“Don’t—?” He shook his head. “He shot Troy. Troy saw him. Are you saying he was mistaken? Lying?”

“No.”

“I know what happened at Hector’s. Carlos was there—the last person to see Hector alive. The butler and Bella both confirmed it for you. Are they mistaken? Lying?”

“We have no proof that Carlos shot Hector.”

“You sent two officers back here after William’s murder to look for evidence that Carlos had been here too.”

“And they found none. His key code hasn’t been used since he left.”

“Do you think he’s stupid enough to walk past the front desk? To use his own access code? For God’s sake, stop being a lawyer, Lucas! This isn’t a courtroom.”

“Isn’t it? You’ve judged him, found him guilty and now you’re ready to carry out his punishment.”

“He would have killed you.”

“Perhaps, but you put me in charge of this investigation. You can’t decide now that you don’t want me acting like an investigator. I plan to see this through, and follow the letter of the law.”

“Whose law?”

“Cabal law.” I turned to Griffin. “Take him into custody. Not to the cells, but to the house arrest room. It’s to be double guarded at all times. He’s to have no visitors except those approved by me. None, including my father. He’s to have no food except that ordered by me, delivered to me and taken to him by Paige or myself.”

Griffin glanced at my father. He hesitated, back stiff, then he deflated and nodded.

“Lucas is in charge. Do as he says.”

HOPE RACKING UP CREDITS

HOPE

RACKING UP CREDITS

The hotel room door opened with a click. Karl peeked around the corner.

“You’re up.”

I yawned. “Just stirring. Being lazy and enjoying it.”

I was curled up in the king-size bed, propped on two pillows, with the rest strewn around me. On my morning bathroom trip I’d grabbed a robe—not for decency, but because it was thick and soft, too tempting to ignore.

“You look lost in that bed and that robe. Very cute.” He smiled at me.

“Cute?” I sputtered. I undid the robe and spread it, then stretched out on top of the covers. “Better?”

His gaze slid down me. “I take it you don’t mind a cold breakfast?”

I noticed the tray in his hands, steam billowing from the plate cover, and I pulled the robe shut.

“Damn,” he said.

He set the tray down, handed me USA Today, then tossed the Wall Street Journal onto the other side of the bed.

“You really are spoiling me.”

“No, I’m racking up credits. I suspect I’ll need them.”

He kissed my cheek as he leaned over to hand me a coffee.

“Speaking of credits,” I said. “I called my mother while you were out. She said dinner Saturday would be wonderful. She’ll make reservations.”