Bloodcurdling screams pierce my sleep, and I am wide-awake in the gray hospital room, clutching at the paper gown I wear and fumbling for my phone on Connor’s nightstand.

Wait.

“Hello?” I mumble into my cell, the half dream dissipating fully. Judging from the headache I have now, the alcohol that Connor and I imbibed all night might not have been top shelf.

The dream was a nightmare, actually. In it, whoever killed Phinneas had been following me since the night I discovered his body. They attacked me, sending me to Cedars-Sinai. A woman had just entered my room when my cell phone’s chiming ringtone interrupted the scene.

“Addison. It’s Velvet. I need you to catch the first plane to Chicago. Like, now.”

I sit up in bed. Throw off the white comforter. Connor stirs beside me, shirtless. And distracting. I swing my feet over the side, away from him.

“What happened?” I find my jeans and my top thrown across the accent bench along the wall; both clothing items are wrinkled. I sigh, yanking them on.

“It’s my ex-husband. He’s threatening to reveal the identities of my biggest patrons.”

I pause. Velvet’s ex, Mike Wadsworth, cut off contact ages ago, according to her—he works in law enforcement as the deputy chief of Chicago Police. I would never guess he’d risk harming their respective careers and reputations by even hinting at knowledge of Velvet’s business. Anything that Velvet did—or didn’t do, if I’m asked—reflects badly on him. “That’s concerning. But why do I need to be in Chicago today?”

Velvet sucks in a breath. “Because he’s threatening to do it on live television this afternoon. If he blabs about who has visited my club, this could be a disaster for my new career. I need your help, Addison.”

“I’m on the next flight out.”

“Who was that?” Connor yawns as I end the call.

“Velvet Eastman. I’m needed in Chicago. Keep looking for how Jamie Mendez might relate to Phinneas’s death—and to Devon’s.”

Connor sits up against the headboard. Sunlight trails into the bedroom through the window blinds, casting a patchy pattern on his tan skin. Thick hair falls across his eyes, and I have a flash of when we first slept together three years ago. He traced circles on my arm until I fell asleep. Then I woke to daylight and him sitting upright like he is now, not moving, not wanting to disturb my dreams. He still likes to cuddle, the polar opposite of me.

“Good morning to you, too.”

I zip up my jeans, then pause. “Don’t let orgasms cloud your vision, Connor. We have work to do, especially if Mendez is actually targeting you.”

He smirks. “You know you can just set me loose, right? No micromanagement needed?”

I sit beside him, the mattress dipping beneath our weight. His hand snakes its way around my waist, and I lean into him like he never moved to Nevada.

“Lesser men have lost everything for speaking to me that way.”

Connor smiles. His touch is cool against my neck. “Good thing I don’t have anything left.” He kisses me, the warmth of his lips spiraling to my stomach and below. I curl my fingers into soft brown waves, pulling him closer for a deeper kiss. When he pushes my sweater from my shoulder—begins trailing his mouth across my collarbone—I break the moment, short of breath.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. You can convince me what a rebel you are then.”

“I’ll practice my brooding stare.” Connor repositions my sweater. “Hey. What changed last night?”

“What do you mean?” I check my cell phone’s clock. I still need to go home and pack a bag before leaping over to LAX.

Connor shifts so that he sits straighter against the pillows. “I mean, why did we…why did you—”

“Decide on champagne?”

“Yeah. After saying you thought that…champagne would be a distraction.”

I soak up the image of Connor Windell, my onetime boyfriend and longtime nemesis, shirtless with only a sheet covering the bottom half of his body. Then envision a younger, more innocent, teen version of him seeking out his dad along the LA River. A version not unlike myself at that age—a little lost, with a chip on my shoulder and a hunger for what I thought was due to me.

“I think I just felt more connected to you,” I reply. “You felt—this all felt—safe.”

Connor warms me with his gaze. “Well, it will all be here for you when you get back.”

Thanks to a miracle of light traffic, and mobile apps that allow me to book my flight and a town car while I pack, I’m up in the air before rush hour ends. Chicago smells like deep-dish and exhaust the moment I step from O’Hare International into my taxi, but I maintain a straight face. The real antagonist today is time.

On the four-hour flight here, I sought out every internet tidbit on Mike Wadsworth across the last thirty years—the time span of his career spent in service to the greater Chicago area. Messaged my contacts within Illinois state lines, each of whom returned zilch on the man. The majority of my findings were, sadly, positive: awards, accolades, and community events that recognized Mike for his contributions to the city as a police officer. Only a few negative reviews popped up, mostly of Chicago law enforcement in general, one of which mentioned Mike by name. Still, there was nothing compelling enough to suit my need: straight leverage. An online neighborhood bulletin board even included a post from a woman who announced she named her baby boy after Mike.

Without concrete information to use against him, and time dwindling before my plane landed, I wrote down all the arguments in favor of Mike Wadsworth keeping his mouth shut. Ultimately, I settled on the simplest message: karma. Never do to others what you don’t want to come back around to you in a cosmic sucker punch.

At the polished birch reception desk, a young man with peach fuzz shoots me a smile. “Welcome to the Dynemax Tower, home of Chicago’s CNBW-7. How can I help you?”

“I’m Mike Wadsworth’s publicist. He’s being interviewed on Today in Chi-Town in twenty-two minutes, and I needed to be upstairs”—I lift my phone to eye level—“thirty minutes ago.”

The receptionist hesitates. “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

“Addison Stern.”

“You’re not on any list.”

I glare at him, funneling my fatigue and irritation at Mike’s idiocy—his audacity in threatening to reveal Velvet’s leverage over half the important men in the country—into my narrowed gaze. “I’m also his wife, and he hasn’t taken his medication today. Do you want him to have an epileptic fit live on camera?”

The receptionist shows me to a pair of gold-plated elevators. “Take the one on the left to the seventeenth floor,” he says, then retreats behind his desk, safely out of my reach. Or so he thinks.

Mirrored doors slide shut. Then I’m whisked through one of the tallest buildings in the city. The woman who stares back at me is calm, not even a smidge of red lipstick out of place. She smiles.

“Smug much?” I murmur. Connor seems to like her, though—despite everything. On the flight here, I took a break from writing strategies for managing Velvet’s ex and thought about everything Connor and I have experienced since he broke into my apartment a month ago. While not the reunion I would have envisioned, having Connor back in my life has been…nice. Fun. Sexy, and even a little romantic. The thick layer of ice around my heart has begun to thaw recently, like a glacier in July.

Once, a long time ago, I thought I might have been in love with him. Possibly. Prior to the dialing malfunction of his Land Rover. He was arrogant, ambitious, and driven in all the ways I prized about myself then. He’s still those things, but at a lower volume, for some reason. A dialed-down version of himself that, happily, allows my light to shine at stadium-level wattage.

The elevator slows to a halt. With a ding, the doors open onto a bustling scene of pantsuits, pointed heels, and loafers scurrying across the shining tile. I turn right onto a long hallway that I know leads to the greenrooms, thanks to Google images and Velvet’s recollection. Although I’ve never been in this building before, Velvet gave me the layout and said to check Greenroom 1 first, which is where she’s stayed each of the three times she’s been interviewed on camera here. I find Mike noshing on a giant bowl of M&M’s.

“Mr. Wadsworth,” I say, shutting the door behind me. “We need to talk.”

Mike is alone in a room painted blue, ironically, with framed photos of some of the biggest celebrities to grace the soundstage of CNBW-7. Thinning hair probably normally hidden by a police cap is styled to the side, strands alternating between brown and gray. A shiny maroon dress shirt is unbuttoned too low, revealing chest hairs playing a game of peekaboo. I would fix it for him, but he’s not my client. He’s the opposite, in fact. In this moment, he’s my client’s enemy.

“Who are you?”

“Addison Stern. Velvet Eastman’s publicist.”

Mike straightens. He dusts his hands over the candy bowl. “Then you’ll know I’m deputy chief, and I don’t care for being harassed.”

“Mr. Wadsworth—”

“Deputy Chief.”

“Deputy Chief, your ex-wife shared with me that you plan to divulge her former patrons’ names on live television, in the name of your planned run for mayor next year. Something about bolstering public trust in you, despite your history with a female entrepreneur.”

He barks a laugh. “Is that what you call the two-bit handler of an illegal whorehouse?”

“Gentlemen’s club of consenting adults that centered sex work and women’s safety. Velvet is an innovator. And I’m here to remind you that sharing her hard-earned secrets would be a very bad idea.”

Only one side of Mike’s thick mustache slides up. “Is that a threat?”

A male voice shouts in the hall beyond the door. “The cat segment goes in two minutes!”

“Of course not, Deputy Chief.” I slide both hands into the pockets of my white peacoat. The picture of innocence. “Harassment of a law enforcement officer wouldn’t be very wise. It’s a fact. To share Velvet’s professional data that was gained while you were married to her would only be used by your critics to show that you are a fair-weather seeker of justice. You only pursue it when it suits you. Isn’t that right?”

“Absolutely not. I was married to Velvet back when she was only called Ashley, when we were both in our late teens, while I was still in high school. We separated for a few years but didn’t divorce until later. It was during that time that she started her business—” He uses air quotes around the word. “And way before I got into law enforcement.”

I drag my index finger along the soft back of an upholstered armchair. “Still. You did join law enforcement, then kept mum about your knowledge of Velvet’s undertaking during the last—oh, thirty years. Do you really think voters will forgive the omission simply because you provide a laundry list of Dirty Harrys? I doubt it. Especially when I tell everyone it was a family business and you enjoyed the profits of Velvet’s hard work.”

Mike drops his gaze to the carpet—itself a shade of blue. “I’ll have to think about it. I promised the network a big announcement today.”

“Tell them you’re running for mayor next year.”

He shoots me a look. “I already announced. Last month.”

Sloppy, Addison. Too many orgasms are making me sloppy. “Then tell them…”

The news circuit hasn’t yet moved on from Phinneas’s unsolved murder. Google Alerts has been sending me articles that mention Phinneas on all the major national platforms. This morning’s from CNN ran alongside the headline WHY IS JUSTICE SO ELUSIVE FOR PEOPLE OF SHORT STATURE?

“Tell them you’re close to uncovering who killed Phinneas Redwood.”

Mike pauses. “The diet pill guy?”

“The unsolved murder victim who’s gracing every home page across social media and browser pages nationally. You could be the altruistic—”

“Overreaching—”

“—candidate for mayor who wants to extend help wherever it’s needed. No matter the zip code. As you would do for the broad and diverse neighborhoods of Chicago.”

Mike stares at me, as if seeing me for the first time since I entered the blue greenroom. “And how exactly am I supposed to be close to uncovering the killer’s identity?”

I pluck a red M&M from the pile. “An anonymous source.”

“You?”

“Someone who always comes through when they say they will.”

The door opens behind me. A young woman with a headset and a clipboard pops her head in. “Mr. Wadsworth? You’re on in one minute. We need to start walking.”

“Think about it,” I say to Mike. “Make the right decision for both you and Velvet.”

“You really don’t know, do you?”

I pause at the door, past the anxious production assistant checking her cell phone’s clock, and stifle a sigh. I hate any suggestion that I’m not up to speed on the latest. “Do tell.”

Mike shakes his head. “You have no idea who you’re working with.”

“Yet somehow I’ll sleep just fine tonight.”

I continue down the hall to the elevator without a backward glance. Seventeen floors later, as I walk through the lobby, I catch Mike’s segment on an oversize television mounted next to reception. The camera closes in on his face, which boasts the kind of wrinkles you only get from caring about others seven days a week. The banner beneath him, which cuts off the errant chest hairs, reads: A BIG ANNOUNCEMENT FROM CHICAGO’S DEPUTY CHIEF MIKE WADSWORTH.

The news anchor laughs, too earnest, too chipper. “That’s right, we are all dying to hear this revelation from you, Deputy Chief. Is it the truth about what’s really in the Chicago River?”

Dry chuckles all around. Sweat glistens along Mike’s hairline as he clears his throat. “Yes. Uh, yeah—I mean, no, nothing about the river.”

Awkward silence. Mike smiles, sweet but not too effusive, and I know his decision.

I exit through the glass doors of the tower to the tune of Deputy Chief Mike Wadsworth saying, “Phinneas Redwood. CEO of Thrive, Inc. You heard of him? I’m working on uncovering who murdered the poor guy.”