Author's pov
At the mansion's rear entrance, Mrs. Dahlia was personally escorting Maggie Locke --and her silent assistant--to their waiting car.
"I'm so sorry the plan didn't work," Dahlia whispered, wringing her gloved hands like she was scrubbing guilt from her skin. "I failed you completely."
Maggie waved a gloved hand with cool detachment.
"There will be other opportunities," she said, as if canceling a lunch reservation.
"But I've offended the Black family," Dahlia moaned. "My standing in Denver's social circuit is finished. The local grapevine will devour me by morning. What am I supposed to do now?"
"I've arranged a place for you to lie low," Maggie replied, voice smooth as satin--and just as cold.
It was the kind of tone that could soothe or slice, depending on how you touch
