we never discussed the past. It was an unspoken agreement between us. Our friendship was about the here and now.
She was caring; when I was feeling down, she seemed to sense it and would pop into the makeup suite with fresh-brewed apricot tea. She was impulsive; if neither of us had bookings on a slow day, she dragged me to a movie, a restaurant, or a mall. She was shameless; when I needed a new roof, she called a one-time lover, who just happened to be the best roofer in town, and talked him down several thousand in price.
I was the more practical, certainly the more cautious of us—the one who turned off lights when we left a room, who double-checked our afternoon schedules before we left for lunch, who drew her past the pickup from which a wolf whistle had come. I drove her home from the hospital when she had plastic surgery and stayed overnight bringing ice and drinks, and making sure Chris got off to school on time. I had also done her makeup so that she could return to work sooner.
Grace Emory was a woman in search of herself. I knew about women like that firsthand. Searching for self implied either not liking who you are or wanting to escape who you’d been. I didn’t ask Grace which she was. I didn’t want her asking me—didn’t want to have to explain why, when given a choice, I made her drive, or why I wasn’t interested in dating, or why I vanished every year on the third of October and returned emotionally depleted.
Grace accepted me for me, asking questions no more threatening than, Think I should cut my hair? The Spa had dedicated stylists. But she knew I liked to play and was forever asking for help, whether it involved a straight cut, layers, curls, or an up-do. Likewise, color. Currently a brunette with auburn highlights, she was making noise about ditching the highlights and going dark. This day, her head was a riot of the long ringlets I had shown her how to create with pin curls. She looked stunning, if I didn’t say so myself.
At least, her hair did. The fact that she hadn’t knocked might have warned me, if I hadn’t instantly seen that her face was ashen. Saying nothing, she pressed a hand to her chest. Her eyes—brown today, although occasionally green, copper, or gold—held mine with an odd nonfocus as I approached.
Startled, I touched her arm.
“Chris just called,” she whispered. Chris was her fifteen-year-old son. When I tightened my grip, she said, “He’s been arrested.” Her voice shook. “They say he’s the hacker.”
I drew back my chin. “Excuse me?”
She didn’t repeat herself. The fear in her eyes said that I hadn’t heard wrong.
Too often in the last few months for it to be coincidence, local high school teachers had reported incorrect student grades showing up on their computers, hence the birth of hacker talk. But Chris Emory? I knew Chris. He didn’t have a mean bone in his body.
“That has to be wrong,” I said. “He’s only fifteen. He couldn’t—and even if he could, why would he? He’s a good student. He doesn’t need help with his grades.”
“There’s more,” Grace raced on, mildly hysterical now. “They’re saying he hacked into Twitter accounts of other people—people from outside Devon—like our clients.”
I gaped at that. If the accusation was true, there was reason for hysteria. Our client list included some of the biggest names in New York. They came to Devon trusting that the world wouldn’t learn that the lead in a Broadway hit had very little hair of her own on her head, or that a tight end for the New York Jets liked having his toenails buffed. Their privacy was sacrosanct.
“Spa clients?” I asked, to be sure. Any kid could fiddle with school accounts and call it a prank. Fiddling with Spa accounts was a whole other thing.
Nina joined us. She was wearing her business face and used a low, firm voice to match. “That was Jason Gill. They picked up Chris at school.”
“Who’s they?” I asked in alarm.
“The FBI.”
“Federal agents?” The stakes rose. Federal agents added an element of horror. My own experience was limited to state agents, who were bad enough when you were in their crosshairs. Federal agents were even more dogged.
“They have warrants—”
“Why Federal?”
“Internet crime is a Federal offense,” Nina said and told Grace, “They’re on their way over here. They want your electronics.”
She jolted back. “Mine? Why?