefully, bathrooms, but she wouldn’t hold her breath. Dante’s villa wasn’t too far away. She could always take them home.

  After she played around with Leo’s mind a little more. So yeah, she could be goal-oriented too.

  She didn’t have to wait long after pulling up the drive and releasing the kids before Leo arrived. It looked as if he might have slicked back his hair and slapped on some pomade for her benefit.

  He was seriously not her type, but she smiled in appreciation anyway. At least he noticed her existence. “Buon giorno, Signor Ugazio.”

  He helped her lift the picnic basket from the car floor. “Are you running away from Dante, I hope?” He glanced at the twins, who’d discovered the gazebo. “Are those Lucia’s? I haven’t seen them since they were in diapers.”

  “This is Dante learning to take care of them,” Pris said dryly. “He got caught in a kerfuffle down below. Five-year-olds can’t sit still for long. Do you have water or anything I can offer them?”

  She could tell the tunnel collapse fretted at Leo’s mind, but she couldn’t read his actual thoughts. He relaxed his mental guard at her innocuous question, and she poked a bit as he answered.

  “We have water in the cooler and cans of lemonade. Afraid I don’t have anyone to make the real stuff these days.” He led the way over to the gazebo bar and handed out drinks.

  One-track minds were annoyingly just that. Pris could tell he agonized over finances. Even a cave-in and Lucia’s children didn’t distract him from adding up costs of blocking off the tunnel. Leo was useless.

  He handed the twins cans, noted their resemblance to Dante, and forgot about them, much as Dante did, apparently.

  Pris attempted directing Leo’s mental energy. “Will the tunnel collapsing again be a problem for you?”

  She received the distinct impression of relief before he shuttered his thoughts and replied with caution. He wanted the tunnel closed?

  “I know Dante hoped we had Etruscan tombs, but the dead should be allowed their privacy, shouldn’t they?” He opened a can of soft drink.

  “I hadn’t given it much thought. Dust to dust is my preference. Grave goods belong with the living. They’re just temptation for thieves.”

  “And archeologists,” Leo added with amusement.

  But he wasn’t really amused. He was seeing bones again. And money? Good grief, did everything relate to money? She’d hate to administer a Rorschach test on this man.

  “You’re not worried that your oil tanks won’t someday fall through the floor into the tunnel below?” How did she steer a conversation to bones? She usually avoided her gift for good reason—it made for senseless conversation.

  “There is probably a hundred feet of dirt below the tanks.” He shrugged in unconcern.

  “Or maybe if the floor falls in, you’ll find the tombs,” she suggested.

  She almost caught a glimpse of gold coloring his thoughts. Gold? Then a car rolled up the drive, and he emitted a wave of panic. Pris glanced over her shoulder at a black limo parking in the pull-off beside the Fiat. “Customer?” Although one did not panic over customers.

  “Hardly.” He strolled away, leaving her to entertain the twins. The name Gladwell came through loud and strong, though, and not with pleasure.

  Even simple-minded Leo had way too much crammed inside his cranium to read clearly. Sorting out what he knew about Lucia’s stepfamily was an impossibility requiring a deep dive into memories she couldn’t possibly access.

  Of course, if Leo meant to murder anyone, did she really want to know that?

  Lingering out of sight in the gazebo, Pris studied the older man exiting the car and slapping Leo on the back. Vincent Gladwell had been right there with KK when she died. He’d lost his only daughter, and instead of planning her funeral, he was on a pleasure trip? That’s what Leo had said the Gladwells did when they visited.

  His son, Matt, climbed out on the other side. Hadn’t Evie said she’d just talked to him back in South Carolina? Maybe they were holding KK’s funeral here? Why? She was English.

  As the men walked toward Leo’s office, she could see the tension as well as sense it. Vincent’s mind was a bramble of fury. Matt’s seemed to have a single focus—wine. He left Leo and his father and aimed for the tasting room inside.

  With her focus on the men, she lost track of the twins. Before she knew it, they darted out of the gazebo in pursuit of a farm cat.

  At sight of them, Vincent halted. Pris heard one thought loud and clear—Damn bastards!—before a thicket of curses created another impenetrable mental hedge.

  Guilt, murderous hatred, and fear seeped through the thorns.

  Twenty-one: Evie

  Afterthought, South Carolina

  * * *

  Evie tested the back door of La Bella Gente’s unopened bistro. It was unlocked, as Roark had promised. A man with his acute hearing, who could open safes, had no difficulty with this flimsy doorknob lock.

  It was still early morning, before the boutique next door opened, but the morning sun hadn’t filtered into the bistro’s kitchen area. She nearly stumbled over a stack of pallets and a few garbage bags waiting to be hauled to a dumpster. Apparently beautiful people didn’t like taking out trash.

  She tapped the mic Reuben had given her. “Testing.”

  “You’re good. Camera’s on the alley,” Reuben reported in her earbud. “I’ll let you know when the pest arrives.”

  She’d sent anonymous messages to both Rhonda Tart and Jane Lawson suggesting this meeting place. She hoped they’d heeded her wise advice, or this was all for nothing.

  Of course, given the relative cluelessness of both parties, she was probably just being nosy and accomplishing nothing anyway. Pris was over there with the real villains.

  As Evie picked her way past the trash, hunting for a hiding place, KK flitted about in near invisibility. Apparently, she had little interest in the bistro. Did she even realize only a wall separated her from her favorite place, the glittery chrome-and-glass shop? Evie still couldn’t pinpoint why KK was clinging to this mortal coil. The ghost appeared purposeless. She’d always thought spirit energy needed a good reason to apply itself to staying in this plane of existence.

  The dining room was mostly dusty empty space. No tables or good hiding places, just a serving counter and a. . . Evie studied the dark windows of a cabinet and opened it. Maybe for wine bottles? Although the shelves had never been installed. There were cartons leaning against the sides. She scooted them out of the way and stepped inside—perfect size. The window was a problem though.

  She stepped out, set a broomstick and a rag inside as a test, and decided that in this dim light, she could stand against the wall and not be seen. “I’m in and ready,” she whispered into her mic.

  “Lawson in alley,” Rube reported.

  “This is almost exciting,” she whispered back.

  Reuben had insisted a microphone was sufficient for listening in on the blogger and Rhonda and that she needn’t risk herself. Evie had to remind him that she needed to physically see people talking as well as hear them. Auras didn’t show up on equipment.

  She leaned against the wall of the cabinet in the best position for observing the empty room and watched the Blogger Bigot ease open the kitchen door. As usual, Jane Lawson’s aura was murky, more with fear than anger at the moment. Of course, paranoia seemed to be her permanent state.

  Right on time, Rhonda entered through the boutique door. Her aura displayed an unhealthy level of ambition and. . . greed? Hmmm, did that mean Rhonda was only after the money? If she really was Vincent’s mistress, she wasn’t getting much action with him in England all the time.

  Dressed in upwardly-mobile fashion of designer dress and heels, Rhonda stopped halfway across the empty interior, looking a trifle surprised that Lawson in her usual khaki drab was already present. She’d probably expected to have to unlock the back door.

  Evie winced. She probably should have locked it behind her.

  “You have something for me?” Jane asked tactlessly, searching the shadows as she approached. “I don’t see why you couldn’t email it. The address is on my website.”

  Because I wanted to see you in action, Evie thought. Well, and see what KK might do, but the ghost didn’t even seem to notice the meeting.

  Rhonda crossed her arms. “If you don’t like it, I can find someone else.”

  Evie doubted that, but it shut up Lawless Lawson, who stayed shut up, waiting, glancing around with nervous curiosity. The shaggy-haired blogger was an odd bird, not working hard at earning her information. Evie had the uneasy notion Jane was up to something. Her aura reflected a high level of stress and bitterness to go with a shade of dishonest intentions.

  “I only agreed to meet you because a tipster suggested you might be interested. I have no idea what this information means.” Rhonda produced the envelope from her jacket pocket.

  Finally showing some initiative, Jane reached for it. “Any idea who the tipster might be?”

  “Someone who said they wanted the boutique to succeed. There’s a bank name on there. I thought it might be a list of Katherine’s transfers from the shop account to her own.”

  Jane studied the paper. “She was sneaky that way?”

  Evie could almost see the war between Rhonda’s need to dump her grievances and her desire to protect the company she was invested in. The yellowish gold in her third chakra probably didn’t reflect the aura of a killer, just someone struggling for control or respect. Still, Evie acknowledged she needed an open mind. She was new at this detecting business.

  The ghost’s aura brightened, if anger and resentment counted as brighter. KK buzzed about a little faster, but there was little in here a ghost could disturb. Evie really needed to figure out how to communicate with her.

  “I didn’t know Katherine well,” Rhonda admitted. “Those sums are too large for just this shop though.”

  “But it might explain why this dump never got finished.” Jane shoved the list in one of the many pockets of her camouflage vest. “Payoffs to our tacky Mayor Ward, I bet.”

  “To an Italian bank?” Rhonda’s nose tilted upward in disdain.

  “Not a big leap for the mayoral toad. Italian fashion and all that. Makes sense to me.”

  Ah, the bigot will out. Evie rolled her eyes.

  “Makes life simpler,” Reuben murmured in her earbud, as if reading her thoughts. “Gay. Fashion. Italian. Fascist. Bad.”

  She almost snorted, except she was afraid Rube was right. Jane wasn’t the brightest bulb and simple thought patterns probably appealed.

  “Katherine and the Gladwells are British,” Rhonda said in a contemptuous tone easy to produce with her rounded vowels and plummy accent. “Only Lucia is Italian.”

  “Huh. Now there’s a clue. Has anyone ever seen Lucia? Do you even know what she looks like?” Nervously pacing, Jane wiped her finger over the filthy counter. “Maybe she’s hiding right here in plain sight.”

  KK vanished into the kitchen. Normally, Evie didn’t have difficulty focusing on three things at once, but the conversation seemed more important. She ignored the ghost.

  “Lucia is in all the commercials,” Rhonda reminded her. “Everyone knows what she looks like. There is no way she could have killed Katherine. She wasn’t even in the country.”

  “But she could be siphoning off funds,” the blogger pointed out. “No idea where your tipster got this info?”

  “None, whatsoever,” Rhonda said stiffly. Evie guessed a controlling personality didn’t like admitting not knowing it all.

  “Well, you have more access to financial records than I do. Rustle some up, and I’ll see what I can do. Otherwise, all I can do is stir the cauldron.”

  “You want me to turn over confidential records?” Evie thought Rhonda’s aura seemed more intrigued than appalled, but that was just her biased interpretation.

  She didn’t like Rhonda much more than KK did. Darting out of the kitchen, the ghost toppled one of the trash bags near the shop door. Their not-so-friendly spirit had actually become agitated. Huh, another point to ponder.

  Jane jerked nervously at the thump of the falling bag and eased toward the back door. Rhonda was still too wound up to pay the trash any attention.

  “Nick Gladwell coming up the alley,” Reuben whispered in Evie’s earbud. “He’s not looking happy.”

  Well, make that all of them. “I’m not learning a thing,” she whispered back.

  Showing more animation than she ever had, KK flung herself back and forth across the ceiling. Evie wished the damned apparition would speak.

  Outside the cabinet, the demented blogger sneered as she eased toward the exit. “If you wanna move on up, you have to get those pretty fingernails grubby. I’ll be in touch.” Saluting, Jane spun on her army boots and shoved through the swinging door to the kitchen.

  KK finally shouted in Evie’s head. “Smoke!”

  A whiff of pungent air seeped inside the cabinet.

  “Oh, crap. Rube, can you see fire?” Evie debated bursting out of her hiding place, but she hated blowing her cover for a ghost’s unreliable warning. She waited for Rhonda to leave, but the clerk was tapping into her phone.

  “Camera isn’t picking up—” A litany of curses followed. “Flames just shot out the back. Get out now!” he shouted in her ear.

  Almost in the same moment, Jane rushed from the kitchen. “Fire!” She headed for the boutique door.

  Wide-eyed as she finally noticed the smell, Rhonda clattered on her heels ahead of her, grabbing the knob first.

  The door didn’t open.

  Evie watched in horror as the clerk rattled the knob and shoved harder. Nothing. Jane shoved her aside. The door wouldn’t open. Evie couldn’t see flames but the stench grew stronger. If Jane couldn’t go out the back and the shop door was locked. . .

  Both women and Evie turned to study the front exit—a locked mechanical door protected the glass exterior. Unless they knew how to open it. . .

  “It’s a trap!” Jane shouted, freaking out and slamming into the shop door as if her scrawny frame might break it down. She bounced off it and hit the floor, where streaks of small flames now crept along the wall toward the bags of trash.

  Accelerant, Evie concluded. Someone had poured flammable liquid beneath the door.

  Twenty-two: Pris

  Italy

  * * *

  There were reasons Pris blocked her mind from the mental aberrations of others. Vincent Gladwell’s irrational hatred of the twins was one of them. Did she act on a reaction that was only in her head?

  She couldn’t take chances with children involved.

  As Vincent disappeared into the farm office with Leo, Pris packed up the lunch basket and hastily ushered the twins into the car. Once she had them buckled in, she texted Dante. He didn’t answer.

  Gladwell’s animosity toward the children had shaken her—badly. She’d lived with her insane gift for nearly thirty years, had learned to block bad vibes, and wasn’t easily shaken anymore. That Gladwell’s hatred was strong enough to penetrate all her barriers was a warning she couldn’t ignore.

  What could Vincent have against the twins? If she was interpreting his ugly thoughts correctly, he wished two adorable innocents hadn’t been born. Why?

  Was this why Lucia had left her babies with Dante, to protect them?

  Personally, she’d like to get up in Gladwell’s face and shake a fist and learn what he knew about Kit-Kat. . . but the twins’ safety came first.

  Dante still hadn’t answered by the time she had the children settled and turned the car toward home. She could run back and pick him up if he needed help, but he was a big boy. There were plenty of eager students willing to wait on him hand and foot.

  Once back at the villa, she parked the car behind the gate so it couldn’t be seen from the drive. The twins thought it all a great game when she steered them in through the back door. She sent them to the bathroom, had them wash their hands, then settled them at the kitchen table with the rest of their lunch and an educational video on Dante’s laptop.

  Then, she spent forever hunting through the villa for exits and making sure they were all locked. She pushed a heavy cabinet in front of glass French doors. The ancient windows couldn’t be secured, leaving her feeling unsafe.

  Telling herself she was being paranoid, she munched bread and cheese and settled in the kitchen with her phone and an internet session. She texted Evie and company for more information on Vincent, warning them that he might be more than an incompetent businessman.

  In return, she received a flurry of incomprehensible texts about Evie and fire. What the. . . ? Pris counted back hours—it wasn’t even mid-morning there. How the blue heavens had Evie got into trouble at this hour?

  In a rising state of panic, she Googled Afterthought and found breaking news about a fire in a boutique engulfing a hundred-year-old building. What did Evie have to do with this?

  Her level of alarm rose as she watched a news video of a bulldozer smashing through the metal door on the building she’d once considered for her catering service, the one La Bella Gente now leased.

  Only Jax and his merry madmen would highjack a bulldozer to break through a wall—and that meant Evie was in there. Why? How. . .