“Not personally,” I reply. “I looked at his social media, know his brother and family, but that’s it. I wanted to make sure I gave you guys his name, so you’re as updated as I am.” I turn my attention to Kyle. “You have connections to look into him, to possibly get him arrested even if Cass doesn’t go to the cops. That’s your job.” I direct my gaze to Rex. “Your job is to try to find whatever shit you can on him … and to get me an address.”

Rex scored me the address I was looking for in ten minutes. They weren’t lying. Dude has skills. Without waiting for them, I got in my car, plugged the address into my GPS, and was on my way.

Thirty minutes later, I’m pulling into a neighborhood I’ve frequented enough that I know the gate code. Apparently, they don’t change that shit for years. I drive past million-dollar house after million-dollar house and cut a right before parking across the street from a two-story red-brick home.

It seems too expensive for a college student, so it might be his family’s home, or he could live off-campus. I’m sure the guy would rather be in a home like this than some stinky frat house. Not sure if this is where he’s at, and wanting more information, I snatch my phone from the cupholder to call Rex and confirm this is Quinton’s current address. I stop after unlocking my screen when a silver Benz pulls into the drive.

The driver’s door opens, and a man in a fitted black suit steps out.

A man I recognize.

I do the same, slamming my door shut behind me, and unlike him, I’m in a black jacket and jeans when I move toward him.

The guy, as if sensing my presence, turns around, squinting in my direction. “Lincoln Callahan?” He cocks his head to the side, attempting to appear casual, but there’s no missing the way his shoulders straighten. “What’s up, man?”

That’s right.

Be nervous because your family shit-talked mine to death.

Without bothering with small talk, I say, “Where’s Quinton, Christopher?”

He sniffs, his face overconfident. “What do you want with my brother?”

I clench my hands. “I want him to stop putting his hands on women.”

The air goes quiet, leaves blowing across the drive and over our feet.

“The fuck are you talking about?” Christopher asks, that overconfidence slipping away like the clients he poached from us.

“He hurt a woman, choked her, and she has the evidence.” A tone of certainty and warning is clear with my response.

“What?” he hisses. “Is she going to the cops?”

“She’s considering it.”

“What’s her name?” he stutters, his Ivy League education not strong enough to have trained him for this conversation.

“You’ll find out when she files the police report against him.”