Page 4

"I got an invitation," I say. "To some club. What do you mean, his estate?"

Harold doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he goes quiet, but I can almost hear him wincing before repeating a phrase he’s probably said to dozens of others before me.

"Your uncle passed away two weeks ago," he says. "I'm very sorry. He named you as a beneficiary in his will. Among other things, he left you his ownership share in the Monster Club."

I stare at the ceiling fan. It wobbles on its mount the way it always does.

"I'm sorry," I say. "He left me a what?"

"A share of the business, Ms. Iverson. It's a nightclub." Papers rustle on his end of the line. "And I'm afraid there's a condition. The terms of the will require you to be present at the Club, in person, by the night of the Summer Solstice."

"The Solstice," I repeat. "When is that?"

"Saturday," he says. "That's Saturday.”

Chapter two

Tara

Portland is fifty-eight degrees and wet, and after twelve hours with Fresno in my rearview mirror, the cold feels like a slap.

The Monster Club is an old brick warehouse on a corner in the Pearl District, with black steel doors and tall arched windows too dark to see through. People in very good clothes are lined up under a black awning. A valet is taking the keys to a car I’ve only ever seen in music videos.

Well, shit.

I find a spot on the street across from the entrance, where I’ll be able to see my car from the door. Billy Bob is asleep on the passenger seat. It’s cool enough tonight that he’ll be fine with the windows cracked for a few minutes, and a few minutes is all I need: find whoever I’m supposed to talk to, tell them I’m here, and come back for him before we talk about anything else.

I get in line.

The man at the door is tall and broad, in a black suit with no tie. He reads my invitation, turns it over, reads the back, and hands it to me without a word. Then he opens the door.

Inside, it’s warm and dim and much bigger than it looks from the street. One long room of old brick and dark wood, brass running along the arches, amber light pooled low on the tables so that faces float in and out of it. The bar runs most of the length of the left wall. The front doors are behind me, and at the far end of the room, a corridor leads off toward the back. The music is slow and heavy. I feel the bass through the soles of my boots, and under it, every so often, a deeper hum that seems to come from below the floor.

It smells like perfume and citrus, wax and warm skin.

Nobody here is in a hurry. A couple is kissing against one of the pillars like they’re alone in a hotel room. In a booth along the wall, a woman in a silver dress sits between two men, her legs draped across one man’s lap while the other one speaks into her ear, and whatever he’s saying makes her close her eyes. Nobody stares at them. Nobody seems to think there’s anything to stare at.

I’m going to tell someone who I am. I just want five minutes first to see what I’ve walked into, before I’m Desmond Hale’s niece and everyone is looking at me. I take an empty stool near the far end of the bar, where I can see most of the room, and order a club soda, since I’m driving. The bartender, a woman in a black vest, sets it in front of me, takes my card, and is already moving on to the next customer before I’ve picked it up.

From my stool, I can see down the corridor past the restrooms to a red lacquered door, with another big man in a suit standing beside it.

A man walks past me toward it, and he has to duck to get under the arch at the end of the hall, because of his horns. They’re thick and dark and ridged, curling back from his temples, and when he turns his head to talk to the woman behind him, they move with him. He tilts his head to clear the arch the way a tall man ducks under a low doorframe, without thinking about it.

The woman with him has bare gray shoulders, mottled like granite. She’s laughing about a restaurant they went to last week. Neither of them is posing. Nobody stops them to take a picture. They’re dressed for a night out, and they look like they do this every Saturday.

Whoever did their makeup should be working in movies. Those horns look heavy.

The doorman opens the red door for them, and for a few seconds the hum under the floor turns into music. A couple steps out as they go in. The man is still buttoning his shirt. The woman is rubbing one wrist with her thumb, where there’s a faint red mark like the impression of a strap, and she’s smiling to herself. Behind them, I catch the edge of a dark wing folding as someone steps out of the way. Then the door shuts.

I take a long drink of my club soda and wonder, for the first time, exactly what kind of business Uncle Dez left me.

Then I look down the bar, and I see him.

He’s standing where the bar curves at the far end, talking to one of the bartenders. I notice the people around him first. They make room for him without seeming to realize they’re doing it. A server carrying a full tray changes her path to go around him. Two men who were arguing stop when he passes.

Then I look at him, and I stop thinking about anyone else.

He’s tall, lean, dark-haired, pale. Sharp cheekbones, a hard jaw, a stillness to him that makes everyone else in the room look restless. He listens to the bartender with his head slightly bent, and he doesn’t move at all while she talks. When he answers, his mouth barely moves, and I watch it anyway. It’s a beautiful mouth. Full lower lip, a severe line to the top one.