The Chief Investigator, Jacques, pulls into the parking lot of the Hot Lips Lounge with me in the passenger seat. It’s late afternoon, late enough for the performers to be there but not late enough for it to be crowded.

“You ready for this?” Jacques asks, sounding tired and weary. He didn’t sound like that when we were going to strip club after strip club, searching for the owner of these shoes.

I’m positive that Ella was born female, but I’m grasping at straws. Maybe a drag queen at least knows something.

“Let’s do this,” I say, and we get out of the car.

At the front door, we’re greeted by a drag queen whose heavily made up eyes instantly go wide when she sees us. I don’t even have to introduce myself, she just curtsies almost to the ground, despite her high heels.

I’m kind of impressed. Those things look dangerous. Jacques holds up a shoe.

“Would you happen to have any idea whether these belong to a performer here?” he asks, his voice flat.

She purses her lips.

“They sure could. A little small for a queen, though.”

The drag queen looks me up and down, then bats her eyelashes.

“Want to come backstage and ask around, sweetie? I’m sure they’d love to see you.”

Jacques opens his mouth, and I can tell he’s going to say no so I step in front of him, cutting him off.

“Yes, absolutely,” I say, and we follow her to the back of the club.

* * *

“These might be Madeline’s,” says Minx July, a saucy redhead in a shimmering purple dress. “She’s got tiny little feet. Hey, Madeline! Girl, are these yours?”

A small, raven-haired queen in a short green dress sashays over, and when she sees the shoes, her face lights up.

“Yes, they are, where on earth have these beauties been? I swear I let Charlize borrow them a couple of weeks ago and that whore never gave them back—”

“Who’s Charlize?” I cut in, my heart suddenly pounding. It’s the first good news we’ve gotten since we started searching, the first time anyone’s had a clue about these shoes.

“She’s our weekend headliner,” Madeline says, giving me back the shoe and tilting her head. “Come on, she’s this way.”

Charlize is an Amazon in a blonde wig carefully dabbing lipstick on with a delicate brush, if drag queens can be Amazons. She turns to us when we walk up to her.

“Oh my Jesus,” she says, and curtsies. “Your Highness, I had no idea you were going to be here tonight.”

“I’m afraid we’re not here for the show,” I say, my whole body finally vibrating with excitement.

We’re close. I can feel it. After weeks of having no luck at all, of thinking that maybe I’d lost my mind, we’re finally close.

“Can I help you with something else?” Charlize asks, tilting her head to one side.

Jacques holds up the shoe, and Charlize gasps.

“You found that little tart!” she exclaims. “I borrowed those when I shouldn’t have, and she got me into hot water with Madeline, let me tell you—”

“Ella?” I practically shout. “I need to find the girl who borrowed these, it’s incredibly important. Please, if you can tell me anything at all.”

Charlize looks surprised at my sudden outburst, and one hand drifts to her chest.

“Sweet little thing. She’s a good friend of my boyfriend’s, and she has this terrible stepmother who’s basically enslaved her, and she needed an outfit for a ball...”

Her eyes widen, and I can practically see her putting two and two together.

“I met her at the ball,” I say quietly. “She left without saying goodbye, and I’ve been looking for her ever since. I’d give anything to find her.”

Charlize already has her phone out, dialing a number.

“Flynn, baby, it’s me,” she says, her voice surprisingly calm. “Prince Grayson is here asking about Ella. Think you can help?”