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She doesn’t look fine. She’s trembling. Only slightly, but I can see it. But she doesn’t want my help.

This is not your problem.

“Fine,” I say. Then I do what feels like the hardest thing I’ve done in years. I give a quick nod goodbye and walk back to the path I came down on.

Once I’m in the trees, I pull out my phone, calling Ford and hammering out instructions to look into all connections between Creelman and Sam Macklin without even a hello.

“We’ve already done—”

“Do it again,” I bark.

“The fuck is into you?”

“Please,” I say begrudgingly.

Ford grumbles but acquiesces. He knows when I’m in a mood, there’s no point in insisting on civility. He’ll do the same to me another time. It works. I hang up the phone, watching Sam Macklin’s sister as she gets into a golf cart and heads to the hotel. I get into the one I stashed behind a utility shed and trail behind hers at a safe distance. I follow her all the way back, not letting her leave my sight until she goes through the door of my family’s resort.

Then I force myself to let it go. I tell myself this isn’t me being overly cautious. That it’s just an occupational hazard.

And I almost believe it.

CHAPTER3

Sasha

TWO MONTHS LATER

This was a terrible idea. I knew it was a terrible idea—I told Sam it was a terrible idea. But he doesn’t seem to give a shit about me right now.

Irritation burns in my chest, mixing with the hurt at Sam’s complete dismissal of my feelings as I check my face in my pocket mirror. I shake off the bad feelings, using my nail to brush aside an errant eyelash on my cheek.

My brother and I may not be close these days, but he’s done more for me over the years than anyone else in my family. Mostly because my parents only listen to him. He’s still the only reason my mom didn’t outright sabotage my escape to go to grad school in London.

“What’s the point of more school, Sasha? You already went to college!” The subtext there was “who cares if you graduated? You were a complete failure at husband hunting!”

When she found out what I was planning to study, she nearly fainted. “Victorianwhat?” she’d asked, agog.

“Erotica.” I took great pleasure in drawing out the syllables over the phone.

“What on earth is wrong with regular English?”

My mom was born in the wrong era. I wasn’t particularly into English lit, even the horny kind, but the program had openings and looked interesting, and I was cashing in on an offer from Sam to quietly pay my tuition as an escape route from Mom.

“Almost there, honey,” my Uber driver says in the mirror. She’s a motherly looking woman with a thick Spanish accent and blue-rimmed glasses on a chain who introduced herself as Maria. There’s a Puerto Rican flag decal proudly displayed on the back of the passenger seat.

I shove the mirror into my purse. “Maybe I can just hang out with you tonight instead?”

Maria cackles. She thinks I’m joking.

I know exactly what this guy is going to be like. All Sam’s friends and acquaintances seem to be obnoxious dude-bros with eyes that seem to be stuck at boob-level. Actually, now that he’s entered public office, he’s widened his associate group to slimy businessmen who… No. They’re about the same.

But no matter how much Sam has changed over the years, he’s still my big brother. And I’m wearing my favorite Louboutins and a strapless Finchley dress, which I smooth my hands over now. At least I’ll look impeccable while suffering through this.

My mother’s voice echoes in my ear. “You never know, Sasha, you might enjoy yourself!” She always said that just before cinching the sash on whatever dress she’d chosen for me like she dearly wished it was a corset.

Maria angles her car behind the snaking lines of traffic towardSequoia, a brand-spanking new California-inspired fine dining establishment in the heart of midtown Manhattan.

I watch its huge glowing sign grow closer through the window, though it’s still a couple of blocks away. “Why do people in New York want to eat California-based food anyway?”