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“You asked nicely.” I signal the waiter for a whiskey. “How are you?”

She studies me, those dark eyes seeming to look straight through me. “You don’t remember, do you?”

A chill runs down my spine. “Remember what?”

The waiter arrives with my drink, interrupting whatever she was about to say. When he leaves, Lena leans forward, her voice dropping to just above a whisper.

“Last night. You came to my apartment.”

For a moment, I think she’s playing some strange game. Then the implication hits me like a fist to the gut. Another blackout. Another gap in my memory.

“What happened?” I ask, dreading the answer.

She hesitates, a flush creeping up her neck. “You were…not yourself. Covered in blood. You seemed confused, almost feral.”

My mind races, cataloguing the evidence—the damp shower, the inexplicable cleanliness of my body, the lingering dream of her beneath me.

“Did I hurt you?” The question escapes before I can stop it, raw with fear.

“No,” she says quickly. “No, you didn’t hurt me. Not really. We…” She looks away, the flush deepening. “We were together.”

My brows raise.

“You came to fuck me,” she adds, as if I didn’t pick up what she was putting down. “You fucked my brains out, broke my damn bed, and you left as quickly as you appeared.”

I down my whiskey in one swallow, the burn doing nothing to ease the cold dread spreading through me. “I don’t remember any of it. Wish I did, I can promise you that. But it’s just like with Marco.”

Her gaze narrows. “What about Marco?” she asks slowly.

Too late, I realize my mistake. “Nothing. I just meant?—”

“Don’t lie to me, Callahan,” she says softly. “I think we’re past that, don’t you?”

She’s right. Whatever is happening to me, whatever I did during those lost hours, Lena is somehow entangled in it all. Has been since the beginning.

“I followed him home after our, well, confrontation at your apartment,” I admit, keeping my voice low, glad that we’re hidden from the rest of the bar by the pillar. “I was angry. I wanted to threaten him, make sure he left you alone.”

“And?” she prompts when I fall silent.

“And I blacked out. When I came to, I was on my knees in his study, covered in his blood. He was…” I can’t bring myself to describe the barbarity I found. “He was dead. Torn apart like an animal got to him.”

Lena’s face remains carefully neutral, but her eyes give her away—not shocked, not horrified. Almost as if she was expecting this confession.

Have I been that obvious? Is what I am so obvious to everyone but me?

“I buried him in the hills,” I continue, the words tumbling out now that I’ve started. “Cleaned up the scene as best I could. I don’t know what happened, how I could have done that to him, but I must have. There was no one else there.”

She reaches across the table, her cool fingers closing over mine. “You don’t understand what’s happening to you. But I do. I can help you, if you’ll let me.”

Before I can ask what she means, the bar’s door by the patio swings open. Two men enter—beefy, suited, with the hard eyes and broken noses of career thugs. Cohen’s men. The taller one scans the room, his gaze stopping on Lena, narrowing in recognition.

“Keep talking,” I mutter to Lena, keeping my eyes on the men as they approach. “Act natural.”

She follows my lead, continuing our conversation as if nothing’s wrong. “It’s not your fault. You’re going through something that?—”

“Lookee, lookee, here,” the taller thug interrupts, stopping at our table. “Miss Reid. Mickey’s been searching for you.”

“Has he?” Lena replies coolly, nerves of steel. “I’ve been right where I always am. At the club, singing my sets. He knows where to find me.”