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along with a wad of bills as thick as my wrist.
    He had arranged it. I wasn't quite sure how he'd arranged it, or what the exact arrangements had been, but he'd planned it all out. Before he even knew if he was going to die or not. He'd decided to put the pieces in place just in case. Just in case he decided to live and needed to something dramatic as hell to keep my life interesting.
    It was such a Malcolm thing to do that I had to laugh. He was such a dumb motherfucker, and I loved it.
    The realization brought me up short, but then I nodded.
    Yeah, I thought to myself . That's right. I love it.
    Suddenly able to breathe easily, I popped the thumb drive out of the computer and capped it, shut down all the programs, then unceremoniously pulled the plug. I hadn't brought my purse with me, the pockets of my jeans had holes in them, and the pouch of my hoodie was far too unsecured. I wavered with indecision, then with a huff of exasperation I stuffed the drive down my underwear, where it nestled in Malcolm's favorite place. Fitting, in more ways than one, though admittedly not the most sanitary spot. But when you are as flat-chested as I am, hiding things in your cleavage is not an option.
    I had to get this to his lawyers.
    Head whirling with thoughts of the future, of the possibility that there might be a future, one in which he was alive and free, I jogged back to the stairs and took them two at a time down to the third floor. I paused on the landing, then decided that if Malcolm wanted me to have the vase, then I should probably take the vase, too. I slipped into the hallway and started for the master bedroom.
    I was so preoccupied that I almost didn't hear the front door opening, but my lizard brain heard it. The part of me that always listened for the bedroom door opening heard it. The part of me that slept with one eye open heard it.
    I froze in my tracks.
    “Hullo?”
    A man's voice with a British accent floated up from the lower floors.
    Someone else was in the house.
    Old impulses rose up, telling me to run, to flee, but even as my legs twitched with the flight response, my civilized brain was trying to override it, telling me that not everything was dangerous.
    Yeah, right.
    Swallowing hard, I inched my way across the floor, praying it wouldn't creak under my weight, and leaned over the bannister, trying to hear where the intruder was in the house.
    “Hulloo?” the voice called again. “Sadie MacElroy?”
    Whoever it was knew my name, knew I was here. They had to have been watching the house. The voice seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place it. Very cultured, a bit nasally, and definitely at the front of the house, between me and the front door. Was there a back door? Not that I could get to it without being seen, and if there was it probably led into a closed garden...
    I took a deep breath and tried to think.
    There wasn't any reason I couldn't be here. I had a key. I had permission from Malcolm—albeit through his lawyers—to be here. So really, it was the other person who shouldn't be here. Paparazzo? Reporter? They must have been waiting for someone to show their face. Though usually they stayed within the bounds of the law and remained outside. So probably not paparazzo. Who, then?
    I looked around, but I had no idea where the fire escape was, and even as I frantically tried to remember where it had been situated on the outside of the house the sound of heavy footsteps started up the stairs.
    “I only want to talk! Miss MacElroy? Please, it's important. My name is Morris Denton, I work for Mr. Ward...”
    I bit my lip and backed up from the stairway. He was going to be here any second now. Why, oh why wasn't there a second stairwell? What kind of rich person's house was this? I didn't want to talk to him, but I was stuck.
    He came up the stairs.
    My first impression was of a man Malcolm's age, but far more staid and conservative. Malcolm dressed beautifully, but there was that irrepressible