His eyes soften momentarily at the mention of her sadness. “Thank you, Ms. Bond. That’s appreciated.”

Madison sits back down on her chair, pale, with her bangs sticking to her forehead. If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone is still suffering from severe shock and just threw up in the bathroom.

“Madison? Are you okay?” Mayor McDougall says, touching her shoulder.

“Dad…” she replies shakily, weakly looking up at him. “Did you know Natalie was pregnant?” Her voice is barely a whisper, but the mayor freezes. “Someone killed her and her baby, Dad. A baby.”

“No,” Mayor McDougall replies, licking his lips. His gaze darts from her to me. “I had no idea.”

“How could someone do that?” she breathes, her eyes filling with tears.

“I should go now,” I say softly. “Madison? I’m sorry.”

She ignores me though. Even the mayor is more focused on his daughter than on me. The only person who so much as acknowledges my words is Jessica.

She’s still staring at me with contempt. Now maybe it’s my ripped jean shorts or my flowery tank, or maybe even my lacy flats, but heaven only knows what’s so offensive about that.

Whatever. I don’t plan on working with her very much anyway. I’ll leave that stuff to Drake. He’s the cop, after all.

Regardless of that, this visit has given me lots of information, the most important being that the mayor absolutely knew about Natalie’s baby.

And he absolutely knew it was his.

Dinner tonight? Drake’s message pops up on my phone.

Like a date dinner? Do I have to wash my hair?

…

Can I wear yoga pants then? I try.

Or we could order pizza and watch a movie or something. At least try to look human.

Why? You wanted to date me. You have to accept my yoga pants and three-day-old unwashed hair.

Fine. Wear deodorant.

I guess I can do that. I laugh and grab my car keys from my desk.

After leaving the town hall building, I came straight back to the office and edited my whiteboard. If I’m honest with myself, I’d hoped that talking with Madison would mean that I could wipe her off as a suspect, but I can’t. It only strengthens both her and Nick’s motives. After all, if Natalie was out of the way, they wouldn’t have to wait to begin their relationship, would they?

And as for the mayor… I kind of feel the same way I did with Ryan Perkins when he hired me to find out who killed Lena. Ryan is now, incidentally, living with his pregnant mistress.

Why would the mayor hire me if he killed her to remove the issue of the baby? That would give her considerable power. He’d have to pay her child support, take up his fair share of the childcare to maintain his wholesome family-guy image, and not to mention the baby would become an heir to some of the McDougall empire.

It would also be a huge difference in his marriage. I guess it’s one thing to sleep with someone but another thing entirely to knock someone else up.

Funny. I remember saying the same thing about Ryan Perkins.

I lock my office door behind me and poke my head around Carlton’s. He’s already left, but there’s a folder on his desk, and my name is on the piece of paper folded to stand. He’s a smart cookie, this one.

I open the sheet of paper and read his note, which tells me that he has everything on Natalie amd Nick and is working on the McDougalls. That’ll do.

I wonder if Drake will mind a working date.

Is it a date if I really do wear my yoga pants?

Possibly.

I flick through Nick’s information as I walk downstairs, bypassing the basics. Place of birth, schools attended, qualifications, job histo—

Oh my fucking God.

Job history. Escort. The date shows he started right after he came to Austin, and quit after the start of his relationship with Natalie. No wonder he’s so bitter toward her. He gave up a—possibly questionable—career which probably made him more money than the tattoo shop ever will to be with her fully, and she couldn’t adjust to life without a bit of kink.

Hell, I’d be bitter, too…

I almost walk into the front door, stopping just in time. I set the alarm and lock it before meandering over to my car as I contemplate this new information. As I get in in, something seriously occurs to me: If he was an escort, wouldn’t he be familiar with BDSM? Have even participated in it?

I guess he could have specified on his website or whatever that it wasn’t his thing, but still. Surely he’d understand sexual desires? Fetishes? Needs? Shouldn’t he have been able to deal with that without judging her for her choices?

Is it a choice though? Is it sometimes a compulsion? A need to be dominated or to dominate? Is it always sadist?

Of course, the simple answer here is that I don’t know, and I won’t likely ever find out unless I suddenly want to explore the world of BDSM for a romance novel. Given that I don’t even type up my own contracts and I delegate e-mails where necessary, a novel is never going to happen.

And while I’ve been contemplating the mysteries of the sexual universe, I’ve driven right past my house. Fantastic.

My phone vibrates with a call as I’m about to make a U-turn at the end of the street. I pull over without killing the engine and dig it out of my purse. Drake.

“Did I just see you drive straight past your house?”

“How about you shut your mouth?” I mutter, hitting the hands-free button and putting it down in my lap. “How did you see that? You aren’t outside my house.”

“I was driving past to get pizza.”

“You can order that for delivery, you know.” I park in my driveway.

“Not real Italian pizza from Giovanni’s.”

Aw. If I were a total romantic, I’d be melting. Except I’m not, so I ask, “With what on it?”

“One for you with pepperoni and extra mozzarella with a slightly crispy crust, and one for me with pepperoni, ham, chicken, and mushrooms without the crispy crust.”

Aw. Okay. Maybe he wins this.

“How long will you be?”

“Maybe thirty minutes. And since my house is closer to Giovanni’s and I’ve been driving around like a NASCAR driver all day, get your ass over there. There’s a spare key under the mat.” His instant hanging up beats down any of my ideas about arguing that.

I’ve never been to his house. And I’m definitely not letting myself in. Although spying would be fun. Just to see what kind of a person he really is, you know? Does he have pictures of his family? What about his friends? Does he have friends outside the HWPD? Where are his family? Is it a bachelor pad? How many bedrooms are used as bedrooms and not dumb games rooms or gyms?

Fuck my curiosity. She’s such a tempting little bitch.

Without going inside to get my yoga pants like my waist is screaming for, I restart the engine and reverse out of the drive.

Pizza at Drake’s. That’s normal, right? That’s what two people with a still-undefined relationship do, isn’t it?

I don’t even know.

I’ve been alone for so long. It’s been a good three years since I settled back into Holly Woods full time. Maybe even longer—I couldn’t give a date. For at least nine months before that in Dallas, I was single after I found my boyfriend boning a rookie.

Maybe I’ve forgotten how to be in a relationship. Maybe I’m scared to be.

No, scratch that. I’m definitely a little afraid to be. That means I have to give up a part of me, and I don’t want to do that. I want to be. Just me.

Yet I know exactly where Drake lives without ever having been to his house.

I’m going to blame that on small-town living. Totally, completely, one hundred percent.

I love his street. From the cute little bushes blocking off everyone’s front yards to the pretty gates closed over every driveway and the redbrick detached houses, it’s the house most people dream of owning one day.