Obviously, I don't own any of the wonderful Evanovich characters, but then you already know that or you wouldn't be reading this. I hope you enjoy...I will update as I have time.

Part One

Prelude

Clara choked back a sob. Ever since she left the shop, she felt a horrible piercing ache in her heart. She told the woman that there must be some mistake. Charles wasn't like that. He was good, kind, generous, and, above all else, loyal to her and only her. Too bad that wasn't true. She hated doing laundry these days since it almost always netted some type of a note…usually perfumed and written on pastel paper. But a murderer, she thought, surely the woman was wrong about that. Still, there was that large reddish-brown stain on his favorite golf shirt…the stain that he swore was ketchup. Even so, she remembered thinking at the time it sure was a lot of ketchup.

Finally pulling into the garage, Clara charged through the kitchen door. If Charles was hiding anything, she knew exactly where to look…his locked desk drawer. Grabbing a large chef's knife from the knife block on her way through the kitchen, she headed for the desk. Like always, the mysterious drawer was locked.

After what seemed like forever, she felt the lock give way. Actually, she had intended to be careful…to leave no mark, but the longer it took, the more anxious she got. Now the drawer was marred beyond repair. Pulling it out, she stared at the photos laying on the top…women naked, skin with bleeding slashes, intermixed with what looked like burn marks. "It must have something to do with his job," she whispered and actually believed that until the photos shifted. She saw a picture of her husband with a short thin blade seemingly in the act of producing those very cuts. Toward the back of the drawer, Clara found a video tape.

Shaking, she pushed it into the only video player in the house…the player in Charles' office. Less than a minute into the tape Clara snapped it off, and ran for the bathroom. Breathing heavily, she tried to control herself. "I have to call someone," she whispered, "someone clear-headed…someone I trust. Dennis Tomlinson," she added, the most sensible, trustworthy man she knew and also by chance a lawyer.

Still sitting in the bathroom, she reached in her pocket for her smart phone and searched for Dennis Tomlinson's office. Between tears Clara filled him in—careful not to leave anything out: the multiple perfumed notes, the blood on Charles' shirt, the tarot reading…and, of course, the photos and video.

"Clara, do you trust me?" Dennis asked. "Really trust me?"

"Of course, I wouldn't have called you otherwise."

"Okay, I know that you're frightened, but I want you to leave this with me. Just sit tight…don't go anywhere or do anything. I'll take care of everything."

"Will you call the police?"

"I said that I will take care of everything. Now you just stay there…try to relax…everything will be fine."

"Okay."

…

Dennis Tomlinson shook his head. In his opinion Charles was a real screw up, and he always knew that one day that would catch-up with them. It looked like today was the day. Opening his hidden and therefore, completely private safe, he removed a small, tattered, black notebook. Flipping through the pages, he found the number he wanted. Part of him hated to betray Clara's trust…still he had received no money. Technically, she wasn't even a client, and even if Charles was a nut-case, the fact was—if Charles went down, they all went down.

After a few rings, his call was answered.

"Charles, Dennis Tomlinson here…we have a concern," he began much as he would begin any other business call.