Rules of Attraction. Susan Crosby

      “Her car is in your garage.”

      “I don’t have an explanation for that. I assume she will be back for it.”

      Santos took the note from Quinn. “You bleached your hair.”

      She raised her brows. Quinn thought she looked magnificent, all haughty and cool. Mild-mannered schoolteacher—ha!

      “So?” she asked.

      “So, you look a lot like her now. Did you pretend to be your sister, Ms. Winston, so that she could get away?”

      “I don’t believe your warrant covers anything beyond me giving you the note. I already answered questions I didn’t have to. It’s time for you to go.” The front door still stood wide open. She gestured for them to leave.

      Quinn stepped aside as the two investigators exited.

      “You, too, Mr. Gerard,” she said, not looking at him but at the men headed toward their car.

      He saw a break in her composure, a fragility she hadn’t shown Santos. “I’d like to talk to you,” Quinn said.

      “I have nothing to say.”

      “I have things to say. I’ll stand right here, with the door open. Or we could go outside, if you prefer.” He pulled a business card from a leather holder and passed it to her. “I’m not a D.A. investigator. I’m in private practice. My job for them was over when your sister left. This is personal now, just between you and me.” The betrayal he’d endured years ago whirled inside him until he tamped it down. He knew how she felt. That’s all he wanted to tell her. He had little doubt she was an innocent victim swept into her sister’s game.

      “You knew they would be waiting for us after the run,” she said, her tone accusatory.

      “I knew they would be here sometime today.”

      “You told them about the note.”

      “I had no choice.”

      “You had a choice.”

      “No, I didn’t. Ms. Winston, are you worried about your sister?”

      “Worried?”

      “After you got home yesterday you never turned on your lights downstairs. That’s how I knew something was wrong and why I knocked. If she’d only been doing what you asked her to do—move out—you would’ve turned on your lights and gone about life as usual.”

      Her shoulders drooped slightly. She closed her eyes for a second too long.

      “What you say will stay between us,” he said, hoping she would talk to him, unburden herself. He’d been in her shoes. He understood.

      “She didn’t take her stuff,” she said, meeting his gaze, confusion in her eyes but no weakness.

      “Nothing?”

      “Her jewelry, but not her clothes, or at least not many. And her car! She loves that car.”

      “What do you think it means?”

      “I don’t know. I wish I did.”

      He hesitated in offering a possibility. “Could we sit down?”

      She nodded. After they sat on her sofa he watched her finger his business card. “What does the ARC stand for?” she asked.

      “The initials of the three original partners of the agency, Alvarado, Remington and Caldwell. I’m also a partner.”

      “Have they been in business long?”

      “About eight years. They work out of L.A. I opened a branch office for them here right after Thanksgiving last year, but I’ve been a private investigator for ten years.”

      “Why were you working for the D.A.?”

      “Your sister realized she was being followed by their people, so the D.A. hired me to take over. I’m usually pretty good at it.”

      “Not this time?”

      “I figure she made me, too.” Made a fool of me.

      He knew Claire was killing time. He let her set the pace.

      “Jenn doesn’t have the money,” she said finally.

      “What makes you so sure?”

      “She said so.”

      “Is she always honest?”

      Claire started to answer, then shut her mouth. “Usually. Brutally honest.”

      He leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. “Why did you bleach your hair?”

      She ran a hand down her ponytail, as if she’d forgotten. “I wanted a change.”

      “It was your idea?”

      She shifted. “Not entirely.”

      “Jennifer came up with the idea?”

      “She said blondes…”

      “Have more fun?” he asked, finishing her sentence when she didn’t.

      “Yes.”

      “And the clothes? Her clothes that you wore yesterday?”

      “Part of the makeover. Yes, that was also her idea. But I didn’t have to go along with any of it, and she couldn’t have forced me.”

      Quinn knew all about the tactics of manipulation. Some people were so good at it that they could even get their victim to defend them, which was probably true in this instance.

      “We did it on a lark,” Claire said, sitting up straighter, apparently well in control again. “To celebrate the end of the school year and the beginning of summer.”

      “Did she make changes, too?”

      Claire frowned. “Do you mean, did she take on my appearance?”

      “Yes.”

      “Meaning, you think she’s on the run?”

      “Could be.”

      “She said in her note that she would be in touch with me. Doesn’t that imply she’s not running or going into hiding?”

      He didn’t answer. He knew something Claire didn’t—her sister had been followed by someone else, someone not from the D.A.’s office. Quinn had seen him and reported it to the D.A. It was likely someone her convict boyfriend had managed to hire, therefore he must believe she was a threat to run. Therefore, she knew more than she’d said in court.

      “You don’t believe her,” she said, her gaze cool.

      “I don’t know her.”

      “Well, one thing I can tell you—she wouldn’t be caught dead as a brunette or wearing the clothes I wear.”

      “Are any of your clothes missing?”

      She sat back. “I don’t know. I didn’t think to look.”

      “Maybe you should. Maybe you should check your trash cans to see if there’s a box of hair color in there.” He stood. She’d gathered her composure. His job was done—unfortunately. He wouldn’t have minded getting to know her better, but he didn’t think they could get past the reason they’d met in the first place.

      “Maybe you should try to put the facts together and see what you come up with,” he said, then pointed to the business card she still clenched. “You’ve got my number. If you want to talk, you can reach me on my cell phone twenty-four hours a day.”

      She stood, too. “Why would I call you?”

      “Because I know what you’re going through.” He resisted the temptation to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. He had no right to touch her, but he was also afraid he