One Wrong Step Read Free Page B

blue-haired ladies at church and didn’t have the nerve to send back an undercooked steak, had been laundering money for the Saledo drug cartel.
    After overcoming her initial shock and inertia, Celie had asked Feenie’s husband for help. Marco Juarez, a talented private investigator who made a habit of steering clear of authorities, conducted a quiet search. He located Robert, informed him that Celie had filed for an ex parte divorce, and told him it would be ill-advised for him to contact Celie or her family ever again.
    Knowing Marco, he hadn’t been too subtle about driving that point home.
    So why was Robert standing here now, foraging through her pantry like a wet raccoon?
    “You still get migraines?” he demanded. “You have any of those pills?”
    Aha. He needed drugs. Marco had spared her the details of his visit with Robert, but he’d made a few key points: Robert was living the high life, partying hard, and availing himself of the services of numerous local women. It had also been Marco’s opinion that Robert was just a few months shy of a crash. Apparently, he’d been pretty strung out.
    “Yes and no,” Celie said firmly.
    “Huh?”
    “Yes, I still get headaches, and no, I don’t have any meds for you.”
    He scowled and opened another cabinet. Celie noticed the tremor in his hands. She had to get him out of here.
    “Prenatal vitamins? You never give up, do you?” He plopped a fat plastic bottle on the counter. “Who’s the lucky guy this time?”
    Okay, she’d had enough. She spotted the portable phone on the counter and lunged for it.
    He grabbed her arm. “Oh, no, you don’t. We’re not done talking.”
    “Then talk !”
    His fingers bit into her skin, and she caught a whiff of beer. He’d been drinking, and clearly he was jonesing for something stronger. She’d have to ratchet things down a notch and persuade him to leave her apartment. She’d had enough experience with drug addicts at the Bluebonnet House to know they could be unpredictable and dangerous, especially when they needed something they didn’t have.
    God, he looked awful. His skin was tinged yellow, and he hadn’t showered or combed his hair in days. He had a goatee now, too, which just emphasized his underfed junkie persona. Had she actually been married to this guy? For six years ?
    She took a deep breath and steeled herself for a conversation she really didn’t want to have. “All right,” she said. “What is it you want to talk about?”
    He smiled wickedly. “Money, honey. What’d you think?”
     
    Kate Kepler hated panty hose. Ditto for heels, purses, and any other accessory that made her feel like a wannabe Barbie doll. She steered her Volkswagen Beetle down the winding road, trying to strip off the too-tight nylons without having a wreck. The elastic waistband had been cutting into her skin all night, and the control top made her desperate for air. Finally a stoplight appeared, and Kate wrestled the damn things off.
    “Free at last,” she muttered, taking her first real breath in hours.
    Never again would she jump at an assignment before nailing down the details. When Irene, the political editor, had told Kate she needed someone to cover a campaign event, Kate had literally leapt to her feet in eagerness. The political beat at the Austin Herald was her heart’s desire, the coveted news job Kate had been pining for ever since her first journalism class. Reporting on democracy in action, scrutinizing the activities of elected officials, relaying critical information to the public—this was the work Kate fantasized about.
    But tonight she’d done none of those things. Instead, she’d donned her only matching skirt and jacket, moussed up her brunette pixie cut, and—at Irene’s insistence, the old-fashioned witch—shimmied her body into a suffocating pair of panty hose. All so she could spend three hours rubbing elbows with snooty, overdressed socialites who had gathered at some minimansion in the