“No, I didn’t.” She cupped his cheek in her palm. “Because when I came out of my office, there you were. And you let me lean on you.”

She had, he remembered. Just her forehead against his chest, but she’d leaned on him and it had been one of the sweetest moments of his life.

She was smiling gently. “Lean on me. Let me help you like you helped me.”

So he did. There in the condo’s bathroom, he took the comfort she offered. The strength. It was just enough for him to tell her what he’d seen on the casino’s network. It wasn’t enough for him to tell her what had happened to him personally, at least not today. Maybe not ever.

But to tell her what Scott King and Richard Fischer had done? Yeah, he could do that. He leaned in to whisper in her ear, just in case anyone was listening at the door. “I don’t think Richard Fischer—the casino owner—knows that Scott King had access to the database. If he did know, I don’t think King would still be alive. I don’t think Richard’s clients know, or Richard wouldn’t still be alive.”

She frowned up at him. “What was Richard doing?”

“You mean, what is he doing. The most recent entry was this past Friday. I think it’s a poker game. Very exclusive. Very expensive.”

“High rollers?”

“High stakes, at least. It doesn’t look like money changes hands. Participants bet things. Black-market things.”

She swallowed hard. “And people? Children?”

“Yes. And yes. At least five women, one man. And at least two kids.” The photo she’d seen had been of a teenage girl. Luckily he’d already closed out of the photos Brewer had taken of Joshua, so she hadn’t seen those.

But Diesel had. He closed his eyes, resting his head on Dani’s shoulder. He’d been transported back in time. Back there. He’d been five years old. Six years old. Seven . . . Twelve . . .

“Hey.” Dani’s hands were alternating between rubbing his back and patting to get his attention. “Diesel. Come back to me.”

He looked up, realized his mind had . . . strayed. “Sorry.”

“No sorries. Focus on Richard Fischer. Focus on making the bastard pay.”

He tightened his jaw. She was right. Affection filled him, surprising him with its sweetness. Of course she was right.

“Okay. Other than people, participants staked real estate, exotic animals. Jewelry. Art. Organs—and not the musical kind.”

Her eyes popped wide. “Like . . . kidneys?”

“Mostly. One heart was on offer as well.” Diesel imagined the FBI would be very interested in that.

“Oh my God,” she breathed. “It’s like an exclusive, black-market swap meet.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“And the casino owner’s role?”