Such a Pretty Girl

Chapter 1

We’ll be arriving in about fifteen minutes.

Grace Sinclair looked from the limo window to the driver. Checking her phone for the time, she sighed in relief. She hated being late.

Thank you, she said, slipping the phone back into her vintage Prada clutch.

What kind of event are you going to? the driver asked. He was a middle-aged man with black hair and dark eyes that had brightened when she made her way down the stairs of her town house earlier that evening. Seems fancy.

They were en route to the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden. Tonight the venue was hosting not only great works of art but a prestigious black-tie event for the DC elite.

An awards dinner, Grace said.

For you? he asked. You’re mighty dressed up.

Grace looked down at her body-hugging silk halter dress. The silvery material clung to her curves like a metallic skin, leaving everything—and nothing—to the imagination.

My second book won the Callahan Award, Grace said as the limo turned into the flow of busy DC traffic.

In the rearview mirror, Grace could see the driver’s eyebrows rising. You a writer?

She nodded. But writing’s just a side job, she explained. I work for the FBI.

The FBI? He whistled, low and skeptical. You’re not off chasing bad guys, are you? You’re such a pretty thing—you might get hurt.

The hairs on Grace’s neck prickled in irritation as he laughed, a little too hard and a little too long. She was feminine, yes, but she packed a hell of a punch—she made sure of it.

I’d be more concerned with the bad guys getting hurt, if I were you, she said. I’m a profiler.

Like on TV? he asked, mockery evident in his leering grin.

Grace smiled, but he didn’t notice the wolfish edge in her expression. Just like that, she replied coolly.

Her focus narrowed. Her eyes tracked past the driver’s face, settling on the crumpled ice-cream wrappers in the trash can on the passenger-side floor.

She was far from a Sherlock Holmes—profiling wasn’t as easy as examining the dirt under someone’s fingernails and deducing they’d planted some zinnias that day. And it was no magic trick—that was just cold reading and con artistry.

Profiling was about details and knowledge. About psychology and behavior. About paying attention to cues and clues, physical and verbal. It wasn’t about just being able to notice such cues, but being able to identify them. To analyze them. To string them together into a solid sketch of a person.

Her driver was probably the youngest in his family. Always out to prove his worth. He equated being louder with being better because it was the only way to get any attention. Likely a poor relationship with his parents—particularly his mother—leading to his own weak parenting skills. The way his hands were clenched on the steering wheel and the irritated line of his shoulders as he maneuvered the limousine through the nighttime traffic told her he hated his job—and resented his passengers too.

Some people—the nicer ones—would say her driver had old-fashioned ideals. His wide eyes roving up and down her clingy dress had revealed an obvious attraction but also a hint of disgust that was quickly tamped down. His passive-aggressive comment about her looks made him feel like the big guy. Something he desperately needed, clearly, since he was stress eating.

Her gaze drifted to his left hand where a wedding ring should be. The strip of untanned skin was a dead giveaway. Recently separated or divorced. She’d bet all her money that the reason was infidelity—on his part. He didn’t respect women. He thought they were inferior—a woman in power made him feel nervous and inadequate. He was the kind of man who felt as if women owed him something—someone who both resented and lusted after the opposite sex.

Good for his ex to have escaped, Grace thought with some satisfaction. Life was too short to waste it on a man who couldn’t appreciate a woman’s worth.

The driver pulled up to the front of the museum. Grace waited as he jumped out of the car and made his way over to open her door. Ignoring his proffered hand, she got out herself, moving toward the immense gray circular building.

Oh, by the way, she said. He turned, clearly expecting a tip. So she gave him one: If you want your wife back, you’d better stop with the stress eating. Not that she’ll have you, after the fling with . . . who? The stripper? No, the camgirl. Am I right?

His ruddy face—he’d been drinking too much, evidently—went white. What the—

Grace smiled, tapping her temple mysteriously. Just like TV, she said, before turning to walk up the path to the museum.

The Hirshhorn itself was a work of art. Perched on four legs, the striking round building with a lush plaza in the center housed some of the most celebrated modern art in the world. But the sculpture garden on the grounds had always been her favorite of the museum’s many collections.

She showed her ticket, then made her way to the sculpture garden, the long skirt of her dress fluttering behind her. Already, people dressed in their finest were milling about among the sculptures. Strains of Mozart—a string quartet playing a minuet—floated through the air, and waiters circulated with hors d’oeuvre trays and champagne.

Smoothing the crown of intricate braids she’d painstakingly plaited into her waist-length hair, she tried to summon a real smile. This was her world—the one her parents occupied; the one she’d been born into. Glittering, beautiful, cultured, accomplished. She’d always been told she was these things—praised by private tutors, then boarding school teachers, and finally, top-notch professors.

She had been groomed to bring honor to the Sinclair name. To continue the proud tradition of wealth, privilege, and power. Her mother was a society wife, but Grace was an only child, which meant a life of debutante balls and hanging on some politician’s arm was not an option. Her father wouldn’t dream of his only heir reducing herself to such pursuits.

She was meant for more. She was meant to be her father’s perfect puppet, to do as she was told, to excel at whatever career he deemed right for her, and to be the perfect Sinclair.

The pressure had been crushing and any parental love deeply lacking. She supposed she could’ve bent to her father’s will, but she’d always been stubborn. She’d been drawn to another world, where she discovered a different, darker kind of challenge: the criminal mind.

Her mother had been horrified at her career choice. Her father had quietly raged, as was his way. But the pull to know, to pick apart, and to understand had been too strong for her to ignore. The FBI had its eye on her since her sophomore year in college and recruited her right after graduation.

Quantico was everything she’d ever dreamed of and more. She’d graduated at the top of her class and climbed the ranks at the Bureau. A year into the job, she found herself on the hunt for a serial killer who tried to cover his tracks by staging his murders as suicides. It’d been one of those cases that got under your skin. During the evenings, alone in her motel room, she’d found it hard to block the horrific images of the victims from her head. She’d needed some sort of reprieve—and it came in the form of fiction. Every night, she’d sit down at her computer and distract herself by writing the adventures of Agent Rachel Jane.

Writing books gave her the kind of control over people’s fates that she didn’t always manage to find in real life. In Rachel Jane’s fictional world, the bad guys always lost, the good guys always won, and her sexy leading man, Agent Matthews, was always devoted and faithful.

Nothing like the real world at all, really, Grace thought with amusement. But it was comforting to lose herself in such a black-and-white creation when in reality she experienced nothing but gray. The first in the series had been a bestseller, and the second was an award winner. The third novel, she’d completed last summer, and it had debuted at the top of the bestseller list, staying there for weeks. Much to her publisher’s horror, she hadn’t yet begun another book, but she’d been focused on the real world—and the very real criminals in it.

Grace! A voice distracted her from her reverie. She turned, her face breaking into a grin when she caught sight of a blonde woman making her way through the crowd.

Maggie! Grace reached out for a hug. Let me look at you, she said. Oh, my gosh! she exclaimed, holding her friend at arm’s length and smiling in admiration. The deep purple Gucci gown she’d convinced Maggie to buy was a hit. You look gorgeous, she said.

Thanks to you. Maggie grinned. She was petite, with an explosion of blond curls framing her heart-shaped face. The rich purple silk set off her blue eyes perfectly, and the deep V-neck accentuated her curves. The only jewelry she wore was a vintage charm bracelet Grace had given her a few Christmases ago.

Your closet is as boring as those cookie-cutter beige housing developments. Grace shrugged. Someone has to drag you farther down the color wheel—it might as well be me.

Well, you were right on this one, Maggie said. I Skyped with Jake as I was getting ready, and I thought he was going to leap through the screen.

Grace laughed at the image this put in her head. Maggie’s boyfriend, Jake O’Connor, was a mountain of a man, a Special Ops veteran with a devil-may-care attitude that fit nicely with Maggie’s controlled, organized personality. It’d been a long time since she’d seen Maggie this happy in a relationship. How’s he doing?

Good, Maggie replied. He asked me to tell you congratulations. And that he was sorry he couldn’t make it.

Is he going to be in California long?

Another week or two, Maggie said.

I bet you miss him.

Maggie smiled, a small, private smile. Maybe, she said. Anyway, enough about me. Tonight’s about you! Though I guess all the award winning is getting kind of boring.

Never, Grace replied, lifting her chin with an exaggerated air that made Maggie chuckle. You know how I like to win. I just wish I could forgo all the ceremonies.

But you love getting dressed up, Maggie said.

I don’t know, Grace said, shrugging. The older I get . . . Here Maggie, two years her senior, snorted, but Grace grinned and continued, I just . . . I feel like something’s missing. And it’s not a man, she said quickly as Maggie opened her mouth. I’m a modern woman. I don’t need any arm candy to feel complete.

Need and want are two very different things, Maggie said. There’s nothing wrong with wanting a man in your life.

Grace wanted to smile at the optimism in Maggie’s voice. She was so glad that her friend had found Jake. And being in love with him had changed Maggie for the better.

But Grace had been changed by a man once, and only once. And it had not been for the better.

Instead it had been a lesson she could never forget. It had shattered her soul, and all these years later, she still felt like she was scrambling to pick up the pieces. She wouldn’t wish that kind of destruction on her worst enemy. And she’d promised herself she’d never make herself vulnerable enough for a man to get close enough again.

So she kept to her rules about men in her life: never let them get attached—getting attached herself was never even on the table—never let them spend the night, and never, ever sleep with anyone twice.

It was clean. Neat. Orderly. How she liked her life. How she had to live her life, because it was safer.

No wanting or needing a man for this lady. Grace shook her head brusquely. Not right now. It’s silly anyway. I just need a new case. Something juicy to concentrate on. The book tour was only three weeks long, but my face still hurts from all the smiling.

The women moved deeper into the sculpture garden as they talked, navigating gracefully around both the statues and people. This is my first time here, Maggie remarked as they passed a bright red abstract sculpture that was clearly influenced by early Cubism. It’s very impressive.

It’s an amazing collection, Grace agreed. Some of my favorite pieces are here.

Did you see that big sculpture that looks like a bunch of pipes hung midair? Maggie asked, gesturing behind her.

"That’s the Needle Tower, Grace said. You don’t like it?"

I think modern art might be a little beyond me, Maggie confessed with a laugh.

Nonsense! a voice boomed out behind them.

Frank! A short man with gray hair and the droopy face of a bulldog walked up to them, and Maggie smiled, reaching out to embrace him. Frank Edenhurst, perpetually rumpled, had already wiggled loose from his bow tie, letting the ends hang down.

Or should we call you Mr. Assistant Director? Grace asked. After a harrowing case involving the kidnapping of a senator’s daughter, Frank had recently been promoted at the Bureau. He’d been the one responsible for bringing Maggie back into the FBI—and Grace would always be grateful to him for it. She’d missed working with Maggie—who was always the most valuable member on any team she was on.

Only if you want to get on my good side, Frank joked, his homely mug lighting up with a megawatt smile that hinted at his sweet side. Congratulations, Grace. This is quite the to-do.

Thank you, Grace said.

We are very proud of her, aren’t we? Maggie asked, putting an arm around Grace’s shoulders.

Damn right, Frank said. How’d that case in Delaware work out? he asked Maggie.

It was touch and go there for a while, Maggie said. Didn’t you read my report?

Why would I do that when you can just tell me now what happened? Frank asked.

Grace laughed, shaking her head. Frank was notorious for his hatred of paperwork. I’ll let you two talk, she said. My publisher’s trying to flag me down anyway, she said, catching sight of the man waving at her over by a cluster of bronze statues. They nodded, and as they fell into a conversation, Grace made her way across the walk but was held up by a pair of politicians she knew from her parents’ society dinners.

Grace, congratulations, said Senator Cleary, a silver-haired man who was a longtime friend of her father’s.

Thank you, Senator, she said. Cleary was a vain man who could never resist looking in a mirror. It was almost second nature for Grace to take advantage of it. I must say you’re looking very dashing tonight.

You’re far too sweet to an old man like me, he said, but he preened a little under her warm flattery.

Hello, Congressman. She nodded at his blond companion. The man was as corn-fed as they came, a staunch old-school Democrat and family man from Iowa who actually stood by his values. She was amazed he’d managed to last in DC this long. How are the twins?

Tearing up the field at Iowa State, he said proudly.

Go, Cyclones! she said with a disarming wink, rewarded by his wry grin. Now, gentlemen, I must leave you. Duty calls.

Tell your father hello for me, the senator said.

I’ll do that, Grace nodded, flashing him a brief smile as she turned away, though she couldn’t remember the last time she’d talked to her father, let alone seen him face-to-face. Six months ago? Seven?

She managed to walk across the garden without too many more entanglements. Jonathan Ames was waiting by one of the museum’s groupings by Rodin, the unconventional nineteenth-century Frenchman whose sensual, rough-hewn style challenged the smooth perfection of his era.

Darling. Jonathan Ames held out both his hands, swooping in to kiss her on one cheek, then another. His brilliant sage-green tux should have been loud and out of place in the sea of traditional black suits, but his outsize personality managed to make it work. My superstar. He beamed at her, his bright white teeth gleaming. I really wish you’d leave that nasty FBI work behind and write for me full-time. Think of the awards you’d win! The money! Think of the absence of danger! I’m begging you!

Grace rolled her eyes good-naturedly at his drama. Jonathan’s excess enthusiasm had almost put her off choosing to go with his house when demand for her first book escalated to a four-publisher bidding war. She’d wondered if someone so cheerful and bombastic could understand the darkness of her world. But she quickly learned that beneath the drama, Jonathan was serious and passionate. And when that passion was funneled into his authors’ work, amazing things happened. Her first book spent twenty weeks on the New York Times bestseller list, and her second lasted twice as long. The third had been released just months ago. Grace had had to talk Jonathan down from an eight-week book tour to a jam-packed month.

Her boss had been reluctant to let her go until one of the media specialists pointed out it was good PR for the Bureau, especially since it’d been announced that Grace’s second novel had won the prestigious Callahan Award for Crime Fiction.

I’d go crazy if I was in front of my computer at home all day, she told Jonathan.

He tutted, then pursed his lips in disapproval. You’re crazy, darling. It’d be sublime. You could move to New York, mingle with the literary elite! You’re killing me, with all this ‘I have to stay in DC and save the world from serial killers’ talk.

"But I do need to stay in DC and save the world from serial killers, Grace said patiently. There are a lot of bad guys around."

And I love that it’s your personal mission to get them all, Jonathan said. It’s a PR dream. But I do worry about you.

Grace reached out and patted him on the shoulder. You’ll survive, she assured him. I’m not your only writer.

Thank God they don’t all have your penchant for darkness, he said. I’d be a mess. Now go! Shoo! Mingle with your adoring public. I’ve got networking to do. He waved her off.

Grace descended down the sculpture garden’s path, picking up a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter and taking a sip.

Grace, it’s so nice to see you, said a woman’s voice behind her.

Grace turned around abruptly, her face breaking into a broad smile as she saw who it was: a stately woman with glasses that matched her fiery coiffure. She wore a sari-inspired dress, the gold trim glinting in the lights set out in the garden. Dr. James, I can’t believe you came.

Please, call me Clara, dear. We’re years past your student days, said her former professor warmly, embracing her. But Grace couldn’t quite think of her on a first-name basis; she’d always held this woman, friendly as she was, in awe. And of course I came. You were one of my best students. I’m very pleased for you. And Martha would’ve been so proud.

Grace’s heart sank, her breath catching in her throat. Grief was a funny thing—just when you thought you’d mastered it, it crept up on you. Martha Lee had been a pioneer in criminology—not just as a psychologist, but as a woman infiltrating a field that was notoriously male dominated. She was a woman with a keen mind and an even sharper eye. Grace had considered it the greatest privilege of her life that Dr. Lee had taken a liking to her. She’d become Grace’s mentor, even written her recommendations to the Academy, which she’d retired from in the ’80s to teach.

For years, Grace and Dr. Lee kept in touch, with emails, phone calls, the occasional lunch. Grace had just been finishing up her third book last year when she got the news that Dr. Lee had died in a car crash. It had been a hard blow—Dr. Lee had always been so full of life, it was nearly impossible to think she was gone. After the funeral Grace had returned home to her empty house. She’d found herself restless, unable to settle until she sat down in front of her computer and finished the final chapter of her book, almost as if Dr. Lee had been guiding her.

She’d dedicated Trust Is a Bitter Game to her memory. A small token for a woman who had done so much, for sure, but Grace knew she would have been pleased.

I saw the dedication, Dr. James said, reaching out and squeezing Grace’s arm. "It was very touching. And I know her husband appreciated the gesture.