With two statements due, one on the boy in Wink and one on the interrogation of the girl from Falco, I had spent the last hour curled up in a club chair in my hotel room typing up my mental notes so I could send them to Vause and hopefully avoid another face-to-face meeting with her. The shift into Lori earlier, the sensation of being in her skin, had me avoiding eye contact with myself in reflections. I was too afraid I might glimpse her again, which was the fresh wave of guilt talking, but there you go. Until the old wounds had time to scab, the last thing I wanted was to face the magistrate responsible for picking at them in the first place.

Graeson had been MIA since dropping me off at the hotel. Something about visiting the local wargs. Not that I’d had a lot of time to examine how I felt about his absence since I had tumbled face-first into my bed as soon as I cleared the threshold into my room. Thanks to the power breakfast he fed me, I was upright again four hours later with hangover-like symptoms, but it was a huge improvement over my utter incapacitation in Wink. The big problem now was that my stomach had also woken up, and my dinner date was nowhere to be found. Not that it was a date. I just meant we had plans for dinner. Not plans, but a mutual understanding we would dine together. That sounded official. Like it was business. Like he was hanging around for non-personal reasons, which he was. Right?

Sliding the laptop onto the low coffee table, I stood and stretched my arms over my head. A stack of accordion menus crammed a container by the phone, and I walked over, picking up the two I had skimmed earlier. I didn’t have Graeson’s cell number, if he carried one, and the phone in his room rang without answer. Harlow wasn’t in her room when I checked either, but I got the feeling she was working or else she would have visited. I wasn’t worried she might have knocked and I slept through it. She had already proven she had no trouble convincing people to assist her with breaking and entering into places she shouldn’t be.

I was deciding between a charbroiled hamburger and pit barbeque when a knock sounded on the door. Graeson. A bubble of anticipation rose in my chest. I didn’t bother checking the peephole before tugging on the latch. “What sounds better to you? A piggy potato or a fully involved All-American stacker?”

“I’m vegan, actually.”

The menu fluttered to the floor. “Oh. Magistrate Vause. Hi.”

“May I?” Her gaze tagged the micro seating area opposite my rumpled bed. “We didn’t get a chance to speak before you left.”

“Sure.” Feeling contrite, I nudged the door wider. “Come on in.”