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  “No problem at all,” the waiter said.

  As he walked away with Lauren’s card, Stephanie gazed at the card in her hand, transfixed.

  “Maybe you just did a big charge and forgot,” Dawn volunteered.

  “Or knowing you, Steph, forgot to pay the damn bill,” Cynthia said with a smirk. “Once you pay it, they should unfreeze the account.”

  Stephanie slowly shook her head, still staring down at the plastic in her hand. “No, this is my debit card, not one of my credit cards. It’s connected to my checking account. I should have more than eighteen thousand dollars in there!”

  “Then it was a mistake,” Lauren reassured. “After lunch, just go to the bank and check it out. I’m sure there’s some explanation.”

  Stephanie nodded. Lauren was right. It had to be a mistake. She sipped from her water glass, deciding to worry about it later.

  Chapter 4

  “I need to stop at an ATM,” Cynthia called over her shoulder as they walked along Main Street. They were on their way to their cars that were parked in a lot at the end of the block.

  The sisters drew a few admiring stares, grins, and murmurs of “Good Afternoon” from the sundry men strolling along the boulevard. They were four beautiful women, after all—laughing and chatting as if they didn’t have a care in the world. What man wouldn’t stop to do a double take and look at them?

  But the reaction was very different from the women they passed. The sisters drew eye rolls, sucked teeth, and the occasional sneer. The Gibbons girls had a well-established reputation in Chesterton as a family of gold diggers. The reputation extended back generations to their family matriarch, Grandmother Althea, who had used her pretty face and cunning ways to take her from the daughter of a poor sharecropper to the wife of a few millionaires. The female passersby wrongly assumed if the Gibbons girls were laughing, it was probably because of some rich man they had stolen or one they were plotting to steal.

  “I should stop too to figure out what the hell is going on with my account,” Stephanie said as they walked toward the bank.

  Cynthia went to the ATM first, removing hundred dollar bills from the slot. She glanced down at her receipt afterward and her shoulders slumped. “I need to get a new man soon. Having a daughter in college has left me B-R-O-K-E.”

  “Or you could just get a second J-O-B.” Lauren shook her head. “You don’t want to depend on a man like that, Cindy. It’s too unpredictable and self-reliance is good.”

  Cynthia glared at their youngest sister. “Is that so? Well, thanks for the helpful advice, Little Miss Married-to-a-Millionaire, but frankly it sounds hypocritical coming from you. You’ll never have to take a second job to make ends meet thanks to that moneybags husband of yours.”

  Lauren glowered at Cynthia while Stephanie and Dawn exchanged a look.

  Not this old argument again, the look silently conveyed.

  Though they were all happy that Lauren had found love and happiness with Cris, Cynthia was still smarting from the fact that she had tried to come on to Cris when he first came into town almost a year ago. She had failed miserably though and he had chosen her little sister instead. Stephanie knew in the back of Cynthia’s mind that Cynthia always wondered what her life would be like if she was Mrs. Crisanto Weaver. After all, he was the holy grail of what all of the Gibbons girls had been taught to look for in a man.

  Lauren gritted her teeth. “Cris may be a millionaire, but that doesn’t mean I’m reliant on him! I have a job, my own damn money, and—”

  Stephanie loudly cleared her throat. “You done with the ATM, Cindy?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.

  Cynthia nodded and stepped aside with Lauren still glowering at her.

  Stephanie inserted her card and quickly punched her password into the ATM to check her balance. A receipt scrolled out of the slot. She read it and blinked in amazement at the numbers.

  “That’s not possible,” she murmured.

  “One dollar and fourteen cents!” Dawn declared, looking over Stephanie’s shoulder at the receipt. “How the hell do you have only one dollar and fourteen cents in there? I thought you said you had closer to eighteen thousand dollars!”

  “This . . . This has to be a mistake,” Stephanie mumbled.

  “It better be!” Cynthia cried. “Or you’re B-R-O-K-E too!”

  Stephanie was suddenly gripped with panic. She pushed her way past her sisters, who were huddled around her. She then ran to the bank doors as fast as her stilettos would allow.

  The portly security guard grinned as he held the door open for her. Too busy to flirt, she didn’t smile back. She stepped into the small, carpeted lobby with its potted plants and mundane office chairs before walking straight to the teller windows.

  There was only one teller on duty and the line was seven people deep. It zigzagged around a navy velvet rope.

  This can’t wait, Stephanie thought desperately. I need to talk to someone now!

  She walked past the LINE STARTS HERE sign and went straight to the teller window as an elderly black woman with glasses stepped away, clutching her bills and smiling.

  “Hey!” shouted the middle-aged white woman in a gray business suit who was next in line. “We’re all waiting here, lady! You can’t just barge in!”

  “Like hell I can’t! This is an emergency!” Stephanie snapped back.

  The woman gaped.

  The young teller looked tiredly at Stephanie through the glass divider. “Ma’am, those people were in line.”

  “I know. I know,” Stephanie said, holding up her hands. “I’m not doing a transaction. I just want to check my account balance. Please! That’s all I need to know.”

  The teller pursed her lips. “Ma’am, you can check your account balance at the ATM outside or by phone. There’s a 1-800-number that’s—”

  “Damn it, I know that!”

  When the teller looked as if she was about to shift away from the counter to get the manager or press a panic button, Stephanie took a deep breath. “I know that. But . . . But I would like you to double-check, if you could. The ATM said my account is empty. Please, just check it . . . Then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  The teller’s nostril flared. She let out a long, slow breath. “Fine. What’s your account number? I’m also going to need some ID.”

  Stephanie quickly opened her wallet and handed the teller her driver’s license. She then rattled off her checking account number.

  After typing a few keys, the teller’s eyes scanned the computer screen on her desktop. “Your account isn’t empty.”

  At those words, Stephanie practically jumped for joy. She grinned. “Oh, thank God! I knew it had to be a mistake! It just didn’t seem—”

  “It says here that you have one dollar and fourteen cents available,” the teller murmured.

  Stephanie’s grin disappeared. Her eyes almost popped out of her head. “What? How’s that possible? What happened to the eighteen thousand dollars that was in there?”

  “It says there was a transfer as of yesterday of seventeen thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight dollars to another account. It’s not connected to this bank.”

  “Oh, my God,” Stephanie uttered breathlessly.

  “There was another transfer made from your savings account in the amount of thirty-eight thousand seven hundred and three dollars three days ago to the same account.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  That was almost 80 percent of her savings!

  Stephanie felt her knees buckle beneath her. She grabbed the counter to steady herself and to keep from collapsing to the floor.

  The teller gazed up at Stephanie. “I can print a receipt if you’d like,” she offered with syrupy sweetness.

  “A receipt?” Stephanie squeaked as the blood drained from her head. “I don’t want a damn receipt! I want to talk to the manager!”

  “My money . . . What happened to all my money?” Stephanie muttered dully a half an hour later as her sisters steered her
toward the parking lot.

  The bank manager had confirmed the transactions had taken place last night and earlier that week. The funds were sent to some offshore bank in the Caribbean, according to the routing number.

  “I can assure you that they were perfectly legal, ma’am,” he had said with pinched lips in an officious tone.

  When she had asked if the transfers could be returned, he said they probably could—but he couldn’t say so for a fact. The bank would have to conduct a fraud investigation. She’d have to file a report with the police and sign an affidavit. After forty-five days, perhaps the fraud department would decide to give her money back. Meanwhile, she had a mortgage and several bills that would go unpaid.

  With Lauren on one arm and Dawn on the other, Stephanie allowed herself to be blindly led to her car, not paying attention or caring where she was being taken. Cynthia brought up the rear, lugging Stephanie’s purse.

  Stephanie looked like a grief-stricken widow mourning the loss of her husband at a funeral. But instead, she was really mourning the loss of her beloved bank account.

  All that money, she thought numbly. All that money is gone. Gone!

  She wanted to weep but couldn’t find the strength!

  “Do you know who might have done it?” Dawn inquired, speaking carefully as if her sister was a recovering invalid. “Any idea?”

  “No . . . not all,” Stephanie mumbled.

  “Maybe someone saw you type your password on your computer somewhere when you accessed your accounts online,” Lauren suggested. “. . . Is there another way someone could have gained access?”

  Stephanie shook her head. “No, no one else had access to my . . .”

  Her words faded. She stopped in her tracks as a thought suddenly dawned in her addled brain. Her sisters slowed their pace with her.

  “What?” Cynthia asked. “What?”

  “Someone . . . Someone else had access to my accounts.”

  All her sisters gazed at her in astonishment.

  “Who?” they asked in unison.

  “Isaac.”

  Lauren slowly closed her eyes. “Oh, Steph, you didn’t.”

  “He said he needed it so I could make money on this big IPO he had just heard about!” Stephanie shouted hysterically. “He called me in the car one day last week when I was with a client. He said I was going to make lots of money! We had to do it now or I’d miss out! He was looking out for me! He wanted me to buy shares myself, but I reminded him I was busy showing houses all day. I didn’t know how long it would take! So I . . . So I gave him the password to my online shareholder trade account,” she stuttered. Even as she explained it, she realized how ridiculous it sounded. But it seemed totally plausible at the time. “I made five thousand dollars on that investment! But I . . . But I forgot that it also gave him access to one of my online bank accounts and all the accounts connected to it.”

  “And you just handed that stuff over to him?” Cynthia cried. “What the hell is wrong with you, Steph? Are you insane?”

  Dawn gave a rueful shake of the head. Her bob flapped in the breeze as she gazed sadly at her sister. “Never give a man the key to your financial security,” Dawn murmured, iterating one of the many Gibbons family golden rules on gold digging. “Stephanie, you know better!”

  “But isn’t it like . . . encrypted?” Stephanie asked weakly. “I thought they don’t show the full account numbers.”

  “I guess not encrypted enough,” Lauren replied. “He managed to get it.”

  “But we don’t know that for sure!” Stephanie argued. “It couldn’t have been Isaac. It could easily have been someone else! He could be completely innocent!”

  “Oh, come on!” Cynthia shouted, her hazel eyes blazing. “Wake up! You don’t know this guy from Adam! He could be innocent . . . but he also could be the biggest hustler that ever lived! Besides, don’t you think it’s an odd damn coincidence that your money suddenly disappears when he gets access to your accounts?”

  “But he’s rich! He doesn’t need my money! Plus, he made me five thousand dollars!” Stephanie countered, stomping her foot. “Why would he give me money just to take it back three days later? Why would he give me a car? Ask me to marry him? It doesn’t make any—”

  “Oh, my Lord!” Dawn shouted, cutting them off. “Look!”

  They all turned their heads, following the direction that Dawn pointed. The sisters gawked, watching the scene unfold.

  A red tow truck detailed with flames and the sign HENRY’S TOW 1-800-TRUK-YOU on its doors was in the parking lot. Isaac’s roadster was hitched to the back and being raised into the air. A burly man whom Stephanie presumed to be “Henry” stood beside the tow truck as Isaac’s one-hundred-thousand-dollar car was loaded onboard. The driver wore a crew cut and a ripped tank top that revealed a massive hairy chest and about twenty tattoos.

  Stephanie’s strength suddenly returned. She pulled her arms from her sisters’ grasp and bolted the last half block, running toward the truck.

  “What . . . What are you doing?” she yelled at the driver, fighting to be heard above the grating mechanical noise as the roadster was lifted. “Why are you taking that car?”

  He looked at her and gave a smile that was anything but friendly. “This your car, honey?” he drawled as he popped his gum, jabbing his fat thumb over his shoulder at the glistening roadster.

  “Well, yes, kinda . . . it’s my . . . my car now. My fiancé gave it to me!”

  “Is that right? Well, your car is bein’ repo’d for nonpayment.” He then shifted a few levers on the back of the tow truck, walked around the side, and opened the driver’s-side door. He hopped behind the wheel. “And if you know what’s good for you, don’t try anything. Just let your fiancé work it out with the loan company. You don’t wanna tango with me, baby!”

  He then shut the truck’s door and cranked the engine.

  Stephanie took a step back as the tow truck suddenly pulled off with a lurch. She watched, stunned, while Isaac’s roadster was carried off, drawing curious onlookers who milled about Main Street.

  Stephanie’s sisters gathered around her on the sidewalk.

  “Did that really just happen?” Dawn asked, still gaping.

  “Yes, it did,” Lauren answered quietly. “Isaac’s car was repossessed.”

  “Oh, hell, no!” Cynthia shouted. “Enough of this bullshit! Get Isaac on the phone, Steph! If you don’t track him down and beat the hell out of him, I sure as hell will!”

  Stephanie shook her head. “I’m not calling him. I’m going to his house . . . and he better explain what the hell is going on!”

  Chapter 5

  Lauren and Dawn winced at the sound of screeching tires as they watched Stephanie and Cynthia hurtle down Main Street in Cynthia’s black SUV. A postal courier with boxes in his arms who had been idly ambling through the crosswalk suddenly jumped onto the curb to escape being sideswiped by the speeding vehicle. He turned around and yelled a few choice four-letter words at Cynthia. She beeped her horn in reply before disappearing around a corner, sending a few more pedestrians running for their lives. It looked like the sister duo was headed toward Isaac’s home.

  Isaac might stand a chance of survival with Stephanie alone, but if Cynthia got her hands on him, he certainly was a dead man.

  Dawn couldn’t believe Stephanie had let this happen. Hoodwinked by a conman? How could she possibly have been so naïve . . . so trusting . . . so stupid?

  “Well, this is a complete and utter travesty,” Dawn said as she stood beside Lauren with her hand on her hip. “A.k.a. hot mess.”

  “Tell me about it,” Lauren muttered.

  Dawn turned to her sister. “I wonder what they’re going to do. Hopefully nothing that lands them in jail.” She threw up her hands. “Oh, who am I kidding? They know we’ll bail them out.”

  “I’ve got my checkbook ready when the time comes.” Lauren held up her purse to demonstrate.

  Now that the show was over, both women tu
rned around and walked toward their cars. Dawn took out her keys, pushed the loose strands of hair out of her eyes, and clicked the button on her remote to open the door to her cobalt blue Mercedes-Benz convertible.

  “Well, I have to get back to the gallery. Gotta zip up the beltway to get into the city and who knows what the traffic will be like. A nightmare, I would imagine,” she mumbled then fluttered her fingers in good-bye at Lauren as she climbed inside. “I’ll catch you later. You take care of that little bun you’ve got in that oven, girl. And let me know if you hear any updates from Steph or Cindy, OK?”

  “I will. Don’t worry,” Lauren said, smiling as she walked toward her car. “Keep your phone nearby.”

  Dawn nodded, put on her purple-tinted aviator sunglasses, and closed her car door behind her. She pulled off.

  After enduring forty-five minutes of bumper-to-bumper traffic, Dawn finally arrived a little after two o’clock at Templeton Gallery. It was nestled on a street block in the newly gentrified part of the U Street Corridor in DC, bordered to the right and left by coffee shops, boutiques, and an upscale French restaurant. Dawn tiredly tugged off her sunglasses as she stepped through the revolving doors into the ceramic-tiled lobby then onto the hardwood floors of the gallery itself. A few men were on a ladder, carefully hanging one of the gallery’s new artworks—a twenty-four-by-thirty-inch abstract painting—on one of the exposed brick walls. Dawn’s assistant stood off to the side, watching carefully as they worked.

  Dawn always liked to say that her assistant, Kevin, dressed the way she would if she were a gay man. Today he was dressed smartly in a leather vest, slim dove-gray slacks, and suede ankle boots. Horn-rimmed glasses were perched on his blond head. He lowered those glasses to his nose as he assessed the painting now dangling precariously on the wall.

  “Drop it about a couple of inches lower . . . lower . . . Yes, that’s it! Perfect!” Kevin said before turning his focus toward Dawn. “Hey! You’re back already?”

  “I told you I was only leaving for lunch,” Dawn answered breezily, striding down a hallway toward her office. Kevin trailed behind her. “I would have been back sooner if it wasn’t for the damn backup on the Woodrow Wilson Bridge.”