Sleepless in Las Vegas. Colleen Collins

doesn’t know I did it.” Val felt ashamed to have repaid her boss’s trust with such insubordination.

      “Dawlin’,” Jasmyn said gently, “what happened?”

      “After she left work early, this new case walked in, and...you know my bullheaded streak.” She gave a halfhearted shrug. “Although that’s hardly an excuse for my misbehavin’. I’m feeling mighty bad that I took a case that I had no right to take because I wanted fast cash.”

      “How much fast cash?”

      “Two grand.”

      Jasmyn emitted a low whistle. “That’s fast, all right. Now you can get your car fixed.”

      “Already in the shop. I’m driving a rental until it’s ready.”

      “You bad, bullheaded girl, you. Mama will be glad to know you got wheels.” She gave Val a knowing look. “Speaking of mamas, now that you’re a private eye in training, have you looked for yours?”

      Val felt a stab of guilt. “No.”

      During Katrina, when she and Nanny had been stuck on the roof of their building, her grandmother confessed she had lied about Val’s parents dying in a car crash when Val was two years old. Nanny’s daughter, Val’s mother, had survived, but left soon after that. “She was born Agnes Monte Hickory LeRoy, after your great-grandmother Agnes Lowell and great-grandfather Elias Monte Hickory, but if she’s remarried, her last name’s prob’ly different. Promise me, dear girl, you’ll try to find her, make my wrong right.”

      Val made that promise.

      But since then, she had not tried to find the mother who had abandoned her. Not once.

      “Truth be told, Jaz, I can’t work up the desire to meet a stranger who gave birth to me, then abandoned me.”

      Jasmyn nodded. “Everythin’ in its own time.”

      Left up to Val, that time would never come. But she felt wretched breaking her word to Nanny.

      “Wow, two thousand!” Jasmyn exclaimed, bringing the conversation back around. “Except for the sneaky part, of course, but who am I to talk? I’m the one sneaking around taking burlesque classes.”

      For the past five months, Jasmyn had been taking private burlesque dancing lessons from Dottie “the Body” Osborne, a former headliner at the Pink Pussycats in Hollywood, a famous burlesque club where the dancers plied their G-string gimmicks in the 1970s. Val, sworn to secrecy about Jasmyn’s clandestine studies, knew if Del and Char ever learned about this, their daughter would be grounded until she was forty.

      “The problem with secrets is that they can blow up in your face,” Val murmured. “I need to tell Jayne.”

      “No, cuz, bad idea! Don’t blow this internship by gettin’ all confessional. Look at the money you made in one night! Plus you tackled your first case and probably learned a lot in the process.”

      “No,” Val said solemnly, gathering the rest of the trash, “I learned investigations are about using the mind to solve puzzles, not playing body games.”

      “Hey,” Jasmyn said, “enough with our heavy noir talk. Let’s dish about something fun. I think I got my burlesque name. Ready? Ruby Stevens!”

      “Definitely sounds like a burlesque name.”

      “It was Barbara Stanwyck’s real name. But they wouldn’t let her use it because—guess what?—it sounded like a burlesque dancer! Y’know how burlesque dancers gotta have a gimmick? I’ll be Ruby Stevens, and I’ll always wear a shiny gold anklet to go with my brassy and phony blond hair. Like your wig, only curlier.”

      After a beat, Val said, “You know I love ya, right Jaz? Word to the wise. One of these days, you’re gonna need to have a sit-down with your mama and be up front about those burlesque lessons. Doing that gives both of you dignity.”

      She wasn’t just talking to her cousin. She was talking to herself, too.

      Because at that moment, Val knew she was going to be up front with Jayne tomorrow morning and tell her what she had done. Nanny used to say that secrets destroyed relationships, and she was right. If Jayne threatened to end her internship, well, Val would give her one hell of a side note on why she should stay.

      After she and Jaz said their good-nights, Val dumped the trash in the kitchen and headed to her room, reflecting on all kinds of things, from blond wigs to honey traps to young women who needed to keep their word.

      Just because a hurricane had wiped out Val’s world didn’t mean it had also taken her self-worth.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      AT EIGHT-TWENTY the next morning, Val pulled into the parking lot at Diamond Investigations. The office didn’t open for forty minutes, but she wanted a chance to talk to Jayne as soon as she arrived, which was usually a few minutes before nine.

      Stepping out of the air-conditioned Honda felt as if somebody had opened an oven door in her face. When the monsoons finally rolled in, the moist winds and thunderstorms would bring lower temperatures. Meanwhile, Las Vegas baked.

      After flipping on the office lights and setting a bag containing a warm cinnamon roll from Marie’s Gourmet Bakery on her desk, she checked herself out in the bathroom mirror.

      This morning, she’d woken Jasmyn and told her about her plan to confess the honey trap to Jayne. “Cuz,” Jasmyn said sleepily, “you need to wear somethin’ to say grace over.”

      Jaz helped her pick out what to wear, a vintage black crepe dress with a delicate white lace bow, swearing it gave Val a “demure innocence.” She wouldn’t go that far, but nevertheless played on the theme by pulling up her dark hair in a sleek, tasteful topknot and paring down her makeup to mascara and peach lip gloss.

      After tucking a stray hair into the topknot, she went about her morning office tasks. First thing each morning, she fed the fish. Sprinkling vitamin-enriched brine shrimp into the tank, she watched a bright blue-and-yellow angelfish disappear into a dark crevice of a miniature castle. The first week Val was here, Jayne had explained how angelfish needed to hide or they stressed too much. A few fish nibbled at the fare, but as always Mr. Blue-and-Yellow lurked in the shadows of his castle.

      “You always do it your way, on your terms,” Val murmured.

      She headed to the kitchenette nestled in an alcove next to the grandfather clock. In addition to a sink, the closet-size space housed an antique chest of drawers on which sat a coffeepot, cups and a wicker basket filled with packets of sugar, powdered creamer and spoons.

      After starting the coffeemaker, she sat at her desk and checked emails. She deleted a spam message and responded to an inquiry—stating that Diamond Investigations was not accepting any new cases.

      She paused, staring out the window. Any minute Jayne’s Miata would pull in beside Val’s rental car.

      Scents of warm dough and cinnamon wafted from the pastry bag, but her stomach was like a big knot—no way could she eat. Listening to the coffeemaker burble and hiss, she busied herself by rearranging items on her desk. After stacking the notepads, making a pile of paper clips and tossing a couple of dried-out ballpoint pens, she stared at the grandfather clock.

      Eight forty-six.

      The front door clicked open.

      Val jumped a little, knocking over the cup of pens. They clattered across her desk. She fumbled to pick them up with trembling fingers, listening to the soft click of her boss’s sensible heels crossing the floor.

      They stopped in front of her desk.

      Val looked up, the knot in her stomach tightening. She hadn’t seen the Miata pull up, but there it was, parked beside her Honda. And here Jayne was.

      She wore a taupe linen blazer over an off-white shell top and...jeans? Her boss