She shook her head. "Oh, I'm not Harold's wife. We're just dating."

"Oh, I'd have never guessed," I said with half a laugh and yanked NB off the floor. He fussed in my arms, but I held him tightly. "You two just look so cute together."

That had her turning toward me with a smile. "I'm Stacy."

"Vonnie," I said, accepting her outstretched hand. "What have you heard about Harold's improved golf game?"

I had to get the conversation moving in the right direction before NB did something we'd both regret. He wiggled, and his back claws dug into my stomach. I put him down again with a stern expression and a finger pointed at him. I don't think he picked up my threatening message.

"He's been playing so well," Stacy said. "Practicing almost every night and sometimes on the weekend, he takes me out on the course, and I drive the cart for him."

"That sounds fun," I lied. Driving a golf cart around for hours while only going a few miles an hour between long stops seemed horrible. I hoped Broadrick never took up the sport.

She nodded with big bright eyes highlighted by her winged liner. "And when we get home, he's always in the mood after a win."

Ewww. I did my best to keep the disgust from my face. I did not need or want to hear about anyone's sex life. "That's.... good."

I glanced around the place, doing a loop of the couch to keep NB moving so he didn't get comfortable enough to lift a leg. The apartment appeared normal-albeit aged-and Stacy seemed nice. Although, something about her gave off a slight valley girl edge. It might have been the mini skirt and tube top.

"When Harold wants something, he always goes for it full blast. He hasn't slowed down yet," she said, raising one shoulder to her chin in a half shrug. "That's what won me over the first time I saw him on Ramone's yacht. A man needs spunk."

"Yeah, that's what I always say, too." My head moved up and then down, right, then left, making a full circle. I really hoped this didn't lead us back to discussing his spunk in the bedroom. "Do Harold and Ramone yacht together often?"

Did Ramone help him cheat? Ramone didn't really give off good golfer vibes when I met him in the post office.

Stacy nodded. "Every few weeks. I think they enjoy trying to outdo one another, but I always make sure Harold wins at the end of the night."

I had so many questions but enough self-preservation not to ask them. The answers scared me more than I'd admit.

NB pulled at his leash, walking toward the condo's door and letting me know he was ready to leave. It didn't seem like Stacy had the answer to how Harold cheated at golf. Or if she did, she wasn't planning to tell me.

Stacy followed me past the glass table, and I said, "I really appreciate meeting you today. We should hang out sometime."

I meant every word. She had to be a few years older than me but seemed cool, even if I had questions about her background. Ones that I'd never ask about because how other women got paid was none of my business. Whatever she had with Harold was her business.

My frustrating little dog pawed at the door and wagged his tail.

"It was nice to meet you, too," she said. "I'll tell Harold you stopped by."

I froze. Shit. That hadn't been part of my plan. I really had to stop winging things. "No, no. Let's leave it a surprise. I'll ask him the next time I see him."

I didn't want him to prepare before I got to question him.

She waited as I walked out and turned in the hallway. "No problem. Hopefully, you can improve your game. I know how serious the men on this island take golf."

I laughed, but it slowly cut off when she didn't join in. Damn it. If Broadrick started golfing, we were going to have problems. I was not spending my weekends riding around in a golf cart, even if I got to drive.

NB and I made it home without the use of any shortcuts, but Broadrick wasn't there. He was probably off saving the rich people from their life-shattering problems. What problems did rich people have? Infidelity seemed high on the list, but that wasn't a job duty for the security guys. I had a feeling they were going to be super bored here. They'd have to find something to occupy their time. Hopefully, not golf.

I kicked off my shoes by the door and stretched out on the bed. The remote was too far from me, and my arm flopped on the mattress in defeat.

"NB, fetch the remote." I pointed at the device in question, but he didn't move. Instead, he circled three times near my feet and crashed. He'd had a long day, too.

If we couldn't watch any ID Channel, I had to find something to do with my free time while I had it. I pulled out my phone and stuck Melissa's name in my search browser. I wasn't sure what I wanted to find, but the first result page had me sitting up against the pillows. Why didn't I do this days ago?

A site for people to review their real estate professional popped up after my first scroll. I clicked it and scanned the page. Melissa hadn't created a profile on the site, but she had one review. With a single star.

* The worst in the state of Florida

If I could give Melissa Cramwell zero stars, I would. We asked her to list our home on Killdear Island in the fall of 2022. First, she had the audacity to suggest we declutter to make the home more sellable, and then she told us we needed to buy new curtains. No one cares about curtains. Every realtor knows that. The final straw came when she gave us a suggested listing price that came in more than three million less than we expected. Everyone agreed our home is worth triple.

The review carried on for half a page without the use of a single paragraph break. I skimmed the wall of text and closed the app. The complaint was from years ago, had no actual substance, and they'd eventually gone with another realtor. Whoever killed Melissa had to be furious with her now. I didn't see a pissy homeowner coming back to whack Melissa years after their disagreement.

Another dead end.

I rolled over and stretched to grab the remote, disrupting NB. My phone rang mid-movement, and I stilled, unsure if I prioritized answering it or grabbing the remote.