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I get Billy Bob out of the car and walk him around the edge of the lot until he finds a strip of dirt under the shrubs in front of the glass office building next door. Then I brush my teeth with a bottle of water, scrub my face with a baby wipe, and redo my braid in the side mirror. I put on jeans and the least wrinkled shirt I own, then dig the yellow legal pad out of my bag.

I spent half the night writing questions for Lenart. If I’m going to own part of a nightclub, I should probably find out what the hell that means.

The first one is underlined twice.

The van will keep the car in shade until afternoon, and it’s barely sixty degrees. I crack all four windows, fill his water bowl, and settle him on his blanket in the back seat. He looks at me like I’m abandoning him to wolves.

“One hour,” I tell him. “Maybe less. Be good.”

He lies down with his back to me.

A man at the loading dock lets me in and points me to a staircase. On the second floor, the hallway is quiet and carpeted, with closed doors on both sides. The door at the end is open.

Lenart’s office is not what I expected. I thought it would be all dark wood and leather, like the bar downstairs. Instead it’s simple and clean: a long desk covered in neat stacks of paper, two computer monitors, a leather couch, and bookshelves that go all the way up the wall. The blinds are drawn on every window. On the corner of the desk sits a white bakery box, which seems like a strange thing for a vampire to own.

He’s standing behind the desk when I walk in. He isn’t wearing a jacket today, just a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and his forearms are pale and muscular. I try not to stare.

I’d thought maybe he’d look different in the daytime. He doesn’t.

I catch myself looking at his mouth and look at my legal pad instead.

“Ms. Iverson,” he says. “Please. Sit.”

I take the couch and set my purse beside it. He takes the chair across from me instead of staying behind the desk, which I appreciate.

“I have a few questions,” I say.

“I’d assumed you would.”

I look down at the pad. “Okay. First question. How much money are we talking about?”

He doesn’t laugh. “Do you mean the value of the Club, its annual revenue, its profit, or what you’d receive in distributions as an owner?”

I open my mouth and shut it again. “All of those sound good.”

I click my pen. “Start with the one that gives me money now.”

“Distributions.” He folds his hands. “The Club is very profitable. Your share is significant. But the estate isn’t settled, and there’s a condition attached to your inheritance that you need to understand before we talk about numbers.” He pauses. “And before I explain the condition, I need to tell you about our clientele.”

“The costume people.”

“They aren’t wearing costumes.”

I wait for the rest of the joke. It doesn’t come.

“Most of the people who come to this Club aren’t human,” he says. “Neither are the owners. I’m a vampire.”

I laugh. It comes out short and too loud.

Lenart just looks at me. He doesn’t seem offended. If anything, he seems patient, like he’s watched people laugh at this before and knows how it ends.

“Okay,” I say. “Sure. And I’m—”

He smiles.

His canines lengthen as I watch. They slide down past his other teeth, smooth and white and sharp, until there’s no mistaking what they are.

I stop laughing.