Both my parents are in there. So is my dad’s partner on the homicide squad, and so are a bunch of other cops. There is a very unfriendly vibe in the room, and it’s coming from their side. Arrayed against them are Kosta, seemingly unperturbed by the overwhelming police presence, and a tall, dark, gorgeous man in a gray suit.

He turns to me as I come in and holds out his hand. “Miss Grant. I’m Romero Adamo.” For half a second, before I suppress it, a wholly inappropriate smile starts to flicker across my face, because of course he is. “I’m an attorney, and I’m here as your legal counsel for these proceedings. If you’d like to take a few moments to confer before we begin, I’m sure the detectives won’t mind.”

I look at my parents. My mom’s face is pale and strained, completely unlike her usual cheerful, unflappable demeanor. My normally in-control dad is wound so tight he could lose it at any second.

My gaze travels to Dad’s partner, Frank McDonough. I’ve known him for years; his family and mine have shared dinners, barbecues, baseball games. He’s giving me pure cop face. Blank face, hard eyes. Like I’m a stranger.

There are ten more detectives and officers in the room with similar expressions. I’m pretty sure, legalities aside, they’ll mind a whole bunch if I go off to have a private conversation with a lawyer who just happens to be an Adamo.

“That’s all right. Thank you.”

Romero holds my eyes for a moment, then nods and gestures me to a loveseat that faces the police. He crosses to the side and takes a seat near Kosta. I lower myself to the cushions, biting my lip in what I hope looks like nervousness when my ass touches down.

My man put some kind of salve on me at the same time as he applied fresh ointment and bandages to my scrapes from last night, but I’m still very aware of that part of my body. I sit back like nothing’s wrong. My thoroughly-spanked ass is my secret, mine and Kosta’s. It binds us together even though I can’t see him; he’s sitting just outside my peripheral vision.

Frank takes the lead in questioning me. I don’t think having Dad do it would be a good idea for a lot of reasons, and it’s a relief that his fellow detectives realize that too. Almost immediately, I run into trouble, because Frank wants to know why I was at the club. He’s already asked me my age, so they know I’m not twenty-one yet.

“I was there to see Kosta,” I say, and my dad’s face tightens.

“Kosta?” Frank says, even though he knows perfectly well whom I’m talking about.

“Mr. Adamo.”

“Constantine Adamo,” Frank says. They’re recording all this, so I guess he wants it in the official record.

“Yes,” I say. “Everyone calls him Kosta.”

“And how did you meet Mr. Adamo?”

“We first spoke the night I went to his club with my friend. Caitlin Miller.”

Frank cites the date for the record, and I confirm it. “And you were allowed in even though neither one of you is of legal drinking age?” he says.

“We had fake IDs.”

“Where did you get them?”

“I’ll choose not to answer that.”

Frank scowls at me and changes tack. “Did you get them from Constantine Adamo?”

“No,” I say with exaggerated patience. “I hadn’t met him yet, in any capacity.”

“Were you served alcohol?”

“With my fake ID, yes.”

“How much did you drink?”

“Part of one cosmo.”

“And last night?” Frank says. “How much did you drink then?”

“Nothing.”

His eyebrows go up. All the cops shift in their seats. “Nothing?” Frank says disbelievingly.

“That’s right.”

“Why would you go to a nightclub and not drink?” he presses.

“I wasn’t there to drink.”

“You were there to see Constantine Adamo.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Why not?”

Angry murmurs from the law enforcement personnel. “I don’t think I need to explain to you,” Frank says tersely, “the importance of cooperating with this investigation.”

“I was under the impression that this investigation was regarding the dead man who was discovered outside the club last night. These questions don’t seem to have anything to do with that. They feel more like a witch hunt against Mr. Adamo.”

The room goes electric. I haven’t looked at Kosta once since I sat down; I’m making it as clear as I can that my answers are my own.

Frank looks pointedly at my bandages. “Can you explain your injuries, Miss Grant?”

“I tripped over the body. It was in the shadows beyond the garbage bin, so I didn’t see it.”

“You tripped because it was dark,” he says.

“That’s right.”

“It wasn’t because you’d had a drink.”

“No.”

“Or a few of them.”

“No,” I repeat, uncrossing my legs and crossing them again in the other direction. “Most of the alley was dark except for the area around the door, and the pavement was uneven, and I was wearing heels.”

Frank isn’t finished. “Why were you in the alley?”

“My car was parked there.”

“Why?”

I don’t see any way to answer that honestly without maybe getting Kosta in trouble, but it’s no trouble at all compared to a murder charge. “I came in through the back door so I wouldn’t have to deal with the bouncers and the line out front.”

“You have a key?”

“No, one of the staff let me in.”

“Who?”

“I think his name is Marco, but I’m not certain. It was only the second time I’d been there.”

And so it goes. Frank keeps circling back around, trying to trip me up, but he can’t because I haven’t lied about anything. Then he finally gets down to asking about the dead guy, and a different kind of tension fills the room.

“Had you ever seen the dead man before, Miss Grant?”

“I didn’t see his face; I only saw one of his feet, after I tripped over him.”

Frank produces a photographic print from a folder and passes it down the line of cops until the nearest one hands it to me. It’s a crime-scene photo. The man is staring sightlessly at the night sky with a single bullet hole in his forehead.

Even though I knew who it was, it’s still a shock seeing him like this. My eyes widen, and the tension in the room ratchets up. “Yes, I’ve seen him before.”

“When?” Frank says sharply.

“He was in the club earlier that evening.”

“In Mr. Adamo’s club.”

“Yes.”

The police look like they’re ready to sing the Hallelujah Chorus. I’m more concerned with the fact that I’ve just told Kosta I was watching him.

“Did you speak to him?”

“No. I was never anywhere near him.”

Frank frowns. “Then how could you see him?”

“I was upstairs. There are windows there that look out over the interior of the club.”

Frank takes a moment to absorb this. “But you saw him clearly enough to be certain it’s the same man.”

“Yes.” That face is probably burned on my memory forever.

“What was he doing, when you saw him?”

Any hesitation might seem suspicious. “He was talking to Kos—Mr. Adamo.”

Frank wants to know what time this was, where in the club, and so on. The one thing I know he wants to ask, but doesn’t, is what the conversation was about. So far as he knows, I can’t answer that.

“Why were you upstairs? Isn’t that area off-limits?”

“I was there with Mr. Adamo.”

“You visited him at his club, he took you upstairs, but he didn’t offer you a drink.”

“No.”

“Did he offer you anything else?”

My eyes narrow. I know exactly what that question is fishing for. “No,” I say, a bit too forcefully.

“I’ll remind you that lying to the police is a crime.”

Now I’m in full-on glare mode. “I’m not lying.”

“Let’s take a break,” Romero says. “Miss Grant, can I get you a glass of water?”

I take a breath. “Yes, please.” From the corner of my eye, I see Kosta get up and follow him. Staring at the carpet, not meeting anyone’s eyes, I try to get my temper under control.

When Romero comes back, he’s got a glass of water in one hand and a plate of cold cuts in the other. I almost smile; my man’s making sure I eat. It may be rude, but I’m starving, so I take a slice of salami and fold it around a piece of cheese.

Frank waits for me to finish my snack. Before he can start up again, my dad gives him a “hold on” gesture and leans toward me. “Did you see the entire encounter between the dead man and Mr. Adamo?”

My stomach tenses. “I believe so.”

“From what you witnessed, how would you characterize the conversation?”