"That's not very romantic. She's in shock, probably keeping busy to get over her husband's death. That's what some new widows do, we all mourn differently."

"That's not what you did when your three husbands died."

She'd really been married four times, but neither Asher nor her, counted the monster.

"No. I didn't mourn by keeping myself busy. I mourned in style." She beamed for this was her most favorite topic of all. "I simply got dressed, wore that lovely black veil-"

"Yes, the one from Tiffany's."

"Oh I'm so mad that you burned it. What a lovely veil."

Burned it? I never did that.

The image of his mother on fire hit him for a moment. He shook his head and that horrific sight left.

His mother laughed. "Each time my husbands died, remember, we would have a big breakfast, just you and I?"

"Yes." He nodded. Sadness slipped over his heart. Suddenly, he didn't want to sit and eat with his mother anymore. He got up as she continued to talk as if he was no longer there.

"Oh you loved those huge chocolate waffles with all of that whip cream. Oh my boy and his sweets. You would do anything for them."

"And I did," he sighed. "I did plenty for those chocolate waffles on those mornings."

"Yes, you did, my lovely little boy." She gestured around them, pointing at the crystal chandelier hanging above them and the huge table adorned in china plates and elegant silverware. "Together we made sure we would never have to work again. You saved us."

Inside of Asher's chest, a storm brewed. A gloom untangled and wound around over and over as if a tornado was threatening to uncoil within a down pour.

"I'll see you later, Mother."

"Busy day?"

"Yes." He kept his back to her, not wanting to deal with his mother, the memories of the husbands, or even that odd flash of her on fire. "I'm going somewhere."

"Can I come?"

He paused and then thought better of it. "No."

"What are your plans?" she asked.

"I have a reporter to meet."

"Tell me you're not serious."

He didn't even turn around as he smiled. "You know what reporter I'm going to talk to."

"Please, for the love of G.o.d, say it is not Diana Carson."

"Who else would I be meeting?"

"Fool!" His mother called after him, right as he rushed up the stairs.

Four.

Diana

Ovid Island's police headquarters sat in a turquoise and pink castle with glittery sea sh.e.l.ls outlining the roof and windows. Old man Libbey, the longest living resident on the island, had donated the small castle to the force. Due to him being such a power guy in the community, the police chief couldn't refuse.

And so all official police business happened within the candy-colored s.p.a.ce. Most newcomers mistakenly thought the police building was a children's museum or art center. Others joked that the facility's decor was fitting because the police represented the biggest jokes on the island.

Most considered them clowns.

Many found them useless.

A few island residents voted to change their turquoise and white uniforms to ones more representative of their true occupations-big red clown purple, squeaky red noses, polka dot parachute pants, glowing suspenders, and flowers tucked in their shirt pockets that squirted out water.

What could these men really do anyway? The police, themselves, barely made enough to pay their mortgage and fund their boat commutes back and forth from their homes in Miami to their jobs on the island. They held no real authority against the rich. Half the time they argued with the residents' lawyers about what they could and could not investigate.

Smart Ovid cops had a plan. They saw the island as a vacation from the mean, dirty streets of Miami where prost.i.tutes strolled, parents abused children, and men shot down each other just for several feet of block s.p.a.ce to sell drugs. The clever police took bribes from the residents, kept their pockets heavy, mouths closed, and eyes blind.

The dumb cops sought justice. They peered where others said to turn away. They combed the island, hoping to maintain harmony among the madness that came with people with too much money and time. The dumb ones usually were transferred to somewhere else within months.

As Diana sat in the police interrogation room, she wondered which cop Officer Slattery was, smart or stupid. Could he be trusted or did he have his hand in someone else's pocket, was he another's puppet?

Why am I here? Is Neil in jail? Is that why he hasn't been answering my calls?

The officer plopped down in the seat in front of her, his belling jiggling a little with the movement. The shirt stretched tight over him. Five more pounds and he'd need a new uniform shirt. Another drop of ketchup and whatever else was on the front of his top, and he'd need to go home and change.

"Here you go, Mrs. Carson." Officer Slattery placed a cup of coffee down in front of Diana.

"Why am I here?"

"I just want you to be comfortable before I- "Just tell me what's going on. Where's Neil?"

"Well, you see Mrs. Carson. I have. . ."

"Just tell me," she said with more force than she intended.

The officer rested his hands on the table between them and knitted his fingers together. "The condo building's maid, a Mrs. Garcia, discovered your husband's body this morning in the kitchen."

Shocked, Diana didn't even grab the cup or look at it. "Neil is dead?"

"Yes, Mrs. Carson."

"Do you know who did this?" she asked.

"I was wondering if you had any information." He wouldn't look at her. The officer glanced at the wall behind her, the cup of coffee in front of her, and even his fumbling fingers as he twisted them around his watch.

"You're nervous," she said. "Why?"

"I have some more news, and I'm afraid I'm not comfortable with giving it to you."

"You might as well go ahead." She hugged herself and tried to prepare her heart for more.

"Mr. Carson was found in the kitchen with a woman that the maid had identified as his secretary."

Diana slumped back in her chair and rubbed her face with both of her hands. She hadn't even put on any makeup or changed when she rushed to the police station to see why they'd called her to come.

"Are you okay, Mrs. Carson?" Officer Slattery asked.

"My husband was found dead in the kitchen with his secretary at six in the morning?"

A red tint shaded his face. "Yes."

"Is there something else?" Diana asked.

"I. . ."

"What? Were they found in a compromising position?" she sighed.

"Umm. . ."

"Listen. My husband cheating on me is not news to my ears. Granted, his death is news. His blatant adultery and disrespect of our marriage is what I like to call Regular Tuesdays. You don't even want to know what he does on hump days." An erratic giggle fled her lips as Diana's fingers shook. She grabbed her cup and attempted to calm herself enough so that she could pick it up. "He has something disgusting for each day of the week. Was it just his secretary?"

The officer's eyes widened. "Ma'm?"

She gave up on grabbing the coffee. "Sorry."

"No. I understand."

Do you?

She was supposed to be heartbroken, devastated that her handsome, wealthy, all-American husband was murdered with none other than his s.l.u.tty mistress.

She had a few tears to shed. They would just happen to be for all the blood that stained the granite countertops and seeped into the marbling stone floor. For all the mess she was left with because of Neil.

Diana wasn't a particularly sentimental woman, but neither was she cold and unfeeling. What it came down to, simply, was that she was so done with Neil and his antics. His sleeping around and acting like she didn't know about it. His righteous, holier-than-thou att.i.tude about everything. His degrading views that Diana should be a trophy wife instead of a whip-smart reporter.

His need to break her down mentally every day with his games.

The Neil she fell in love with-whatever version of love it had been-was not the same man who died with his pants around his ankles.

She had respected him, once. He'd been a formidable man once upon a time, who possessed substance, a man that made her panties wet the minute he flashed his dimpled smile.

That time had long pa.s.sed.

Yes, Diana Carson was a bit upset that her husband and his secretary wh.o.r.e had been murdered. But, she would get over it rather quickly.

And then, one couldn't forget about Neil's texts to her before he died.

Neil: I want to show you how much I care about you. Come to the kitchen.

Diana: It's New Year's Eve. Give me one day where you're not cruel, please.

Neil: I've never been cruel to you. Just come.

But his intention had been cruel. Neil must've hoped Diana would walk in on him banging his secretary right there in the kitchen.

What did you think would come out of that? Were you going to stuff that wh.o.r.e with your c.o.c.k while pointing and laughing at me? Or did you think we were going to be in a threesome? You're lucky this murderer found you and her together, before I did, Neil. You might've gotten worse than an arrow in your chest.

Officer Slattery coughed into his hand. "Would you like some tissue, just in case you need to cry?"

"No." She gritted her teeth. "I won't need anything to wipe tears."

"If you need some time to digest this bad news, I could go and give you a few minutes or so to-"

She waved him away. "Go ahead with your questions."

The officer stared at her for a few seconds, perhaps studying the rage that glittered along her eyes.

She must've been an anomaly to the officer because Diana had not slipped into the little, meek widow that most saw on TV shows and movies. Tragedy and death humbled most people. For Diana, it toughened her. Once she heard that her husband had died with his mistress, investigation mode set in. Dozens of questions whipped through her brain.

Who did this? Why? Am I in danger? Was it something to do with his mistress or was it all about Neil?

"Okay." Officer Slattery tapped the plastic gla.s.s behind him, and signaled for someone else to come in. "Captain Rothschild will be joining me as I ask you a few questions."

"That's fine."

Captain Rothschild walked in, and represented Officer Slattery's complete opposite-tall, skinny, and an ironed uniform with no food stains on the shirt. Where the officer could've acted in an automobile insurance commercial about bad luck accidents, the captain could've been rising out of ocean waves and stepping onto a sandy beach as water streamed down his abs.

I bet Rothschild takes bribes. He's too tanned and happy. Meanwhile Slattery looks like he stays up all night, eating at his desk and combing over evidence of unsolved cases. According to Ovid Island, Rothschild is the smart one. Slattery is the dumb one.

Diana focused on Slattery and placed her hands on the table. Her fingers still shivered, but she paid them no mind. To her, she exuded a beacon of strength. Inside, things broke apart and other emotions solidified.

"Go right ahead, Officer," she said. "Besides, I have a few questions of my own."

Both men exchanged nervous glances and then proceeded with their interview. It took all of ten minutes to figure out that Diana not only had an alibi in the form of her condo lobby camera, but that Neil's murder was familiar to the other wealthy and dead men found with holes in their chest. Of course, given that Diana knew she did not murder Neil and his mistress, she was insanely curious as to who did.