Griff, who’s sitting on the couch a few feet away, meets my gaze in the mirror. “I’ll miss the brown. It suits you.”
Before I can reply, Marina dots concealer under my eyes, then picks up a makeup sponge. But a subtle buzzing startles me just as she starts to blot, and I end up with a streak of concealer along my temple. “Stay still,” she hisses. “Or this is going to take forever!”
“Austin, I’m going to put you on speaker,” Griff says. “Sloane and Marina are in the room with me.”
“Won’t that make it harder for you—?” I ask.
“The software still picks up everything.” He shows me his tablet, where Austin’s greeting appears in bright green text. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart.”
“Sweetheart?” Marina laughs, blotting away the smear of concealer. “You’re really trying to sell it, aren’t you?”
Griff shoots her a look I can’t read, and over the speaker, Austin clears his throat. “If he doesn’t ‘sell it,’ he’s not doing his job and you and Sloane are in a hell of a lot more danger.”
“Sorry,” Marina says, turning her focus to the various shades of foundation in her kit. “This is just weird for me.”
And it’s not for me?
As much as I want to snap at Marina, she starts dabbing foundation along my chin—probably on purpose. But I lock eyes with Griff, and there’s that understanding again. Along with the promise that everything’s going to be okay.
“Where’s the video from Max’s room?” Griff asks. “You arranged things with housekeeping, right?”
“Civilian life hasn’t made methatsloppy,” Austin mutters. “But I had to pay off half a dozen local officials to get Max’s body to the morgue without raising any red flags. Sending the footage to your tablet now. I scanned it, and there’s not much to see. No obvious defensive wounds, not a single piece of furniture out of place. Autopsy results will take at least twenty-four hours.”
The details—or lack of them—about Max’s death make my stomach churn, and I drum my fingers along my thighs while chewing on my lower lip. Marina shoots me a pointed glance, and I nod. I willdefinitelyneed a Xanax before the press conference.
“Shit. Fibers? Prints? Anything?” Griff runs his right hand through his brown hair, and the tousled strands fall across his forehead in a way that makes me want to touch them—and him.
“Nope. This guy’s a pro. But his tech skills are nothing compared to Wren’s. He erased any footage of him entering and existing Max’s room, but Wren found the splices.”
Griff lowers his voice, but if he thinks I can’t hear him, he’s very wrong. “Time of death?”
“Sometime between 19:33 and 19:49,” Austin replies.
I jerk away from Marina’s touch and twist so I’m facing Griff. I don’t care if his glasses or tablet will pick up my words. I need to see him—without a mirror between us. Or maybe…I need him to see me. “He died less than fifteen minutes after he left the bar. That means—”
He nods. “The killer was probably watching you the whole time.”
* * *
Griff
The look on Sloane’s face? Shit. Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? Or take the call from Austin in another room?
Marina spins Sloane’s chair back around, and fuck. All I want to do is take her in my arms and tell her everything will be okay. Instead, I can’t touch her, can’t reassure her, and have to watch her eyes fill with tears and Marina chastise her and then wick them away with a tissue.
“Griff? Are you still there?” Austin asks.
“Yeah. Listen, Marina is responsible for three other models during this junket. She’s going to be out of pocket for at least a couple of hours every day, and I can’t be in two places at once. Can you check with Dax and see if he knows anyone local who could provide some backup?”
“I’ll make some calls.”
Sloane mouths, “Thank you,” in the mirror, and even Marina looks relieved.
“Appreciate it. I don’t suppose Wren’s had any luck with facial recognition?” Second Sight’s hacker is a fucking genius from what I’ve seen so far, and supposedly another one of Dax’s Special Forces buddies out in Seattle is just as good as she is.
The speech to text software displays the wordsheavy sighon the screen. “Not yet. Whoever this guy is, she can’t match him to any of Dimitri Volkov’s known associates.”
“Try searching for Rodney Carriger,”Sloane says. She spells his last name but won’t meet my gaze in the mirror.
