Going to work with a hangover sucks, especially when you’re the boss. In this case, I had no option. Passing out was the only way I was getting any sleep last night. It took a bottle and a half of whiskey to do the trick. High tolerance and all.

As I go through the motions, my employees pretend not to notice that something’s off with me. Even Temperance gives me a wide berth and doesn’t mention anything about the fundraiser.

By lunchtime, I feel like I might finally be able to stomach food, and I climb the stairs to the top floor of the distillery where we have an incredible restaurant whose fare is surpassed only by the excellent 360-degree view of the city. I designed the remodel after I saw pictures of the Gravity Bar at the Guinness Storehouse in Dublin, not that I’ve had the pleasure to go there myself.

With Brett’s debt and Mount’s threats hanging over me, maybe now I never will.

The lunch crowd in the restaurant is light. I nod at a trio of businessmen, and make small talk for a few minutes with a couple of ladies who ask about my mom and how my folks are liking it in Florida.

“They say they’re never coming back, but we’ll see.”

“Living the good life. It’s so wonderful they were able to keep the business in the family and still retire. It’s tough to manage that these days.”

“It really is.” I force a smile onto my face. “Have a wonderful lunch.”

When I duck into the kitchen and smile at Odile, our head chef, she shakes her head.

“I’ll have someone run your regular down to your office. No reason for you to wait in my hot kitchen while I make it. You got me catering to whatever those fancy rich people want for their event; no reason I shouldn’t be catering to you too.”

“You are a goddess, and those fancy rich people keep us all employed.”

She responds with a pshhh. “You do that by force of will alone. It’s that stubborn Irish in you. Now, you need to learn how to use the phone and call up to place an order like I would expect the CEO to do.”

I can’t tell her I had to get out of my office because Mount’s scent still hangs in the air, and every time I close my eyes, I picture him sitting behind my desk or trapping me in the corner.

“Tomorrow. I swear.”

I skip the elevator again in favor of the stairs. It’s basically the only exercise I get, and the elevator takes me longer to get back to the basement.

I’m not sure about other distilleries, but in my family, the basement office signifies that the CEO learned the business from the bottom up, and serves as a reminder to always stay humble and grounded.

I’ve always loved the basement for that reason, down to the faint scent of mildew that clings to the old wooden beams. But now it feels foreign and forbidding.

When I reach my office, I feign my familiar confidence as I reach for the doorknob, telling myself there’s no reason to fear going inside. But as soon as I open the door, I’m proven wrong.

My desk lamp was off when I left, and now it’s on. In the pool of light is another note.

---

---

Beneath it is the framed picture of my sisters and me that normally hangs on the wall behind the desk.

My instinct is to freeze in terror again, but instead I force out a declaration from between gritted teeth.

“You don’t scare me, Mount. I refuse to cower.”

This time, there’s no answer from the darkness.

---

The notes keep coming.

Four days, with a picture of Magnolia and me from Sacred Heart taken in ninth grade. It was left on the front seat of my locked car.

Three days, with a copy of the picture of my employees and me from our company newsletter. This one is rolled up and stuffed in my employee mailbox.

Two days, with a snapshot of me in my own freaking restaurant, tacked onto a box of copy paper in the storeroom across from my office.

One day, with a photo taken from a distance of my parents on the golf course wearing the same clothes they’d had on in the selfie they posted on Facebook yesterday. I found it in my purse, which I keep in the locked drawer of my filing cabinet, when I needed my credit card earlier.

Mount made his point, and I’m about to go crazy waiting for whatever is going to come next.

I throw down my pen, unable to concentrate on a damn thing, even wistfully reading the itinerary of the Global Whiskey and Spirits Convention I won’t be going to next week in Dublin because Seven Sinners can’t afford extra pens, let alone such an outrageous expense. Maybe next year. If I’m still alive.

I’m sick of waiting. Sick of wondering. I pick up my phone and call the only person I can talk to about this disaster. “How do I find him?”

It’s not a request, it’s a demand, and Magnolia is quick to reply.

“You don’t find him, Ke-ke. He finds you.”

“But he sent me a picture of my parents that was taken yesterday.”

“I told you this guy doesn’t fuck around.” Her voice is quiet.

“Well, I’m sick and tired of waiting. I’m done. Done. If he wants me, then he’s going to get me, and I promise he’s going to wish he hadn’t.”

Silence hangs in the air for a few beats. “You need to simmer down with that redheaded temper you got going on, girl. This isn’t a game where you get to make the rules. I told you how it works. He calls the shots or—”

“Or people die,” I say, interrupting her. “I get it. He made his point, and I’m done. I want it over with. Just tell me where the hell I can find him.”

“Ke-ke—”

“Don’t tell me you have no idea, because I won’t believe you.”

Her sigh is long and put-upon. “I don’t know for sure, and that’s not a lie. But I have heard if you go to a very specific bar on Bourbon and you give a very specific code word, someone will vet you and you might be taken to him—if he wants to see you. It’s like the queen of England; you can’t just demand an audience.”

“He better want to see me. That’s what he wants right? Me?”

“Think about this before you do something stupid. The bar and code-word shit is all rumor and hearsay, and for the record, I wouldn’t try it if I were you. Just wait. You’ve got one more day and he’ll make his move.”

It’s like Magnolia hasn’t known me since I was ten. Patience has never been my strong suit.

“No. No more waiting. I’m going on the offensive. Tell me where I need to go and what I need to say.”

“This is a bad idea, Ke-ke.”

My heart pounds as a lump rises in my throat, almost blocking the words. Maybe it’s my common sense trying to intervene. Too bad. I swallow and make my demand one more time.

“Just tell me, Mags.”

For a few beats, I don’t think she’s going to tell me, but she finally rattles off the information.

“Think about what you’re doing, girl. This isn’t a bear you want to poke. You have a lot of people on the line here, and I’m not saying that to be selfish. I’m prepared to meet my maker any day of the week, but I’d just as soon prefer it not be today.”

I suck in a deep breath and exhale slowly. “I’ll let you know what I decide.” I disconnect the call before she can try to talk me out of it again.

Lowering my cell to the desk, I stare down at the promissory note that has ruled my every moment for the last six days. The promissory note that will make me into a whore to pay my cheating bastard of a dead husband’s debt.

A gurgle of hysterical laughter escapes my throat. It sounds so ridiculous. I never bought into the bullshit concept that life is supposed to be fair, but how is it right that this was dished out on my plate? I think back to the time I heard Mount’s voice, when he was in this very office speaking with Brett. It wasn’t the date they signed the note, that’s for certain. It was after.

Maybe they argued about payment?

I wish I’d been a better eavesdropper for once in my life, because maybe I’d have some kind of ammunition for when I face the devil in his lair.

All I can remember is the murmur of Brett’s voice and the anger in the stranger’s tone. That doesn’t help me at all. So, now I have the name of a bar and a secret password. Practically speakeasy-style straight out of New Orleans during Prohibition when my great-granddaddy was selling bootleg whiskey to keep the family fed.

Kilgores have always done whatever it takes to survive, and that trait carried through to me.

But does survival mean waiting one more day, or going to track him down?

I heft my purse over my shoulder and walk out of my office, still uncertain of my course of action.