“Fine. Call me when you do.” The line disconnects.
I pace the room until I end up in the bathroom, where I stare at myself in the mirror without bothering to flick the light on. “What now?” I ask myself. “What fucking now?”
A knock on the door. I growl in annoyance, pull my gun from its holster without thinking. Idon’tpress my eye to the peephole, because that’s a great way to get shot through the head. Instead, I silently wait.
“Nadia. Open the door. It’s me.”
Ian. I unlock the bolt, swing the door wide.
He stands there, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other.
“What’s that for?”
He grimaces. “I’ve got bad news.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Ian pours two glasses ofwhiskey as we settle on the hotel patio, a sheer curtain billowing around the French doors. He sits across from me at the cast-iron table and pushes a shot my way, but I don’t take it.
“John fired me.”
Ian’s brows lift as if to sayI told you so, but he keeps his mouth shut. I look past him at the ocean as it pulls out, then rushes back in. The beach is nearly abandoned now, mostly lovebirds strolling hand in hand or a lone jogger padding barefoot close to the shoreline.
“I lost control. Remember how I asked if you feel like you have a monster inside? And you said youbecame onewith your monster? Well, my monster isn’t so cooperative. She just kind of—” I sigh. “Took over.”
Ian reaches out, places a hand on my forearm. “Don’t worry. You’ll make more money freelancing.”
I fixate on where his skin connects with mine. Other than a brief hug—and that quick embrace to keep Brian from seeing me—I don’t think he’s ever touched me. Up here, in the darkness,a cool ocean breeze sending shivers over my flesh, it feels strangely personal.
“Maybe.” I exhale and move my arm to reach for the whiskey, which forces Ian to drop his hand.
“I’ll help you.”
I hesitate, unsure how to reply. “What’s the bad news?” I shift the topic. “And where’s Brian?”
“He’s back at his hotel. He’s on the secure floor.”
I frown. “The secure floor? Like where celebrities stay?” I’ve had to navigate such a setup before. It included an elevator requiring a key card to access and a security guard making regular rounds. I still killed the guy—it wasn’tthatsecure—but it wasn’t nothing. And it’s certainly not something a management consultant should need.
Ian looks at me with an expression that tells me it’s going to be bad, his face already locked in a grimace that is likely supposed to look sympathetic. He, too, is good at pretending to feel things. My heart thumps in my chest, crashing around with dread at what he’s going to say. But he just looks out at the water. Stalling, I think.
“Tell me.”
He takes a pull of the whiskey and nods. “He took the girl with him and met with two men in a town car. Afancyone, a Benz. They were in there for twenty minutes.”
“Okay.”
“When he got out, he had a roll of money in his hand and left her there, with them.”
I frown. “Like he sold her?”
“Well, in Southern California, it’s either drugs or human trafficking. But…I think it obviously looks like the latter. And then he—”
“What? What did he do?” My arms slide across my chest, like maybe I can ward off whatever’s coming, the awful, dreadful thing my husband has kept hidden from me.
Ian waits to answer, gazing at me, pity—or maybe empathy? Are people like us capable of that?—in his eyes. “Nadia, do you really want me to tell you? It’s bad. You wanted to know if it was the sort of thing worth killing over, and I can assure you, it is.”
“I have to know.”
