I SPENT TWO DAYS SCOURING every inch of Joaquín’s apartment, but came up empty-handed. I found nothing—no shady receipts, no weird email messages. Everything was clean. Too clean, as if someone had already scrubbed any evidence from the place.

I wanted to crash Tiffany’s funeral to search for clues, but I definitely didn’t want to affront her family, who would no doubt kick out the sister of the man they thought had murdered their beloved daughter. I skipped the service, uncertain what to do next.

Any day now, the remaining men on Joaquín’s Team could be deployed, and after that, who knew when I’d be able to see them again. I’d lost my inside connections, no Grant, no Joaquín. I had only one way to see them all.

Today I was going to head to the Pickled Frog. The bar was a dive where all the SEALs went any time one of their men had passed. The looming death toll never seemed to wane—a training accident, a downed helicopter, an embassy upheaval. I’d been to enough SEAL funerals during the two years I dated Grant to know the drill. One by one, each man would pound down his trident, the SEAL insignia, on the deceased man’s coffin. Then they’d get wasted. Even though Joaquín was still technically alive, I was pretty sure they’d be mourning the loss of their Teammate.

The Pickled Frog was more than a watering hole; it was a safe haven for heroes. Men who needed to drown their sorrows in hard liquor, men who wanted to forget the faces of the terrorists they killed, men whose wives had cheated when they’d been deployed, men whose kids didn’t even recognize their own fathers. I shuddered, imagining all the times two years ago Grant might have sat in the seedy bar, getting hammered, trying to get over me.

I needed strength before I saw Grant again. Time to meditate. I sat on a chair in Joaquín’s apartment and straightened my spine, my feet placed firmly on the ground. Resting my hands, I turned my palms upward and prayed. I alternated my breath, from tense inhales to relaxed exhales. Focusing my attention on my spiritual eye, I uttered a quick chant and closed my practice. I needed to remain calm and centered, today more than ever.

I locked up Joaquín’s place, jumped in his truck, drove along the coast, eventually parking in an alley behind the bar. A deep sigh escaped my lips. I was sure I was the last person these men wanted to see.

When I pushed back the front door, the acidic stench of whiskey and sweat overtook me. It was two in the afternoon on a random Saturday, and the place was mostly empty. Despite being in the heart of Ocean Beach, no college coeds or surfers hung out here. This was a SEAL bar; SEALs and frog hogs were its only customers, though the occasional SEAL wife or girlfriend would make an appearance. But on this day, even the frog hogs must’ve taken the day off from their groupie duties. I was the only woman in this dump.

My feminine scent gave me away. No sooner had my heels touched the Technicolor, puke-stained, carpet than the heads of seven men turned toward me: Grant, Paul, Mitch, Joe, Vic, Pat, and Kyle. The seven other men on Joaquín’s eight-man SEAL squad. Had they all been at the party that night?

I avoided Grant’s suspicious glance and stared at the walls, studying the pictures of fallen SEALs. So many gorgeous men. Bearded, tatted, ripped.

Gone. Dead.

Never to kiss their wives again, never to cradle their babies in their strong arms. I might as well put Joaquín’s picture on the wall. Man, this place was depressing, but it was a thousand times better than jail. Now I was the one who needed a drink.

I sat on the bar stool closest to the only friendly face, Kyle, who was tending bar. The gummy pleather seat clung to my thighs as he gave me a welcoming smile.

Kyle Lawson was a SEAL and former NFL linebacker; he was also the new owner of the Pickled Frog. He was gorgeous—smooth mahogany-colored skin, trimmed dark beard, warm chocolate eyes. At six foot five, his body seemed sculpted by Michelangelo himself. Kyle was like a celebrity in the Teams. After he’d given up a multimillion-dollar football contract to become a SEAL, the media had hailed him a hero, even before he rescued a group of cheerleaders who were kidnapped on a USO tour. But he’d refused all interviews to the press and was as humble as any of the Team guys. “Hey, beautiful. Sorry to hear about your brother. What can I get you?”

His buddies, Pat and Vic, both gave me forced nods. Their loyalty must’ve been torn between their hatred of the woman who broke Grant’s heart and their protectiveness of Joaquín’s sister.

“Malibu and Coke.”

“Coming right up.”

I glanced down the bar at the other SEALs. It was like a buffet of rock-hard men. My eyes watered; I was high on the testosterone levels in this place.

Kyle placed the drink in front of me. “How’s your brother?”

“I saw him after he was arrested, and he looked horrible. Now he’s refusing my visits.” I took a sip, the warm rum coating my throat. “Were you at that party?”

“Look, honey, I wish I could help, but Joe, Pat, Vic and I left before the strippers arrived. I’m sure you’re trying to help Joaquín, but no one is going to talk to you about that night.” He glanced at Pat and Vic. “We keep each other’s secrets to our grave.”

Kyle wasn’t kidding. Pat was married to Annie Hamilton, a famous missing American who had vanished on spring break in the Caribbean. Initially, the public was fed a story that she’d just run away, become a missionary, had a kid, then decided to return to the States. I never bought that tall tale for a second. I’d interrogated Joaquín about what he knew, but he just played dumb, until a recent news story broke. Apparently, Annie and another missing American girl, Nicole, had both been kidnapped and forced into sex slavery. A Marine who recognized Nicole recently discovered her in Venezuela. She had amnesia and didn’t know who she was or what had happened to her. And a former SEAL named Dave supposedly saved Annie, though I think Pat was involved in her rescue.

As much as I had a window into these SEALs’ worlds, as both a girlfriend and a sister, I knew that I wasn’t privy to their world of secrets.

I adored Pat though; he was such an amazing guy. He adopted Annie’s son, and Annie was now expecting his child. My own womb ached—had I stayed with Grant, I was sure we’d be married, and we’d probably have started a family by now. But instead of celebrating a new life with my soul mate, I was trying to salvage my brother’s future.

I bit my lower lip and threw back my drink. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have a strategy. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing.

Here goes nothing. I pushed myself off the seat and squeezed between Paul and Mitch, to at least try to see if I could get them to admit some details about the night of the party.

Paul resembled a young Tom Cruise—brown hair, blue eyes, dimples. He had even more arrogance than the rest of the men. As one of only a handful of second-generation SEALs, he’d been bred for this life. “Mia, I’m sorry about Joaquín, but the brass has forbidden us to talk about that night.”

“I know. Grant told me the other night.”

Grant, who was sitting on the other side of Mitch, didn’t even look at me. “Why are you here exactly?” he demanded, his voice cold. “You should leave. You’re not welcome.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t own the bar now, do you? Kyle doesn’t seem to have a problem with me being here. It’s a free country.” Grant’s short-sleeved blue T-shirt teased me with glimpses of his tattoos. I gulped when I noticed he’d covered up my name with some sort of vine. At least I hadn’t tattooed his name on my ass, though I’d strongly considered it. My lack of ink didn’t matter; Grant’s name was permanently embedded in my heart.

He turned toward me, his green eyes digging deep into my soul. “What do you want from us? We aren’t going to talk about that night, none of us are. We’ve all given statements to the police and to our commands. When this goes to trial, we will be forced to testify, and it will ruin our careers.” He stood up and came over to me, placing his hand on my thigh. An electric shock pulsed up my leg. I was addicted to his touch, longed for him, dreamt of him at night. “Why don’t you just go back to your ‘I hate the United States military’ city and leave me the fuck alone?”

How could he be such an asshole to me? He knew how much I loved Joaquín—our love for my brother was probably one of the only things we still shared. I turned to Mitch, my eyes pleading for some mercy.

Mitch’s long dark hair skimmed his shoulders; his full sleeves of tattoos decorated his huge arms. He put his strong hand on my back and gave me an icy stare. “Sorry, Mia. I was passed out and woke up with some bitch sitting on my face. I don’t remember anything.”

“Dammit, Mitch. Why do you have to be so disgusting?” I hopped up from my chair. Grant was right; this was pointless.

But the stakes were too high to just give up. I couldn’t imagine my brother spending the rest of his life caged like an animal.

As I turned back toward Paul, the doors flew open. Paul’s wife, Dara, and Mitch’s wife, April, came bouncing in, laughing as if they were about to meet their hubbies for date night at a five-star restaurant instead of a drink in this hellhole.

Dara gave me an insincere hug. “Oh Mia, honey. So sorry to hear about Joaquín. But who knew he was into fucking strippers?”

“Fuck you, Dara. Where were you that night? The party was at your in-laws’ house, right? Maybe it was your husband fucking strippers.” I hated her and her perfectly blow-dried hair, her designer purse, her lime skinny jeans, probably in a size twenty-six. Typical SEAL officer’s wife; thought she was better than anyone else. She was a few years older than I was, and never forgot to mention her Ivy League education and her vacation home in Lake Tahoe. I didn’t need her pity.

Dara shoved the hair out of her eyes and shot a bitter glare toward Paul. Without a word, he clutched her wrist and led her away from me. Paul went to great lengths to hide his other women from her. Dara loved him, unconditionally, and I knew that no matter what bullshit he pulled she would never be able to leave him.

April put her arm around me. “I am sorry, Mia. Joaquín is a good guy. I hope he’s exonerated. Call me if you ever need to talk.”

I thanked her. April and I had been good friends—once. A long-suffering SEAL wife, she was painfully aware of Mitch’s philandering. I never understood their relationship. Grant’s theory had always been that they got off on making each other jealous, but to me, it just seemed deeply dysfunctional.

I glanced at Grant, but when he turned his back on me, I decided I couldn’t take any more. My heels touched the gravel outside, and the bar door slammed behind me. I felt the clang inside my heart as well. He was done with me. I was alone. Again. No Grant. No Joaquín. No parents. Alone.

This was not the Grant I knew. He was cold, aloof, distant. Something was off. Wasn’t he outraged about Joaquín’s false imprisonment? Could he be hiding something? Grant said he didn’t think Joaquín killed Tiffany. Had Grant witnessed the murder? What in the hell was going on?

Stop, Mia. Just stop. I was clearly stressed out and not thinking rationally. I’d dated Grant for two years; he was a good guy, a hero. He wouldn’t hesitate to give his own life to protect the ones he loved. Like he’d said, he was under strict orders not to talk about the case. I didn’t want him to sacrifice his career. His Team needed him, especially without Joaquín. Hell, our country needed him. Grant was the best of the best.

Unfortunately, I needed him, too.

But that ship had sailed. He’ll never be mine again.

I wasn’t going to give up on Joaquín that easily. With or without Grant’s help, I would clear Joaquín’s name. My brother was innocent. He’d sacrificed everything for me since our parents died, and it was time for me to repay his loyalty.

There had to be a way to free my brother. And nothing would stop me until I found it.

Grant had been right. SEALs wouldn’t talk.

I had only one clue left.

Time to make strippers sing.