Myron finally gave in and took a sip. “Will that be a problem?”

“I don’t think so. Do you remember your black friend with the machete?”

“Black friend?”

“Oh yes, let’s be politically correct right this very moment. Is he Anglo-African? I must consult the handbook.”

“My bad. What about him?”

“His name is Lester Connor.”

“Okay.”

“When the police arrived on the scene, Lester was unconscious and—surprise, surprise—had the bloody knife in his hand. Naturally he said the knife had been planted.”

“Naturally.”

“But you could say that you saw Lester stab Scott Taylor in the throat.”

“I could indeed.”

“But?”

“But I won’t,” Myron said.

“Because?”

“Because it wouldn’t be true.”

“Mr. Connor tried to kill you.”

“Yeah, but to be fair, I broke his laptop.”

“False equivalency,” Win said.

“Better than false testimony.”

“Touché.”

“If they ask, I’ll say that someone stabbed the guy and he fell on me. In the confusion, I didn’t see who or even notice.”

“That should play,” Win said.

“Are there any leads on Rhys?”

“Remember what I said about a better source,” Win said.

“What about him?”

“What about her?” Win shook his head. “God, Myron, you’re such a sexist. And here she is now.”

Win looked toward the door. Myron did the same and immediately recognized the woman who’d entered. It was Brooke Baldwin, Win’s cousin and, more to the point, mother of the still-missing Rhys.

Myron hadn’t seen Brooke in, what, five years, he surmised.

A barstool appeared between Myron and Win. They both scooched over to make room. Brooke walked over without hesitation, grabbed the beer that Nigel had already put out for her, and started guzzling. Half was gone when she put it down. Nigel gave a nod of approval.

“Needed that,” Brooke said.

Myron had met too many parents/spouses/loved ones of missing people. Most appeared frail and drained, which seemed both obvious and right. With Brooke, it was more the opposite. She was tanned, defiant, healthy, with a coiled energy, as though she had just finished her morning laps in some Olympic-sized pool or gone a few rounds with a boxing trainer. Her petite frame was thick with ropy muscles. The word that first came to mind when you saw this wealthy suburban soccer mom who had taken one of life’s cruelest body blows: fierce.

Brooke Lockwood Baldwin might have been raised in stone mansions and elite prep schools, but she fit in in a pub like this. She could probably challenge you to a game of darts or sweep the glasses off the bar and kick your ass in arm wrestling.

Brooke turned to Myron and, without so much as a hello, said, “Tell me exactly what happened.”

He did. He told her everything from his arrival in London through the police questioning. She gazed at him steadily with bright green eyes.

When he finished, Brooke said, “So you had Rhys by the ankle.”

“I think so, yeah.”

Her voice was softer now. “You touched him.”