Susan redirected her attention inside the room. It was the living room, or parlor, or whatever the very wealthy called places where they came together and drank sherry after eating escargot. The furniture was all dark wood and worn velvet and cracked leather. Oriental rugs blanketed the floor at carefully quirky angles. Antique books lined the built-in shelves. A young woman with long wavy dark hair rose from a chair and walked toward Susan. She paused at a portable garment rack, on which several evening gowns hung, and pulled one from its hanger. Susan saw the professional-looking makeup box on the coffee table—a tackle box full of blush and oily sticks of foundation. The woman strolling toward her with the gown looked familiar. She was tall and fit, in her early twenties but with the effortless confidence of someone older. Her black pants and black T-shirt were nondescript, but still showed off her curves. Her makeup was natural, her hair was loose, but there was something about the way she moved—she had the self-possession of someone used to people watching her. Maybe it was the way she flipped her hair, or the sway of her hips—but something clicked. Susan recognized her. And as soon as she did, Susan felt her cheeks burn. She was the stripper from the night before, the one who had given Archie a lap dance.

The hussy.

Susan had tried not to wonder what had gone on in that room. What, exactly, the woman had done to get Archie off, and if he’d liked it. Susan had tried, but she couldn’t get it out of her head. Archie had seen this woman almost naked. She had rubbed herself against him. Had he put his hands on her? Had Leo?

Susan took a long breath, willed her face to cool, and smiled.

The hussy stuck her hand out and smiled back. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Star.”

Chapter 10

CHAPTER

10

A valet had taken Archie’s city-issued Taurus. He often felt the need to apologize when valets took his car. They always looked so disappointed. He wanted to explain that it wasn’t his car; that it belonged to the city—but the truth was, if he ever bought his own car, he’d probably end up with something just as boring.

The invitation had gotten him over the bridge.

Now a thick-necked man wearing a dark suit and an earpiece looked Archie up and down. He had a broad chest and deep-set, watchful eyes, and his hair was shaved down to a stiff bristle. He looked like a cop—though Archie didn’t recognize him—or maybe ex-military. “Name,” he demanded.

“Archie Sheridan,” Archie said.