The smirk on his face is cruel. It’s evil and heartless, and I’d bet my newest pair of Jimmy Choos that she wasn’t the only manipulator in their relationship.

“She was fucking the mayor,” he says quietly, but every word is spit with anger in the most bitter, derogatory way I’ve heard in a long time. “He fathered that little runt inside her. He spent as much time at that sick club as she did, and he always thought he could get away with it. But he won’t. The truth will come out. It always does.”

Someday, I will find a dead body in Holly Woods and their murderer will be standing in front of them, ready to be taken to the police station, guilty plea intact.

Someday, someone will slap me and tell me to stop damn well dreaming. Until that day, however, I will sit here at my desk with every one of Natalie’s contracts from D.O.M. and read until my eyes bleed.

I’m also gonna eat my cupcake, ’cause, well, yeah. We might have taken a detour to Gigi’s in Austin while I called Drake to update him before coming back to the office. As it is, I came back to a stack of contracts with more pages than most standard romance novels waiting for me.

That’s an exaggeration. They’re not that long. They feel like it, though. I really wish they’d read like it though. These contracts, for all of their clauses about nipple clamps and anal beads and floggers, are really kind of boring. They could use a swoony, long-haired man on the front of a scandalous bodice-ripper.

Oh, who am I kidding? They need a ripped-as-hell guy pulling on some chick’s hair. And that’s on the cover.

I’ve read through three of the twenty and haven’t found anything about erotic asphyxiation. It’s not even mentioned in the list of “acceptable practices” D.O.M. lists in the documents. I think my father was right when he said that it wouldn’t be something they’d allow due to the high risks involved with the activity.

Personally, I don’t get it. The page on my laptop in front of me mentions the biggest reason for it—to increase pleasure—and the methods used. And those? Hell, those are…worrying. There’s the “normal” strangulation with something like the tie that killed Natalie, suffocation with a pillow, but then it goes to solvents, hanging, and using a plastic bag over the head.

Takes the phrase “only if there was a paper bag over their head” to a whole new level, if you ask me. Except that thought is kinda inappropriate, so it’s probably a good thing no one has asked me.

I break into the cupcake with my fork and scoop the chocolate sponge into my mouth. I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a sugar overdose by the end of the day, but you know.

My phone buzzes and the screen lights up with a text. I hit the notification blindly and swipe to unlock it. I don’t care if this thing has fingerprint recognition. I don’t have the damn patience to mess around with that every time I need to do something on it. The message is from Drake, and I groan.

Found anything?

I pick my phone up and respond: Discovered the cure for diabetes and undeniable proof of alien life.

The reply comes through almost instantly. I don’t know if you’re hilarious or just pissing me off.

I’m pissing you off hilariously.

Are you reading those contracts? The whips sound real tempting right now…

Aren’t you supposed to be interviewing the mayor?

He doesn’t reply after that.

“Ha!” I fist-pump the air and flick contract number four open. My fork has sunk into my cake once more when my office door sneaks open and a familiar icy-blue eye peeks through the crack. “Oh, piss off,” I mutter, ignoring him.

Drake laughs, coming in. “Surprise?”

“Not a good one.” I lick the cake off the fork’s prongs, and his eyes darken instantly. “Nope.” I point my fork at him. “Nope, nope, nope. What do you want now?”

“For you to come do interviews with me.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be Trent’s job?”

“No. Trent’s job was to reconstruct the hours before her death, and they’ve been staring at security tapes for the last six hours.” He drops himself onto one of my chairs and runs his fingers through his hair. “Dev was the last to leave Natalie’s house at approximately ten a.m., but between then and noon, we don’t know where she was. At noon, she checked into the Oleander with campaign materials. At twelve fifteen, she went into her room, and at twelve thirty, Mrs. McDougall knocked on her door and disappeared inside. After that, there’s a period where the tapes go fuzzy, but it clearly shows a figure on the floor at one fifteen and another at one forty-five.”

“Why would the mayor’s wife be visiting her?”

“Work, we assume. She did drop off campaign materials. For all we know, there was an issue Alyssa McDougall needed to discuss.”

“I suppose.” I pause, scooping more cake onto my fork. When I look back at Drake, I get what he wants. “You want me to interview her.”

“Correction: I want you to come with me.”

“Why? The mayor told me to basically arrest Nick and not investigate. Questioning his wife isn’t the smartest… Wait a minute.” I drop my fork, and it clatters against the desk. “You want me to come with you and tell her that we’re only interviewing her because the mayor would hate to have her name smeared through the mud if anyone saw her entering the hotel room.”

Drake’s eyes light up. “Bingo.”

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this shit.”

“You’re blinded by my superior wit and charm.”

“The only charm you possess, Detective Nash, is one worthy of being pooped on by seagulls.” I sniff and look up at the house in front of us.

Can we say whoa?

Yes we can, as long as you insert a “fucking” before it.

Because fucking whoa.

The mayor’s house is huge. It needs to be in Hollywood. I didn’t even know these kinds of houses existed in small-town Texas, but apparently, they do. The three stories are in a perfect rectangle, and the sculpted, spherical bush-tree-plant thingies lining the drive are begging me to find a branch out of place.

Go on, you annoyingly symmetrical balls. One leaf. That’s all I want.

I don’t get the leaf.

By the time we pull up in the circle outside the mansion complete with a water fountain, I’m ready to take a match to my own quaint house, say, “Fuck this shit,” and move back in with my parents.

Wait. No. That isn’t something that’s happening on any day of ever.

“Does she know we’re coming?”

Drake glances at me. “Possibly.”

“Well, that’s a no.” I sigh when he kills the engine. “Do you have all of your necessary legal crap?”

“Do I have my badge and a search warrant? Yes.”

“Does it ever bother you how quickly Judge Barnes signs off on his warrants?”

Drake holds his arms out. “No.”

“Shut up.” I jab my finger against the doorbell. The very classic ding-dong echoes through the majestically carved front door and toward us. It’s loud. Real loud. I guess it has to be when you’re knocking on the door of Holly Woods’ answer to the White House.

The door opens slowly and Mrs. Alyssa McDougall appears in the gap between the door and the frame. Her brown hair is swept back into an elegant ballerina bun, her hazel eyes lined with mascara that makes her eyelashes pop outward, and her lips are perfectly painted in red lipstick.

“I wondered how long it’d be until y’all showed your faces,” she says, her bright-red lips curving. “Come in, Detective Nash, Noelle. Can I get y’all a drink?”

“We’re fine. Thank you, ma’am,” Drake replies.

Speak for yourself. “Can I have a glass of water, please?” I ask.

“Absolutely. Let’s take a seat and one will be brought in to you.” She elegantly waves an arm toward a room to her left.