“It just hasn’t sunk in yet, has it?” he said. “I can’t get you a job with Asgaard. They fired you. They’re not going to hire you back.”

“They will when you confess to stealing my work.”

His conscience raced, his moral compass spinning out of control.

But Vida’s notes had been in the trash. And they were just the beginnings of an idea he’d run with, turned into what it was… But the truth—the truth he couldn’t face—was that her idea had been brilliant.

Vida was tugging on the bottom card of his house of cards, a house he’d worked so hard to build.

“I didn’t steal your work!” Jeff shouted.

People at tables near them turned to the drama unfolding.

“I know you did.” She threw back a good long drink of her mojito, and he realized she was under the influence—the drink or something else.

She rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth, like a trucker finishing a beer. “You said you had something for me?”

He looked at her for a long time, then reached into his jacket pocket and passed her an envelope. She looked inside—it was filled with cash.

“That’s one thousand. And I’ll give you another four thousand contingent upon the guarantee you never again contact me, my wife, my office or anyone, concerning me.”

“I’ll take it because I need it.” She put the cash in her bag. “But I don’t agree to any of your terms until you do your part, Jeff. Because I’m not some kind of whore you buy off. Do you understand?”

Whore?

Jeff saw himself reflected in her dark glasses as she slowly tilted her head to stare at him. Suddenly, he realized he’d made a mistake.

“Do you have any connection to Clete Loften, the prick who broke into our home?”

Vida leaned back in her chair, and as she weighed the question, a smile crept across her face. “Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t.”

With the speed of a cobra, Jeff seized Vida’s wrist, jolting her so that her hat and glasses fell from her head and onto the table.

“You’re hurting me!”

People turned, but he ignored them, gritting his teeth, growling.

“I should’ve killed him when I had the chance. Now, you listen to me. You’re not getting another cent from me! Stay the fuck away from me. You’re sick—get help!”

As Vida tried to replace her glasses, he saw the discoloration around her left eye. Tears rolled down her face.

“Is everything okay here?” A waiter had materialized, his attention on Jeff’s grip until he released her wrist.

Vida smiled, replacing her glasses and hat, and nodded weakly to the waiter.

“We’re fine,” Jeff said. “Just having a discussion.”

“Can I get you anything?” the waiter offered.