Ainsley tried to pry the lock open with a bobby pin, but it was intricate. Too secure for a diary.

She needed help.

She borrowed a phone from a maid who looked sympathetic and texted Annie.

Annie. I found a diary. It's locked.

The reply came three minutes later.

Preston fired me. But... check your lipstick. The Chanel Rouge. You used to tell me it was your 'lucky charm'. You never let anyone touch it.

Ainsley went to the vanity. There were dozens of lipsticks. But only one Chanel Rouge Noir. The case was scratched, the gold paint fading.

She picked it up. It felt heavier than the others.

She twisted the bottom. It didn't push the lipstick up. It clicked.

A false bottom popped open.

Inside was a micro SD card.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. The key. This was the only way to access the ledger.

The door banged open.

Ainsley shoved the lipstick into her palm and hid her hand behind her back.

Kirstie marched in, flanked by two maids.

"Search the room," she commanded.

"What is this?" Ainsley asked, backing up against the dresser.

"My sapphire necklace is missing," Kirstie said. Her eyes were bright with malice. "I know you took it."

"I didn't take anything."

"Check the suitcase," Kirstie ordered the maids. They began dumping Ainsley's clothes onto the floor.

Kirstie walked toward Ainsley. "Give me the diary, Ainsley. And I'll call off the dogs."

She knew.

"I don't have a diary," Ainsley said.

"Liar." Kirstie lunged for Ainsley. She grabbed Ainsley's right arm, trying to pry her fist open.

"Let go!"

Kirstie dug her nails into Ainsley's skin. "Give it to me!"

Ainsley's body reacted before her brain did.

She didn't resist Kirstie's pull. Instead, she went with it, using Kirstie's own momentum to spin them around. As Kirstie stumbled forward, off-balance, Ainsley stuck her leg out. It was a simple, subtle trip, perfectly timed.

Kirstie screamed as she crashed to the floor, landing in a heap at Ainsley's feet.

Ainsley looked down at her, her expression one of wide-eyed shock and fear.

"You're hurting me!" Kirstie shrieked from the ground, clutching an ankle she'd twisted in the fall.

"I'm sorry! You grabbed me, I got scared, I pulled away!" Ainsley said, her voice shaking. "I didn't mean for you to fall!"

She shoved Kirstie away. Kirstie stumbled, clutching her wrist, staring at Ainsley in horror.

"What are you?" Kirstie whispered.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Carson stood in the doorway.

Kirstie immediately crumpled to the floor. "Carson! Help! She attacked me! She's crazy!"

Carson stood still. His nostrils flared slightly.

He smelled the room. He smelled the adrenaline. He smelled the sweat.

But mostly, he smelled the fear. And the fear was coming from Kirstie.

"Get out," Carson said.

"Carson, she stole-"

"I said get out!" His voice thundered.

Kirstie scrambled up, shooting Ainsley a look of pure hatred, and ran out. The maids followed.

Carson stayed. He turned his head toward Ainsley.

"There was a struggle," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Apparently," Ainsley said, her hand still clutching the lipstick.

He nodded once, slowly. Then he turned and left.

Ainsley looked at the lipstick in her hand. Who was she?

At 2:00 AM, a pipe burst in Ainsley's bathroom. Water flooded the floor, soaking the rug.

She stood there, shivering. She couldn't sleep in a swamp.

She needed a shower. She needed to wash the day off.

She crept into the hallway. The house was silent. She knew the master suite was at the other end. Carson usually worked late in his study downstairs.

She slipped into the master suite. It was huge, smelling of cedar and rain. She found the bathroom-a spa-like cavern of marble and glass.

She showered quickly, the hot water loosening the knots in her back.

When she turned the water off, she realized she had forgotten a towel.

She cursed softly. She wrapped her wet hair in a hand towel and stepped out, dripping onto the heated floor.

She went into the walk-in closet, hoping to find a robe.

It was a room of mirrors.

She caught her reflection. She looked pale, thin.

Then she turned.

On her back, running from her left shoulder blade down to her ribs, was a scar.

It was thick, jagged. A knife wound. Or maybe a piece of glass. It was old, but it was violent. She traced it, remembering the burning pain, the stench of the back-alley clinic. A reminder of a past life she was supposed to have forgotten. A past that explained why she always chose high-backed yoga tops, even in the summer heat.

The door handle clicked.

She froze.

Carson walked in. He was unbuttoning his shirt. He stopped.

"Who's there?"

The air in the closet grew thick. It was humid from Ainsley's shower, smelling of her soap and her skin.

He tilted his head. "Ainsley?"

She couldn't speak. She was naked, shivering, pressed against the mirror.

He took a step forward. "Why are you here?"

"My bathroom flooded," she whispered.

He stepped closer. He could hear her breathing. He could smell her.

He reached out a hand.

She should have moved. She didn't.

His hand found her wet hair. Then his fingers brushed her bare shoulder.

He flinched, but he didn't pull away. His hand slid down her back.

His fingertips hit the scar.

He stopped.

He traced the line of it, his touch light, reverent, confused.

"What is this?" he breathed.

"I don't know," she said.

"Kirstie said..." He frowned. "She said you were perfect. Soft."

His thumb rubbed the rough tissue of the scar. It was the most intimate thing she had ever felt.

"This is a war wound," he murmured.

He stepped closer. His chest was inches from hers. She could feel the heat radiating off him.

"Who are you?" he asked. "Really?"

"I'm Ainsley," she said. "I think."

He pulled his hand away as if he had been burned. He stepped back, his face a mask of conflict.

"Get out," he said. His voice was rough.

Ainsley grabbed a shirt from a shelf, held it against her, and ran.

Carson stood in the closet. The scent of her soap lingered, a clean scent that was at odds with the violence of the scar his fingers had just traced. The data didn't align.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. He dialed a number.

"It's me," he said. "Reopen the investigation on Ainsley. I want everything. Go back ten years. The profile we have is wrong. There's a variable we missed."

He hung up. He touched his fingertips together, remembering the texture of the scar.

The woman in his house wasn't a gold digger. She was a liability. And he hated liabilities.