It said something about the quality of Stacy Kavanaugh's life that the law office of Braunhiem and Crowley was on her speed dial list. And that she was on a first-name basis with everyone there, from the receptionist to the paras to her attorney. She jumped through the conversational hoops while studying the notes Rose had made on one of the new locator cases.

Melinda Guiterrez. Twenty-one years old with three kids and no idea where her ex-husband, Roberto, had gone. Last known employment was the rendering plant up on 13th Street. No, it was on 17th, you could just smell it from a mile south at 13th. Stacy smiled at the message slip, knowing that Roberto was probably out in Garden City now, working at one of the meatpacking plants. A cousin had gotten ol' Roberto the job, was giving him a place to live. You could bet on it. And she was going to.

Finally connecting with the Braunhiem half of B and C, she chirped, "Hi, Bernie. It's Stacy. Rose said you'd called. What's up this morning?"

And meat packers made real good money. "Got a call from O'Sleazo at four fifty-five Friday afternoon," Bernie said, yanking her attention away from the Guiterrez case. "He upped the ante, saying that if you don't immediately agree to give Daniel the personal property he wants, they'll go after half your business."

In her mind's eye an image flashed. A Western: the villain, dressed in black, holding Penelope Pureheart at gun-point. The coffee grinder or the deed to your ranch. Nha-ha-ha.

Stacy smiled, rubbed her eyes to clear her vision, and drawled, "You're kidding me. They've got to know that we'd go after half of Daniel's company in retaliation. And having me mucking around in the financial files of Bellinger and Kavanaugh has to be the last thing ol' Bill and Daniel want. There's two sets of books. You and I both know that. And when I find the real one, I'm going to send it to the SEC. Gift wrapped. Did you mention that scenario to the esteemed Mr. O'Toole?"

"You bet your sweet ass I did."

She heard a shoe waiting to be dropped. "And what did he say?" she asked, her blood pressure rising a notch with each heartbeat.

"That Daniel has nothing to hide or fear," Bernie replied.

"That they're confident a judge will rule that you have no grounds to claim a portion of the investment company, that it was established prior to the marriage and that you have never participated in its operations."

"Oh, let me guess how the rest of it went," she practically snarled as her pulse slammed behind her eyes. "O'Sleazo then pointed out that I started Ancestors and Others after the marriage and that I was able to do so because I was living on Daniel's income."

"You got it," her lawyer admitted happily. "They intend to argue that Danny boy indirectly funded your business startup and is therefore entitled to half its current value."

"That's bullshit, Bernie," she snapped, angry at him for not being just as furious as she was. This was her life they were talking about. The center of her universe. And Bernie sure as hell didn't seem to appreciate that. "I drained my savings account to put this place together. Daniel's never so much as set a foot in here or tossed a nickel into the pot."

"I understand," he said in a tone that struck her as supremely patronizing. "And they'll argue that the existence of your personal savings account goes to Daniel's generous financial support of you in the years prior to starting your own business."

"Son of a bitch." Daniel. O'Sleazo. And you, too, Bernie Braunhiem.

"I said those exact words myself."

Yeah. Sure you did.

"Right before I told him we'd see them in court."

Stacy closed her eyes and forced herself to take several slow, deep breaths, reminded herself that anger didn't accomplish anything. "Look, Bernie," she said with every ounce of calm and composure she could muster. "I know this is going to go against your grain, but I decided last week that I just don't give a flying rat's ass about anything except getting this ordeal over with. I spent the weekend boxing up everything Daniel and Pammy want. The fondue set, the pasta machine, everything. It just isn't worth the fight. I know the timing sucks, but —"

"It sucks the big one!" Bernie snapped. "It'll look like we're caving to the threat."

Bernie's precious legal ego. It was the size of Mt. Rushmore. The Lincoln Memorial. Combined. She didn't care if she ground it into tiny bits of dusty gravel. "Do whatever it takes to preserve your reputation, but in the end, get this done, Bernie. I'm the client. I write the checks, I call the shots. And I want to get on with my life."

"I have a responsibility to see that you emerge from this divorce in the strongest financial position possible," he countered, his tone back to patronizing. And angry, too. He was finally angry. Good. Because she was, too.

"O'Sleazo's full of shit and we both know it," Bernie went on. "If we open the business can of worms, you stand a very good chance of coming out of this with a lot more money than you will if you roll over and surrender now."

Money, money, money. Billable hours. "I don't care, Bernie. I just want out. I want this over and done."

She heard him pause, could imagine his tight smile and his narrowed eyes. Bernie had beady little eyes. Now that she thought about it, he looked a whole lot like a snake. If he weren't the best damn divorce attorney in town... "Every woman hits this wall somewhere in the divorce process, Stacy," he finally said, swinging back to patronizing again. "I've seen it a thousand times. You've lasted longer than most. Tell you what, I'm not going to do anything today and we'll talk again later this week. Spend some time looking at the situation and giving it some clearheaded thought."

Her blood pressure spiked and the headache it brought was blinding. Pinching the bridge of her nose, Stacy closed her eyes and replied, "I've thought about this divorce all I'm going to, Bernie. I've thought about nothing else for the last six months. We can talk later this week if that's what you want to do, but my decision isn't going to be any different."

"We'll see. In the meantime, take a look around you and imagine what you could do with a couple hundred thou. At the very least."

"There are things more important than money."

"Not in a divorce, sweet cakes. Talk to you on Thursday."

"Yeah," she groused and then, simply because her mother had raised her to practice good manners, she gritted out,

"Have a good day, Bernie."

"You, too. Spend it looking for some common sense." He ended the call with a hard click.

"Go to hell, Bernie," she muttered, tossing the phone back into the cradle. What a miserable way to start the day. Not to mention the week.

There was a flash of sunlight off glass and Stacy glanced out her office window to see a Sedgwick County Sheriff's car pulling into her lot. Odd. Ancestors and Others was well within the city limits. Pretty much smack-dab in the middle, actually. If there was any sort of a problem, one of Wichita's Finest would have rolled into her drive, not a sheriff's officer. Unless he was here to personally ask for a donation to the Sheriff's Charitable Fund. Sending six disabled kids to the circus last year had put her at the top of the Soft Touch List.

She watched as the officer, blue uniform and the whole nine gun-belted yards, climbed out of his car, came through the door and then stood in her office, looking through her open doorway and straight at her. He nodded. Stacy returned the gesture and watched Rose — all five feet in three-inch heels of her — step forward to greet him. She couldn't hear their conversation, but she saw the deputy's brows knit before he shook his head. Rose leaned slightly backward on her heels at the same time, telling Stacy that the officer had just thrown a curveball.

Stepping aside, Rose genteelly gestured at the open door of Stacy's office. The deputy thanked her with a nod and came forward with his Smokey the Bear hat in his hand and an apologetic smile on his face. He filled the doorway for a second and then became a mountain on the opposite side of her desk. He met her gaze squarely and Stacy couldn't help but notice that he had beautiful, china-blue eyes and chiseled, high cheekbones. German.

"Ms. Stacy Kavanaugh?"

She nodded and smiled. "Yes. I gather that you're not here for a donation?"

"No, ma'am. I'm Deputy Roy Sieler," he said, extending his right hand. As she politely shook it and gave herself a point for having correctly guessed his ethnicity, he added,

"I'm Acting Chaplain for the Sedgwick County Sheriff's Department. I've been asked to call on you by the Ravalli County Sheriff's Department."

She had her choice of directions to go. She decided to ignore the chaplain part. It had a whiff of trouble around it that made her stomach just a tad jumpy. "Ravalli? I know my Kansas counties and Ravalli definitely isn't one of them."

"It's in Montana, ma'am," he drawled, turning his hat in his hand. "I had to look at a map. It's in the extreme southwestern part and kinda juts into Idaho. Mostly it's the Bitterroot National Forest."

Okay, the geography part was done. Moving on... "Why would anyone in Montana want to send me a message, Deputy?"

He swallowed and took a deep breath. Stacy instinctively braced herself.

"Ms. Kavanaugh, I'm afraid that I have some bad news." Oh, God. Her parents. Something had happened to her parents. They'd taken a really wrong turn and driven their RV off a cliff. Or been robbed and murdered. Her insides quivering like jelly, she managed to softly ask, "What kind of bad news?"

He shifted his hat in his hands and his weight between his feet. He took another slow, deep breath. Stacy tamped down the urge to scream.

"There's been an accident. I'm sorry to have to inform you that your husband was killed late Saturday afternoon."

Her husband? Yes, he'd definitely said husband. Not Mom and Dad. She blinked, weak with relief and trying to get her brain to wrap around this. Husband. She didn't exactly have one of those. "Are you talking about Daniel? Daniel Kavanaugh?"

"Yes, ma'am. The official cause is under investigation, but the plane he was flying crashed into the side of a mountain. The NTSB and the FAA are at the site. They'll put the pieces together — no pun intended, ma'am — and eventually figure out exactly why his plane went down."

Plane went down.... He kept talking, but Stacy wasn't really listening. Daniel? Dead? He couldn't be dead. She'd know it if he was dead, she'd feel it. Wouldn't she?

Maybe not. Because she and Daniel weren't connected anymore, hadn't lived together in six months, one week and two days. They'd spoken only through their lawyers since. If she didn't cry her way through their wedding album every Saturday night, she wouldn't even have a blurry idea of what he looked like.

But dead? Really dead? Not the silly, stupid scenarios she dreamed up in her head from time to time? Daniel falling into Pammy's costume closet and suffocating on feathers. Or being slashed to ribbons by the sequins. Entangled and strangled by a G-string.