But Harry could not wait one more minute. His phone was on fire. No, it was like acid. Corroding something that had been full of promise and searing it with malice.

“But you need some down time.” He couldn’t hide the edge of desperation to his voice. He wheeled his father into the living room of his suite, and then pulled the blinds closed. “Try to have a nap. Neither of us have had much rest.”

His father opened his mouth to protest, but then something flickered in his gaze. He snapped his jaw closed so hard that it clicked. “Go. You need a rest. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. I’ll check on you in an hour.” Harry opened the door to the hallway, his impatience mounting, anxiety constricting his chest until he could barely speak in a normal voice. “If you need me, just call.”

Then he left his father’s room and crossed the corridor. With shaking fingers, he pressed the hotel card against the lock, and pushed open the door to his suite. He strode across the sitting area, flinging open the large wardrobe that housed the safe.

The safe door was as he left it. Locked.

He punched in the code.

The door swung open. His laptop was there.

He slid it out and booted it up.

It appeared untouched.

He sank on the sofa. Then sprang to his feet, opened the mini-bar, and poured himself a stiff scotch, his hand shaking. He drained the glass, pressing it against his flushed cheek.

What the hell?

He didn’t understand what was happening.

His phone rang.

He pushed the glass harder against his face, feeling the phone vibrate right against his heart.

Was it the blackmailer?

Rage, fuelled by the fiery alcohol, erupted in his chest.

He wanted to shoot the bastard.

He slammed the glass onto the table and answered the phone. “Yes.”

“Harry. It’s Randall Barrett.” If his lawyer was taken aback by Harry’s hostile tone, he hid it well.

Relief poured into Harry. He still had time to puzzle this out. “Hi,” he managed. Then a thought made the scotch whoosh into the dark abyss where his stomach used to be.

Had the blackmailer sent the text message to Randall? Was that why he was calling?

Harry’s ear was on fire, burning from the contact with his phone, burning with the knowledge that his deepest, most private dream—and his secret, most private shame—might soon be exposed to the entire world. He cleared his throat. “Is everything okay?”

“That’s why I was calling,” Randall said, his tone somber.

Oh, God. It was a plea, an invocation, a rejection all at once.

“I was calling to see how your interview with Detective Ellis went.”

Harry had completely forgotten about it. It was as if it had happened to someone else, a lifetime ago.