“Madison McDougall,” he says to me in a tight, gravelly voice. “See if you can find out what’s wrong. She’s crying too fuckin’ hard for us to get anything outta her.”

“More like y’all men handle crying women with the finesse of a bulldozer,” I retort.

He shakes his head, his jaw loosening as the twitch of his lips agrees with me. He rests his hand on my lower back and guides me through everyone to where Madison is sitting in the corner of the room.

Madison McDougall is the girl next door everyone wants to be when they’re in high school. Waist-long, highlighted-blond hair, baby-blue eyes, sweet smile, and always the picture of composure and kindness.

Yeah, well, this version of her is not that one.

Her lips are cracked, evident through the smudges of her red lipstick, and her cheeks are stained with the black mascara she’s cried off. Random lines disappear over the edge of her jaw and chin, some of them sweeping over the red shadows of her lipstick. And Drake’s right. She’s hysterical, gasping for breath between each sob.

“She’s gonna need a paper bag. Now.” I tap Drake’s arm and approach her as he turns. “Madison,” I say quietly, kneeling in front of her. “Madison!”

She chokes on her tears as she looks up.

“That’s it, honey. I need you to calm down now.”

With her eyes wide and panicked, she shakes her head and reaches for her neck with a frantically shaking hand. She’s telling me that she can’t breathe, and I’m not surprised in the slightest.

“I don’t care if it’s a damn tampon disposable bag. I need a paper bag!”

“Here.” Drake pushes through the crowd once more and hands me one.

I help Madison hold it over her mouth and breathe my own sigh of relief when she inhales and the bag collapses in on itself. The wrinkling sound is much better than the questioning murmurs of the people behind us.

Slowly, the color from Madison’s cheeks fades from red to a much paler pink, and Drake quietly asks someone to find out if there’s anyone with medical training in the building and get the mayor and his wife.

“Okay, Madison.” I take her hand. “I need you to tell me what’s happened, sweetie.”

Her blue eyes fill with tears, and she takes a deep breath in the bag again. The tension shoots up as everyone waits to hear what she has to say, and in this moment, with fear riddling her tear-filled gaze while she’s curled into herself, she looks far younger than her twenty-five years.

“I-I went-went into her-her room.” Another breath. “She-she didn’t ans-answer. And she’s-she’s dea-dead. Na-Natalie. She’s dead.”

Drake moves into action immediately, confidently stepping forward. “Which room, Madison?”

But she’s gone. Hyperventilating into the bag once more, each cry more traumatized than the last.

“Nurse,” someone says behind me.

Someone kneels next to me, and I scoot over, focused on Drake. His shoulders heave as he takes a deep breath and turns his face. When our eyes connect, there’s a hard determination glaring back at me. He holds my gaze for a second longer before turning to Trent.

“Secure the hotel. No one in, no one out, and I want every single fuckin’ security tape they have.” He flicks his eyes back to me. “You. Come with me.”

It just doesn’t sound as sexy when there’s a dead body around.

He holds his hands out, and I place mine in his. He curls his fingers around mine and tugs me up, holding me until he’s sure I’m steady.

Then he turns and stalks toward the reception. And I mean he stalks. Each stride is strong and confident, and his walk is nothing short of powerful. He screams that he’s in charge and everyone better recognize that.

“Natalie Owens,” he demands of the lady behind the counter. “I need her room number.”

“I’m sorry, sir. That’s confidential information.”

Drake pulls his badge out and shoves it toward her. “HWPD. I’ve been told her dead body is in your hotel room, and I’m in charge of homicide. I suggest you get me her goddamn room number before the media get wind of this and your hotel turns into a media circus. And by suggest, I mean give me it right now.”

Apparently, his words also scream that he’s in charge and everyone better recognize that.

And. Ho. Lee. Shit.

He’s really hot when he’s bossy.

By the time I’ve gotten to the reception desk, the receptionist is handing Drake a spare key and he’s grabbing my hand and spinning me.

“Oh!” I squeal when he doesn’t let my hand go. “Why are you dragging me around like you’re a cat and I’m the bird you just killed?”

I probably shouldn’t have finished that sentence.

“Try to replace your brain-to-mouth filter, Ms. Bond,” he drawls, pulling me into the elevator.

I don’t even know that he pushed the button. Is he some kind of elevator wizard?

“I don’t have a brain-to-mouth filter. The DNA strands responsible were drunk the day they were supposed to give me that.”

“Drunk? I think they had an accident with a firework.”

“Well, I am pretty at night.”

He cuts his eyes to me, and I’m awfully aware that he’s still holding my fucking hand. “I’m dragging you, as you put it, because you were one of the last people to see Natalie Owens alive—”

“I swear to God, if you pull me in for official questioning, I’m making it worthwhile and making good on my threat to shoot your other foot, too.”

“—so you can give her a basic identification before forensics gets here and the team assembles downstairs,” he finishes as the doors ping open. “Plus, you’d sneak your way up here anyway, and I have a feeling this is already going to give me a headache, so I’m picking my battles.”

I smirk. “You’re a smart man, Detective Nash.”

“So they tell me.” The curvature of his lips matches mine, and he lets me go to open the door. He slots the card in, pulls it, and when the light blinks green, he pulls the handle down and pushes. “Jesus.”

“Is she dead? I don’t think calling Jesus will help. He clearly isn’t her biggest fan if she is.”

“Noelle,” he growls.

“Sorry. I’m hangry still, and it makes me a total bitch. And dead people make me uncomfortable, and I ramble when I’m uncomfortable.”

He holds his hand up to silence me. “The only thing I need from you right now is: Is this Natalie Owens?”

He steps to the side, and as I move through the door, I freeze. Yep, it’s Natalie Owens, all right, but not as I know her.

She’s lying on the bed, her wrists and ankles bound by ropes to the posts at each of the four corners, and there’s bruising coming up her skin from those restraints. New bruising, because I don’t think I saw those this morning or when she came into the office. Thankfully, if anything about this situation is thankful, they resemble rope binds, exactly like the ones holding her now. Her legs are obviously wide open, her underwear nonexistent, and I swallow as I guide my gaze up from her most intimate parts and across her torso.

Lash marks decorate her taut stomach. They’re red, raw, and totally fresh. Tiny spots of blood bead along some of the marks, and the ones across her breasts are even worse. Looking closer, I can see some lighter marks, too—ones that are obviously older.

But it’s her face and neck.

I cover my mouth with my hand.

Her face is purple, her eyes so bloodshot that they’rebulging and almost red. Her mouth is open, her lips swollen, as if she was crying for help in her last moments. A chill fills the air as I focus on the deep-purple tie knotted around her neck, cutting into her pale skin.

I swallow hard. Hours ago, I was talking to her in her home. Albeit a very shaken-up Natalie, but oh, hell. Shit. Fuck.

“Noelle,” Drake says softly. “Is this Natalie?”

I nod and turn, walking into the hall. I lean against the wall next to the doorway and put my hands on my knees. Was this her important appointment? In the hotel where the debate was being held? And if so, who was she meeting? Who did this? Who knew this information?