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Too bad my mind is on other things.

“Good job,” I say, grabbing my backpack and slinging it over my shoulder. “We done here?”

Adeline’s forehead creases. “I think so.”

Verity’s smile falls, but she quickly recovers. “Thank you, Adeline,” she says, turning to her. “I really do appreciate it.”

“Anything for you, Princess.”

They say their goodbyes, and I slip Adeline a tip so absurd that even she does a double take.

Verity and I are both silent on the way to the car, her footfalls dragging behind me. There’s a small part of me that’s bursting to tell her—anyone—what I just learned from Adeline. How after all this time, I get a morsel about who my mother may be, and it turns out she’s a traitor to East End.

To me.

But this feeling in my chest is too raw, too exposed, and I’m not ready to share it with anyone. Worse is that, in the back of my mind, buried beneath the ragged panic and stomach-churning despair, this little thought is screaming at me to, at the very least, turn to her. To take her face in my hands and tell her that she’s the most gorgeous fucking thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. To bring back that shy little grin that I shattered with my apathy.

But I can’t seem to make myself stop, feet pushing one step in front of the other. I can’t think. I can’t talk. I can barely even breathe until I find out the truth.

* * *

I wasteno time dropping Verity off back at campus, ignoring the worried glance she sends my way before climbing out of the car.

It’s torture not to glance at her in my rearview as I speed away.

The lot of the Gentlemen’s Chamber isn’t even half full. It’s still early, but the post-work crowd will start rolling in soon. The bouncer has the door open before I even reach the steps, ushering me inside with a nod. The half-naked women might as well be wallpaper for all the attention I pay to them on my beeline to the back.

Much like the bouncer, Monroe pours me a shot of whiskey before I’ve even reached the bar. “You look like you need this.”

I throw it back mechanically, glancing up at the camera in the corner. “More signal interference.”

Monroe shrugs, drying off a glass. “Probably this wiring. It’s older than I am. Might as well—hey, whoa!” He lunges for me as I climb up on the bar, stomping down the length until I’m within arm’s reach of the camera. “You spoiled little shits too good for ladders now?” he snaps. “This isn’t exactly code-compliant.”

Ignoring him, I strain up on my toes, grabbing the camera and ripping it straight off the ceiling.

Monroe glares at me. “Too good for screwdrivers, too, huh?”

I leap down, whipping my phone from my pocket. “I don’t have a lot of time,” I tell him, frantically pulling up the photo. This is the only camera covering this corner of the bar, but the longer it’s offline, the higher a chance Father will find out about it. “Do you know who this is?”

Monroe squints as I turn the phone to him, zeroing in on the image. He’s been working this place since before I was probably born. It’s a risk. Father has spent decades culling his crews. Much like Danner, Monroe’s loyalty goes to one man and one man alone. If it didn’t, he wouldn’t still be wiping down this bar.

I know I’m right when Monroe looks away, shrugging. “Never seen her.”

His mustache twitches, though.

Horrible tell.

“Cut the shit,” I hiss, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. “You can’t tell me who she is—I get it. You know me, Monroe. I wouldn’t ask you to put your neck on the line like that. Just give mesomething. Point me in a direction, and I’ll do all the footwork myself.”

His faded eyes look into mine, eyes that have seen more women than the Crane Motor Inn, and then flick just over my shoulder. One blink and I’d miss it. “Sorry, kid. Got nothing to tell.”

Releasing him, I glance behind me, spotting one of the ancient stool squatters, curled over his glass of bourbon like a wrinkled goblin. “Thanks,” I tell Monroe, giving him a nod. “I’ll get this camera fixed up for you.”

“You do that,” he mutters, spitefully spraying down the bar.

I don’t know the squatter’s real name. I know that he likes his women the way he likes his liquor, brown and fiery, but for as long as I can remember, he’s just been Ole Boy. He never comes to the club in anything less than his finest suit, pressed and starched and soaked in cologne. He’s loud when he’s sober, and louder when he isn’t.

Thankfully, it’s easy to get him into my new car.