“I have to fight for Leslie,” she said. “Whatever comes of it, I have to fight for my daughter. That’s my job. I don’t get to stop being her mother just because it isn’t pleasant or just because she isn’t here. If I don’t fight for her, who will?”

“What is it you want, Lauren?” he asked. “You want her back? You know she’s probably dead.”

“Then I want justice,” she said. “Or revenge. I don’t much care which at this point. I want to know where my daughter is. I’ll do whatever I have to do to make that happen. And then I want him to pay for putting her there—whether that means putting him in a jail cell or putting him in the ground. I guess that goes for me too,” she added ominously.

“What about Leah? She needs her mother.”

“She needs a mother,” Lauren said, finally giving voice to a dark thought that had been sitting in the back of her mind for a while now. “I’m not so sure she wouldn’t be better off without me.”

He didn’t tell her not to think that way. He took a long pull on his drink and sighed. He’d been around her enough to know better than to try to tell her anything.

“What can I do to help?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said.

Beyond locating Ballencoa, he hadn’t been of much use to her to this point. He couldn’t help her now any more than Mendez could. Not really. Now more than ever Lauren felt this fight was between her and Ballencoa, one-on-one. Now more than ever she felt like the heroine of some epic story, like she had been charged with the quest to slay a dragon.

Or maybe that was the vodka filling her head.

“What about Leah?” he asked.

She looked at him sharply.

“Are you going to keep her under lock and key?” he asked. “Is the sheriff’s office going to watch her twenty-four/seven? I can watch her for you.”

“Like you did tonight?” she asked.

“You’re such a bitch,” he said, but without much anger.

“I’m tired, Greg,” she said with resignation. “What do you want from me?”

He didn’t answer her. He covered her mouth with his and kissed her. She let him. For the distraction, she told herself. She needed that.

She kept her brain detached, analytical, concentrating on the taste of him, the thrust of his tongue against hers, the way her body automatically responded even though she didn’t really want him, even though she had been disgusted with herself for having allowed him this before.

It didn’t make sense, and yet it did. He didn’t mean anything to her. There was no real connection in this. Emotionally exhausted, there was great appeal in pure physical feeling.