Her editor ambled from the side hallway and right into her path, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms and his glasses perched on the end of his nose. He looked up and jerked with recognition just as Cassie passed him. “Hey, what are you doing here?”

“Just stopped by to say hi to Lizbet.” She punched the release button on the door and didn’t look back. “See ya.”

Bonnie lurched straighter in her chair the second she laid eyes on Cassie. “Whoa, you okay?”

“Perfect,” she huffed without breaking step. “And we’re definitely having drinks soon.”

She shoved one of the doors wide and opened up to a full sprint for the parking lot. She made it all of three strides before Abel and Patrick hopped out of the car and started her way. She waved them back and opened her own car door. “Quick. Get in the car. We gotta get ahold of Kir.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Kir exited the Pontchartrain Expressway into the heart of New Orleans’s Warehouse District and tried to ignore the weight of his phone in his jacket. It’d been well over an hour since Sam had called him. An hour he and Roman had spent casually feeling out a potential suspect from the guest list when what he really wanted was drive to the station and make sure Cassie was okay.

“You’re overthinking it, moy brat.” Seated in the passenger seat, Roman perused the passing landscape outside Kir’s Audi like he hadn’t just poked a sleeping bear.

“I’m not overthinking anything.”

Roman swiveled his head and nailed Kir with a droll look. “And yet, you’ve made no observations about the next person on our list, and we’re only a mile away.”

Kir grunted. He could try and argue, but the truth was Roman knew him well. “Something feels off. She should have called by now.”

Roman shrugged. “Then call one of her men. Ask them for an update.”

He was tempted.

Sorely tempted.

But trust was a skill he’d left far too underdeveloped with women for too long, and he refused to jeopardize their long-term future for short-term comfort.

He shook his head, gripped the steering wheel a little more firmly and forced himself to focus on the task at hand. “The next name is one of your contacts. How do you want to play the conversation?”

Roman huffed out a smug chuckle and started to reply, but the subtle electronic ring of an incoming call cut him off.

Cassie’s number flashed on the display.

Cocking one eyebrow, Roman dipped his head toward the dash. “Perhaps now you’ll be able to concentrate.”

Kir glared at Roman, but punched the answer button rather than argue and feigned a tone much lighter than the tension in his gut. “Hello, vozlyublennaya. I was wondering when I’d hear from you.”

Cassie’s labored breathing filling the car’s interior, her voice sharp and hurried. “I think Evette and Emerson are in trouble. Someone needs to call the police and send them to 2940 Canal Street.”