a try. Want to look at the menu?”
She shook her head. “No. Order something for yourself, and some yogurt and fruit for me, maybe.”
“I’ll pick something out, but keep in mind. You need energy to fight that vicious, evil motherfucker. You won’t have enough if you don’t fuel up.”
Another gorgeous smile. “You’re right,” she agreed. “Good point.”
He called room service and ordered the first item he saw on the lunch menu. Afterwards he sat on the couch and patted the cushion next to him. “Grab your laptop,” he said. “Let’s get to work. Tell me everything you know, felt or guessed about Clemens or Sinclair. Everything you remember about Erasma’s video.”
Exhausted as she must have been, Elisa rose to the occasion. He took notes as the words rushed out of her. He sensed that talking about it was an intense relief after her long silence. Like built up steam desperately seeking a pressure valve.
She played the videos in which Gil and Josh appeared together for him. Nate watched each one multiple times. Gil’s body language made him want to strangle the guy. The way he angled his fingers toward Josh’s neck. To the uninitiated, it really did look as if he were trying to gently comfort his brother-in-law.
Manipulative, mind-fucking prick. He urgently needed to die. In a fire.
By the last video, Josh’s hair was shaggy, his chin stubbled and his eyes were hollow. His face looked gray, his lips flat and colorless. He stared into the camera with barely concealed desperation. Just looking at the poor kid made him anxious.
Elisa got so wound up watching the videos, the knock on the door made her jump up with a startled cry.
“Room service,” a woman’s voice called out.
“I’ll get it,” Nate told her gently. He went to the door, undid the chain lock and peered out, tucking his gun discreetly back into the back of his jeans before opening the door and letting the waitress wheel the cart inside and into the dining room.
He passed her a generous tip. “Lunchtime,” he called.
Nate had chosen, somewhat at random, cream of tomato soup and grilled cheddar on sourdough, in addition to the fruit and yogurt, and he felt self-conscious when she lifted the covers from the dishes. “The hotel restaurant makes fancier food,” he said almost apologetically. “I opted for comfort food. Hope it works for you.”
“It’s perfect,” she assured him. “It smells fabulous.”
It was, in fact. The soup was tangy and salty and sweet all at once. Freshly stewed tomatoes, pureed with sweet sautéed onion and fragrant basil. Each bowl had an artful swirl of heavy cream in the middle and a sprinkling of freshly chopped herbs. The sourdough sandwich was grilled to buttery, golden perfection, oozing melted cheddar in long molten strands. Still crisp, still hot.
“Oh, wow,” she murmured, licking her fingers. “Even Demi would approve.”
“High praise,” Nate said. “I’m glad.”
She actually ate the whole meal, which felt like a big win and emboldened him to push his luck. “Gina told me they do fancy cakes here. Didn’t think to order dessert. Should I call for some?”
She laughed at him. “God, no. I’m stuffed. Maybe next time.”
“For sure. But you must be accustomed to world-class restaurants. You’re the daughter of a billionaire tech titan. And the wife of a DA with political ambitions.”
Her smile faded. “That’s not how I define myself. Not now, anyway. I’ve learned my lesson. I have been defined by those two men for way too long.”
“Good,” he said. “Progress. One thing’s for sure, though. You’re an artist.”
“Amateur artist,” she corrected.
Nate considered that statement. “I wouldn’t say that.”
She shrugged. “I’ve never been a working artist. When I wanted to try it, Gil told me to move over and make space for people with real talent.”
“What a gold-plated dipshit. I hope you told him to fuck himself.”
“Well, it wasn’t just Gil who thought so,” she confessed. “A few months before this blew up in my face, I tried to launch an art career, in spite of Gil’s disapproval. I organized a one-woman show in the gallery that I ran. It was a big deal. This famous art critic agreed to come, as a favor to Gil. I was so excited. Alan Herzog, coming to my show, woo hoo! And well…” Her voice trailed away.
He braced himself. “So what happened?”
“I got slaughtered,” she said simply. “The critic just trashed me. He could not say enough harsh things. That I was derivative. Childish. Self-indulgent. Dull.”
Nate was baffled. “That is fucked up,” he