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now? A part of her answered who cares? The least he could have done was sleep with her and really given her a reason to regret last night.
    No, he had to be the good guy. She pulled the cover back over her head. Can’t hide in here forever, she thought a few minutes later. She threw the covers off again, got up, her head reminding her of its critical condition. Thank God it was Sunday and she had the day to recuperate. She needed a shower first, then food. Before that, she needed to text Amber.
    She grabbed her purse off the nightstand and found her phone. Of course, a text from Amber was already waiting for her.
    “If I don’t hear from you before noon, I’m calling the police,” it read. She smiled. Amber knew of her crush on Will; most of her closest friends did. She texted, “Head banging, shower, food, talk 2 U ltr.” Katrina slowly sat up on the side of her bed. First shower, and then food.

CHAPTER 2
    January 2
    The following Monday morning found Katrina hunched over her phone, trying to decipher a message left by one of her customers, no longer surprised by the odd times they’d call asking for money. Amber entered the cubicle and walked over to stand next to her, placing her hip on Katrina’s desk. Katrina pushed the play button on her telephone and turned the volume up as far as it could go.
    “Listen to this. It’s one of my clients; he called last night,” she said, looking up at Amber. “I can’t quite make out what he’s saying. I think, above the static, you can hear what sounds like traffic in the background, like maybe he was standing near a road or highway. See if you can understand him,” she said, watching Amber’s face twist in confusion as she listened.
    “You’ve got some crazy customers, but I believe, besides the gibberish, he wants his check. ‘I need my check’ were his exact words. Who was that, anyway?” she asked.
    “Winston Hardwick the Third, son of the famous Hardwicks, the very prominent family from Houston. Winston lives here.”
    “Why is he your customer? Doesn’t he belong with a city officer?” Amber asked.
    “He has problems with drinking and mental illness. After a long internal struggle, his mother finally gave up hope of helping him, so she set up a trust for him with access to funds so he could eat and have a place to live. Sometimes he’s pulled himself back from the edge, sought help, and lived well for a time, only to stumble again. It was better for the family this way. It keeps him at arm’s length, fed and sheltered but with no more surprise visits to their home in the middle of the night asking for money, unclean, drunk, or off his meds,” Katrina said, pulling up his account information on the computer.
    Amber was right. Most of the larger family personal trusts accounts were managed by the larger city offices in the cities where those clients lived. Her customers were small potatoes as far as trusts went, and small potatoes were accounts valued at $3 million or less. She and Amber worked as trust officers, employees of the Western Bank and Trust Company, in the more ambitious sounding Client Trust Department.
    Most officers in her division carried a load ranging in size from 250 to 400 accounts. With about 350, Katrina was on the high end.
    Katrina’s eyes were glued to her computer where Winston’s account information had been made available online, technology aiding her in the management of her account load.
    “He gets a bi-monthly distribution, and, believe it or not, he’s able to get by, to manage, but sometimes he needs more. I’ll move some money to his checking account. I’ll do it this morning,” she said, returning her attention to Amber. “Thanks for listening to my customer.”
    “No problem. Want to go for coffee?”
    “Sure, let me grab some money. My treat for your translation,” Katrina said.
    “That’ll work,” Amber said, walking out of Katrina’s cubicle.
    She and Amber often went for coffee at the local coffee