It was a good sign, he thought, that he hadn’t been asked to leave. That meant something. Morgan was listening. Was he processing or was he just sitting there thinking how full of shit this jackass from Chicago was?

“Do you ask yourself these questions, Steve?” he asked quietly. “You’re a smart guy. Jesus, look at the diplomas,” he said, pointing to the wall at one end of the room. “How can such a smart guy be so fucking stupid? Do you ask yourself that?”

“Every day,” Morgan murmured, and took another sip of the whiskey.

A little jolt of excitement went through Vince. Score. He wasn’t just talking. He had given something up. He felt unworthy. Maybe he didn’t get it himself how he could have something so perfect and throw it away with both hands.

“Can I have a couple fingers of that?” Vince asked, gesturing to the bottle of Jameson.

Morgan shrugged. “Why not?”

He reached around to the bookcases behind him and came back with another tumbler, which he handed across the desk. Vince poured himself a drink and took a sip, savoring the smooth smoky quality of the liquor.

“That’s nice,” he said. “The Italians can stomp a grape, but you can’t beat the Irish for whiskey.”

Morgan lifted his glass in a toast to the sentiment.

“So,” Vince said. “What do you think? Have you broken it? Is it over?”

“You tell me. She talked to you.”

Vince gave him a pained expression. “It doesn’t look good.”

The barest hint of a sad smile creased Steve Morgan’s mouth. “I make a living persuading people to see things my way.”

On the face of it, that sounded as if he meant to try to win Sara back. But Vince had a feeling it meant he had already succeeded in convincing Sara she should leave him.

“You scared her pretty bad last night,” Vince said. “What was that? The coup de grace? Really drive it home what an asshole you are? Or do you really want her to think you might have killed that woman?”

“She already thinks it.”

“Might as well be true?” Vince asked.

Morgan said nothing, but poured himself a little more to drink.

“You were supposedly in Sacramento when it happened,” Vince said. “But you weren’t, were you? And don’t bother lying about it because Cal Dixon has a guy who can track that shit down like a freaking bloodhound.”

“I wasn’t where I said I would be.”

“You were with a woman.”

“I plead the fifth.”

“You’d rather get charged with a murder than admit you’re an adulterer when everybody who matters already knows you fuck around? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It might to the person I was with.”

“It does if that person was Marissa Fordham.”

“It wasn’t.”