The busy signal shocked through me, and I glanced up at the shadow of a man standing too close: Quen, his brow furrowed as he looked at his phone’s screen. Blinking, I remembered where I was. Quen’s lips twitched, and he held out his phone. It was smaller and shinier than mine. “He’s on my line,” he said with a thin, distant voice. “You talk to him.”

Fingers shaking, I took the phone. “He’ll know we’re together, that we talked.” Oh God, I didn’t want Trent to know that Quen doubted him. He looked to him as his father despite the monthly stipend.

Quen shrugged. “He’ll find out anyway.”

Mouth suddenly dry, I answered the phone and put it to my ear. “Trent?”

The hesitation was telling, but he caught his balance quickly. “Rachel?” Trent said, clearly surprised. “I’m sorry. I must have hit the wrong button. I was trying to reach Quen.”

I held the phone tighter, my pulse pounding. His voice was beautiful, and I felt glad for turning Quen down. “Ahh,” I said, glancing up at a stoic Quen. “You hit the right number.”

Again Trent hesitated. “Okay?”

“We were having dinner.” I explained nothing, and Quen’s face became even more bland. “Quen and I. You saw the news? Do you know who did it?”

My worry came rushing back, crowding out my brief flash of pleasure for having caught Trent off guard. It happened so seldom. The host was still waiting, and when Quen shook his head, he smiled ingratiatingly and walked away, dropping the menus on the bar.

“No, but I’m going out there right now.” Trent’s tone was tight, and my idea that he was fixing Rosewood babies died. “Since you’re with Quen, would you both meet me there?”

My lips parted, even as I heard the accusation in his tone. He wanted me there? With him?

“Rachel, are you there?” Trent asked, and I flushed, glancing at Quen before pushing the phone tighter to my ear.

“Yes. The hospital, right?” Where all the news vans were? Swell. I couldn’t help but wonder if his invitation was because he wanted my professional opinion or simply to find out what Quen and I were doing.

“Rosewood wing,” he said, his tone grim. “I doubt there will be any indication as to who took the infant, but I don’t want evidence to be buried if the I.S. doesn’t like what they find. If one of us is there, we will at least have the truth.”

I nodded as Quen exchanged a few words with the bartender and slipped him a bill. The I.S. was an offshoot of the original FBI and local police forces before the Turn, responsible for hiding Inderland crimes before humans could find evidence that witches, werewolves, and vampires existed. Covering up the uncomfortable or unprofitable was in their blood.