Then, after the waitress left with the menus:

“Anton has told me a lot about you.”

“All good things, I hope.”

“He says you’re a hard worker and take direction well.” His tone said otherwise. It practically screamed, Bullshit.

Ellie took a sip of her Scotch. It wasn’t bad. Not as good as bourbon—too peaty for her taste—but she welcomed it anyway, knowing it would help relax her nerves. Just don’t get drunk, she warned herself. You need to stay sharp.

Frank folded his hands on the table, his eyes searching hers when he said, “What is it you’re really after?”

“Advancement.”

“To what?”

“Depends on the job you’re offering.”

Frank smiled but there was nothing pleasant in it—or in the way he was looking at her now, a look she’d seen on detectives who were locked inside the box with a suspect, one that practically screamed, I know who you are and what you did, so there’s no point in lying. Only the roles were reversed: she was the suspect, Frank the interrogator, and she was being questioned inside a fine restaurant and not a small, claustrophobic room.

“Anton warned me you were direct,” he said.

Ellie sensed her bluntness had somehow pleased him. “Is there any other way to be?”

“He also told me he had you thoroughly vetted.” Frank said it in a way that caused the hairs on the back of her neck to bristle, like he’d found something and knew who she really was.

Ellie waited for him to continue. He didn’t, kept staring at her with that penetrating glare, like he could see inside her skull.

The silence grew uncomfortable—at least to her. With Frank, it was impossible to tell. She decided to wait him out, make him ask the question. Finally, he did.

“Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

Ellie kept her tone light and pleasant. “I’m sure Anton told you about my problem.”

“Gambling, yes—I know all about it. That your only vice?”

“I like to drink here and there, but it’s not a problem.”

“Drugs?”

Ellie shook her head. “Not my thing.”

“You seeing anyone? A friend-with-benefits thing?”

“Not yet,” Ellie said, raising the glass to her lips. “But I’m working on it.”

“Why’re you here? In LA. I’m sure there’s plenty of blood work in Nevada.”

“You can’t reinvent yourself in the place where you were born. To get a fresh start, you need to be able to wipe the slate clean, right?”

Frank didn’t answer.

“This city,” Ellie said, “was built on pretending. It’s its main economy, you could say. I mean, doesn’t anyone who comes here want to be some better version of themselves—or, if not that, someone completely new and different? Someone prettier and smarter and richer? Isn’t that why you came here?”

“What, exactly, is it you want to become, Faye Simpson from Reno, Nevada?”

Ellie decided to push back, just a bit. “Any damn thing I choose,” she said.

“But there’s the matter of your debt. What’s the amount, again?”