I follow her into a back hallway and then a dingy bathroom that contains only two stalls. In any stakeout movie I’ve watched, the pursuer would wait and observe before making up a well-thought-out excuse to strike up a conversation—but they had way more time than I do. I figure there’s no better way to do this than to take a few shortcuts—I grab her arm on our way in.
Whirling on me, she glowers, her eyes rimmed by a layer of thick eyeshadow. “What the hell?”
“Do you remember me?” I ask. After the whirlwind chaos of the past few days, I’m too exhausted for tact. “I need to talk to you about Faith Wen.”
She narrows her eyes, wrenching her arm away. “Who the hell are you?”
“We’ve met before,” I say in a rush. “Does this trigger a memory?”
I reach into my purse and draw out a phone, but it isn’t mine.
“Shit.” The girl’s eyes widen, and she reaches out seemingly by impulse before pulling her hand back halfway. Her trembling bottom lip makes her look far younger than her skimpy black dress would imply. “Where did you—”
“Just tell me what it means. What was Faith trying to expose before she died?”
The girl whips around, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting someone else to come jumping from a stall. “You have no fucking clue, do you?” she hisses. “What kind of shit you’ve stumbled into.”
I grind my teeth helplessly, wishing I had some of Rafe’s blunt honesty to draw on. Instead, all I can do is beg. “So help me.”
“Fuck off.” She storms away, dashing into the main club before I can stop her.
Even faint, I hear a voice issue from my cell phone. “Get out of there, bunny. Now!”
But I can’t. Not yet. It could be because of Faith—or sheer curiosity. All of this time, I’d thought Branden’s actions were based on me. Because of me. What I did. What I made him do.
But if they weren’t, then he had another reason for killing Faith. Another reason for putting her hair pin in a box of my things.
My fearsome, tormentor of a brother was afraid of someone else for once.
Who?
And why?
Ignoring Rafe, I stagger down the hall and try to blend in, a surprisingly easy task. There is no main dance floor like Rafe’s club. Just a bar, and a series of leather couches positioned around the various stages. As a result, most patrons are gathered around those attractions, leaving the walkways fairly free.
A flash of blue hair catches the corner of my eye, and I surge toward it, spotting the girl darting around a bar counter. “Wait!”
I slip around a scantily dressed dancer, fighting to keep the girl in view. I’ve barely gone another step when someone grabs my arm from behind, dragging me to a corner booth.
“You think I don’t recognize Rafael’s little slut?” a man hisses against my ear. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Terror grips my heart in a vice, and I don’t even have to look at him to put a name to that gruff rasp. Gino.
I crane my neck back to find him grinning ear to ear, but his eyes are wild. Unsteady. Despite his crisp black suit, instability reeks from him as strongly as a cloying cologne.
“You and I should have a little talk, shouldn’t we?” Without giving me the chance to answer, he shoves me against a leather cushion, sliding in beside me.
“About Faith Wen?” I counter, scrambling to put as much distance between us as possible. At a glance, it seems as if we’re alone—none of his minions are nearby, at least.
But I don’t trust it.
Seated across from me, Gino looks more cartoonish than ever. The club lighting robs most of his features of any definition, and the overall neon blue glow gives him a ghoulish effect. With his teeth bared and eyes narrowed into slits, he’s intimidating enough to more than justify Faith’s obvious fear of him.
But is he capable of murder?
“What about that little bitch?” he snarls.
I swallow hard, bracing my hands over the circular table between us. Cutting my gaze to the exit, I realize that it would be easy to run. Or grab my cell phone and call for Rafe like anyone with sense would.
But for some reason I’m not even fully aware of, I’m compelled to keep talking. “She was going to expose something about your business,” I say bluntly. “Then, she wound up dead.”
I marvel at the steady voice issuing from my throat.
Gino, however, sneers at the sound. “Was she, now?” He throws his head back for a loud, barking laugh that has no real amusement in it. Fixing me with a raised eyebrow, he questions, “And what was she going to expose, huh?”
“You tell me,” I snap back. “Like…” Glancing around, it’s unsettling to realize that many of the dancers resemble Lylah. All are wearing skimpy dresses, and nearly every last one looks too young from the wrong angle. Scared. “Like what kind of business you might be offering other than just lap dances.”
Blood rushes through my ears as I belatedly process the dangerous game I’ve just started—and with an opponent like Gino, who seems to have no trouble breaking into people’s property and beating them bloody.
His eyes meet mine with an intensity that warns me he’s more than capable of doing worse. So much worse. “Oh, really?” he murmurs. One by one, he cracks his knuckles.
“The p-police are already investigating,” I point out, though I find myself eyeing the exit again. The impulse to escape strengthens, and my toes twitch anxiously in their borrowed black heels. “And if anyone else goes missing—”
“Like Faith?” he interjects. His green eyes flit over me as he cocks his head. Whatever impression he has of me makes him scoff. “You really suck at this whole ‘Nancy Drew’ shit, don’t you?”
He slams a hand over the table, so suddenly I jump, but all he does is pointedly flex each finger. “The
