He raised an eyebrow.
“To see my cousin, Camille. You stay here with Eamon and Dominic.”
He opened his mouth to say something, and I braced for disagreement. Instead, he said, “Text me when you get there.”
***
By the time I reached Camille’s café in the Bywater, my adrenaline had mostly burned off, leaving me thinking clearly about the archive violation. She was behind the counter tallying a vendor invoice with her reading glasses low on her nose. I stepped inside.
“You look awful,” she said.
“I look like someone who needs coffee.”
“That, too.”
She immediately poured me a cup. It was mid-afternoon, and the café was nearly empty. Two men in Saints caps sat near the window, sharing a plate of beignets. A woman at the back table was marking up a manuscript and arguing with someone on her phone.
I took the cup and stood at the end of the counter. “Long week.”
“Tell me about the bodyguard.”
I gave her the look her question deserved.
“What? You bring him up twice in one week and then stand in my café with that face? I’m family. This is what I’m here for.”
“First, he’s a security professional, not a bodyguard. He’s good at his job.”
Camille’s eyebrows rose.
“He is,” I said.
“Is he cute?”
I took a long sip of the coffee.
“There it is,” she said.
“I did not answer that question.”
“No, you stalled, and that is an answer to that question.” She folded her arms. “What actually brought you down here?”
I set the cup down. “Someone got into Dominic’s private archive and replaced a score.”
“Replaced it with what?”
“A copy. Modified at the end.”
“How?”
“Changed a crescendo to a diminuendo on the last page.”
Camille stared at me for half a beat, then exhaled. “That’s hateful.”
“Yes.”
“Musician hateful, too. Very niche.”
“Unfortunately.”
