“I’m sorry. Are we still talking about the forty-two-year-old man who hanged himself and was found naked, covered in jizz, with his hand on his erect penis while watching babysitter porn? You think it matters if the insurance company thinks he stole your panties?”

“Good point. Wait. Babysitter porn? What’s that?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know. But the panty story bolsters the accidental death claim, and let me tell you, it’s a lot of money.”

I smile at her use of the word bolster, and recall her saying pronouncement earlier this morning. She’s truly quite intelligent, and I remind myself to never talk down to her. But she’s brought up an interesting point I’ve been wondering about, so I ask: “How much is the death benefit, exactly?”

“Four million.”

“Instead of two?”

“No. Four million extra for accidental death. Eight million in all.”

“Wow.”

“Yup, I’m rich. Aren’t you glad we’re a couple?”

“Absolutely! But I’d be just as glad if you were dirt poor.”

“Right answer!”

“You think your mom will let us keep seeing each other?”

“How’s she gonna stop us?”

“Lots of ways. And since we’re breaking several laws, we’ll need a private way to talk.”

“Like Snapchat?”

“Like throwaway phones.”

“You mean like drug dealers use?”

I nod.

“Where can I get one?”

“Anywhere: drug stores, gas stations, discount stores.”

“Can’t the cops trace them by matching the purchase to surveillance videos?”

“Possibly, which is why you’ll pay a total stranger to buy it for you while you wait from a distance.”

“Sounds like you’ve done this before.”

I dig into my suitcase and show her my throwaway phone.

She grins. “This is gonna be awesome!”

I tuck the phone back in my suitcase, then pull her to me and we share a few moments of intimacy that leaves us wanting more. Then we gather my things, pack my suitcase, and head to the elevators. When we get to the lobby four people are waiting for us: Alison, Michael, and Police Detectives Broadus and Rudd.

“If there’s nothing pressing,” Broadus says, “we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“About David?” I say.

“Bingo.”

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

He rolls his eyes. “That may be the biggest lie I’ve heard in my entire career. A career filled with liars.”

“Is that how you got so good at it?”

Detective Rudd stifles a laugh.

Broadus says, “How about we go somewhere and have a private chat?”

I look at Michael and Alison but feel Jessie staring at me from the side. “Anything you’ve got to say can be said in front of the Thornes. It’ll save me the trouble of repeating it to them after you leave.”

The detectives exchange a look, then Broadus says, “You’re gonna want these questions to remain confidential as long as possible.”

I smile. “Ask whatever you want. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Broadus shrugs. “Fair enough. Let’s start with the comment you made to me yesterday afternoon.”

“Okay.”

“You said you only met David Thorne once, approximately three months ago, in a coffee shop.”

“That’s right.”

“Then how did your nude photos wind up on his cell phone?”

15.

“THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE!” I say, but my words are punctuated by a vicious slap to the side of my face delivered by Jessie Thorne that causes me to spin forward so abruptly I lose my balance and stumble into Detective Rudd’s arms. As he helps me regain my posture, I say, “Thanks for the vote of trust, Jess.”

“Thanks for fucking my father and lying about it,” she responds, icily.

I can’t even imagine what Michael must be thinking, and have zero desire to see his face. But I am studying Alison’s, and note she doesn’t appear to be overly surprised.

God, I hate getting slapped! I’ve been punched, struck with objects, had my face pushed against walls, and lots worse. But nothing stings more than a hard slap. The moment of impact is like multiple bee stings, and within seconds the nerve endings in the entire area are screaming for relief, giving the whole side of your face the feeling it’s swelling like a balloon. Add to that the ringing it causes in your ears, the headache, the involuntary tearing from the eyes, and you’ve got all the ingredients for a lousy half-hour.

But the tears are the worst.

Even though they’re a natural response, they make you look like a wimp. Like you can’t handle a slap from a 15-year-old girl. I want these bastards off my face, but wiping them would mean I’d have to acknowledge them. And I’m supposed to be tough.

Broadus says, “Would you like to see them?”

“What?”

“The naked photos.”

I take a deep breath.