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It’s an effort not to hold my breath while Latchley seems to think this over. Eventually, he slides closer to me on the bench seat, holding my wine out to me.

“Here. Join me for a drink.” Then he places his palm on my upper thigh, rubbing slow circles.

“Is this okay?”

No. “Of course.”

Honestly, none of the clients have ever been terrible. If they were, I wouldn’t have managed in this business for this long. Humans evolved to need each other, and touch can feel good even from someone you’d willingly stab in the eye if you had half a chance.

This is nothing more or less than it’s ever been. So why does my being here feel like such a betrayal?

There’s so much I want to talk to Dean about. Waiting and hoping he’ll cool down enough to listen has been excruciating.

I do my best to settle back, listening and nodding while the senator talks about a bunch of mundane shit with his company. Something about a business contact he had a problem with. Some employees he had to let go for breaking their nondisclosure agreement. I couldn’t possibly give a shit, but I “hmm” and nod and put on a show of listening with a sympathetic ear while I pretend to sip the wine I don’t want.

Every thirty seconds I glance at my watch to try to gauge when the food will be here and I can get the old man’s hand off my thigh. When the doorbell finally chimes with its loud-ass bing-bongs, I don’t even wait for him to tell me to grab the food. I’m already halfway out and grabbing a towel.

“Someone’s hungry.” His eyes rake over me up and down in a way that makes my dick shrivel.

“Busy day. Missed lunch.” That part’s at least mostly true. I missed lunch because I had no appetite. Still don’t, so dinner should be fun. Forcing a smile, I say, “Besides…I…just…can’t get enough of their handmade tortellini. Anyway, don’t want to keep the guy waiting.”

“He can wait.” Dickbag has the nerve to wave his hand, as if a busy restaurant employee whose job description doesn’t include driving food all the way to the beach from downtown has nothing better to do.

It’s not exactly a surprise. I’ve spent long enough kissing the asses of wealthy elites in Belle Argo to know a lot of them don’t see anyone who has less than them as entirely human. Every time I witness it, though, my blood boils.

The rest of the evening, I speak as little as possible. Encouraging Latchley to talk about himself and his work isn’t difficult so much as nauseating. Especially when the hypocrite drones on about his plans to take his old-school family values campaign to the national level. I listen with less than half an ear while I wonder how Ella and Dean are doing.

When night approaches, I turn my phone off, not wanting to see the alert pop up if Dean has another nightmare. Not sure I could keep myself from going to him, and he’s made it clear my presence is unwelcome.

Hours after Latchley and I have settled into his bed, however, I still can’t sleep. My heart is racing along with my thoughts.

Is Ella healing okay? Is Dean able to sleep? Did Ella miss me at bedtime? What’s going on with Dean’s dad? It’s tempting to start up my phone again, maybe text Eve to see if she’ll elaborate on her earlier text. She probably won’t, though. Knowing her, she feels bad enough that she divulged information that wasn’t hers to share.

After what feels like hours of lying next to an old man who snores, I finally cave. Using my phone in here might wake him though, so I get up and wander to the living room. I’m about to turn toward the balcony when I see the menu from Mama Elisabetta’s sitting where I left it on the coffee table.

The senator hates things being out of place. He’s mentioned it a thousand times before. Quietly as I can, I carry it down the hall, practically tiptoeing past the primary bedroom. Since I don’t know exactly where it came from, I slip into his office with the plan of simply placing it on his desk.

When I turn on the light, though, what I see on the desk stops me cold.

A brochure for a new neighborhood under development. Prices starting in the low five hundreds, it says. Brantleigh Estates.

The name’s familiar. Stuck in my head, because that’s the place where Dean found out those pills are being distributed.

I’m not really sure what I’m looking for when I begin to search the room, but I know it when I find it. A set of carved mahogany file cabinets stands in the corner, all but the one filled with boxes.

And inside those boxes?

Pills. Rolls and rolls of them, bright purple and neatly packaged like those candies Ella loves to get at Halloween. Without touching or taking the time to count, each box appears to contain hundreds of pills. Each drawer contains stacks of boxes.

I’ve run across a few dealers in my time as an escort. Most of them don’t have this kind of inventory. Maybe not even Brennan.

My brain goes back over the dinner conversation where I was barely listening. The business partnership. The recent development. Employees who weren’t meeting their quotas, who were talking out of school.

Is this what he was talking about? Because this is a hell of a lot bigger than anything I’ve seen. This man, whose bed I’ve been sleeping in, might well be responsible for the pills at Ella’s school. For God knows how many overdoses.

I power up my phone and take pictures. First of the brochure, and then the boxes, opening a few to get the “merchandise” inside.

Sliding the file drawer closed, I’m about to text them all to Brennan when Latchley appears in the doorway.