I rub my hand across my jaw. “So there’s more in motion. Let’s meet him together and keep things tight.”
“Agreed,” says Strike.
When I’ve hung up, I stare at the phone, unhappy. As much as I wanted to spend the whole evening with Josie, it’s not an option. If von Fuckwad is up to something shady, especially with Petrov’s missus, keeping Josie clear of it is nonnegotiable. Her safety comes above anything else. But it’s been three days since I’ve seen her, and just the thought of Josie walking into that hotel has me grinning like a fool.
Even if this night is about to get a lot more complicated than I thought.
—
At six-thirty sharp, I’m at the Keystone in a business suit that fits like a second skin, custom-made to perfection. Midnight black, immaculate. The tie’s a bit too fancy for my taste, but it’ll do the job. No room for half-arsed measures here. I look confident and in charge. I smile to myself, remembering when Josie called me a hot CEO daddy.
As I toss the keys to my McLaren to a teenage valet who looks like he might jizz his pants for the pleasure of parking it, I can already hear the prattle and laughter floating out from the hotel courtyard. I’ll write a six-figure check before the night is out, though I would have happily done that without someone serving me canapés on a tiny napkin.
Early as it is, there’s already a crowd in the hotel’s atrium. I spot Honor, and I step into the ring of fans around her. She’s standing in front of her latest piece. It’s namedJaxon’s River—a little boy canoes on a river of red. If you look closely, you can see that the boy’s bruised wrists have broken free from fallen zip ties. The painting is as beautiful as it is disturbing—the longer I look at it, the more I see that Honor’s message is about how blood needs to be spilled for you to find your way to freedom. Well, I couldn’t agree more.
“I love this one,” the mayor says. “It’s just so…”
He stops, looking for a word. I get the impression the mayor knows nothing about art and is scrambling. His husband steps in.
“Happy,” he exclaims. “It’s just so carefree and happy.”
Honor’s lips quirk into a smile—she’d never let them know she’s laughing at how badly they’ve misinterpreted her work—and nods politely. But when Honor catches sight of my mug, she looks downright pissed. “I hear you and Strike have a hot date at seven,” she hisses under her breath. “You know I’m all in on what you guys do, but come on. Not tonight. It’s super shitty of you to schedule a work meeting in the middle of this event.”
I hold up my hands. “Aye, I know, and I’m sorry for it. Truly. Wasn’t my call. I’ll bring him right back, I swear. But can you keep an eye out for Josie while I’m gone? She’s had a brutal week, losing her nonna and all. I want to make sure she’s not getting overwhelmed by all this.”
At that, Honor’s glare melts away, replaced by a knowing smile. It’s subtle but unmistakable—like she can see right through me, like she knows how much I care about Josie. Am I that obvious? Is it written all over my face?
“Of course I will.”
I nod, glancing at my watch. Time’s ticking. Josie’s last text said she’d be running late, so I’m hoping I can get to the Quarry, deal with Niles’s business, and be back in time to sweep her off her feet for the night.
Still, there’s something stuck in the back of my mind. Like there’s something I saw and I can’t shake, a darkness waiting just outside my peripheral vision.
Six fifty-seven. Right, then. Let’s get this over with.
Forty-Six
Josie
I’m late, but I don’t see Axe or Strike anywhere; Honor is on the other side of the room, practically getting mobbed by art groupies, and I’m starting to think coming here was a mistake.
I spent way too long just sitting on my bed, looking at old pictures of Nonna. Now, standing here in this sea of people, sipping a glass of water, I feel overdressed and underqualified—and way too grief-stricken to manage small talk with strangers.
Honor gestures for me to come over, and I make a face that I’m okay right where I am.
I really thought Nonna and I would have more time. How stupid of me—once again, ignoring what was right in front of me until it was gone. But no, no tears. Not here. This is Honor’s night. Her art is on display, tagged with prices so high I nearly gasped when I saw them. My best friend is living her wildest dreams, and that’s something worth celebrating, even if I feel like refried garbage.
I’m just about to head to the powder room to text Axe when a tiny elegant woman in a glittery dress catches sight of me standing alone. She smiles warmly and approaches.
“You must be Josie Greene,” she says with a soft Eastern European accent that adds to her air of sophistication. She reminds meof the women I used to watch on soap operas from my hospital room as a kid; the ones who could order a chic murder without ever raising their voices.
“Yes. That’s me.”
“Veronica Petrov.” She must be in her mid-fifties, her black hair pin-straight and pulled into a low chignon, diamonds flashing around her neck in a double-stranded choker. When I reach out awkwardly to shake her hand, she gently brushes it aside, going straight for the double kiss, and we end up doing a weird bump.
I blush, flustered. “Sorry. I guess I don’t know the rules. Not sure I really belong here, to tell you the truth.”
She waves it off with a small laugh. “You fit in just fine, dear. I’ve been collecting art for years, and you meet all manner of people at these events. I’ve done some work with Strike Madden’s various philanthropic funds. Lovely organization, Turning Point. Such meaningful initiatives.”
