“Ángel.” The voice was gentle, insistent. “One more question, and you can sleep. Okay?”

Let me sleep, he said. Or thought he said.

“The day before the attack, you told Oberon to turn off the cameras and microphones in his office. What did you talk about?”

Ángel’s exhausted mind struggled to wrap itself around this question.

“You were off mike for about twenty minutes. Why did you do that? What did you and Oberon have to talk about? Did you argue?”

What?

“You were upset when you left the house. Did it have something to do with what you talked about off-mike? Did Oberon break your guitar?”

Ángel forced his eyes open. “What? No.”

Jeremy's eyes were blue and innocent. Ángel frowned at him. That question made no sense. He was so tired, and none of these questions seemed to make any sense.

Deliberately, Ángel said, “I told him to turn off the mikes, and then I sucked his dick.”

Jeremy’s eyes widened, his nostrils flaring.

“That what you wanted to know?” demanded Ángel, his voice ragged. “Here I thought you were trying to find out who attacked Oberon, but really you just want to know whether we were fucking? Well, we were. What else? You want to know if he tops or bottoms?”

Agent Jeremy’s fair skin flushed, his eyes now downcast. “I wrote your employment contract. It made no mention of—of sexual—”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“It was never our intention—”

“Am I free to go?” Ángel stood up and swayed alarmingly. “You’re not arresting me or anything, right? I can leave?”

“Ángel—”

“Okay then, I’m leaving.” He went to the door, fumbling with the knob.

Agent Jeremy stood up and opened the door for him. “Emma,” he said to his secretary, “take Mr. Cruz to a hotel. Make sure he has everything he needs. Ángel, we’ll talk more when you’re rested.”

“Can’t wait,” snarled Ángel.

Chapter 29

At the hotel Ángel thought he’d sleep like the dead, but he was restless, plagued by dreams that he wasn’t safe, that he was lost, that he was missing something vital. He bolted awake near dawn gasping Oberon’s name. Tunneling beneath the sterile-smelling hotel-bed blankets, he tried to calm his mind and sleep again. He couldn’t seem to get warm.

He was still tired when a knock on the door dragged him out of bed at eight thirty. Expecting Agent Jeremy, he shuffled to the door and opened it, and was nearly bowled off his feet by Marissa, all curves and curls and a powerful hug. He put his arms around her, resting his cheek on her head, and watched with dawning bewilderment, as Chandler Evanston and Victor Cruz stepped into the room.

“How did you get here?” he demanded.