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“Goddamn, sonny.” His whistle is half garbled, the guy already a dozen thumbs deep on the drink at four in the afternoon. He smells like a distillery. “You pull a lot of trim in this thing?”

“Sure,” I say, eyes rolling. “But I had a question for you.”

Ole Boy squints harder than Monroe did when I show him my phone’s screen. “Who’s that?”

Stomach dropping, I say, “I was hoping you could tell me. Chances are you might have seen her twenty-ish years back?” Watching his milky eyes search the photo, I press, “A Princess, maybe?”

I can tell when it clicks for him, some of that drunken stupor sharpening to fear. Pushing the phone away, he says, “Oh, I don’t think I’m supposed to talk about that one, sonny.”

“Why not?” I ask, shoving the phone closer. “Who is she?”

Ole Boy has jowls that flutter when he swallows. “Sad thing, that one. Gams for days, but sad, sad thing.”

Annoyed, I snap, “Give me a name. I need aname.”

His glazed eyes land on mine, blinking heavily. “You’re a sad thing, too, aren’t ya, sonny?” I push the phone closer, and he sighs, moving his gaze to the photo. “Her name was Odette,” he says. “Odette Delisle.”

* * *

Most of thecounty administrative offices are located in North Side, which might have been a problem before Lavinia Lucia blew her father to smithereens. Unfortunately, the drive from the ass end of the East to the elbow of the North takes a good forty minutes, leaving me barely twenty minutes before they close.

I park haphazardly, springing through the rain up the steps and through the glass doors, hood raised.

“Vital records,” I pant to the receptionist, who points me through to another lobby.

More waiting.Great.

It’s ridiculous, really. I’ve hacked this place weekly since the age of fifteen and know damn well their cybersecurity has more holes than Swiss cheese. But the thought of searching her out anywhere near Father’s network makes me twitchy. Even now, I glance around at the security cameras, wondering if he’ll see me.

I tap my foot and huff as I wait for the person in front of me—some rube who needs a birth certificate—and listen plainly as the man behind the counter informs him that birth records are confidential. He then snidely explains all the hoops he’d have to go through to obtain access.

Fuck that.

I leave out the door and into a corridor, stopping by the lobby.

The fire alarm clicks as I slam it down, disappearing into the restroom as the mechanical wails throb through the halls. Just beyond the bathroom door, I can hear the scuff of shoes as the building begins emptying. I give it a solid three minutes before ducking back out.

It’s easy to get through the door to the back, easier to find a secluded bank of computers, and easiest to type in one of the twelve access codes I already know.

Odette Delisle, I type in, not knowing if I have the spelling right. I’m drenched, either from the rain or sweat, and as the computer lags, I growl in frustration.

Then, a list of entries flies up.

If you can call two entries a list.

There’s a birth record.

There’s adeathrecord.

Everything is automatic after that. I print it out, although later, I won’t remember why I bothered. It’s like being a piece of machinery, the belts turning as I go through these practiced, routine motions. Get the mark’s information. Avoid detection. Clear my access code. Go out through the back. Inhale and exhale, the way a body should.

It’s all a dull blur as I walk out into the back alley, rain beating like knives against the pavement. I hear it dabbing against my hood in rapid little thumps, the fabric growing heavier as I wander out to the front of the building. A fire truck has arrived. No sirens. Just lights. It’s sitting right where my car should be, in fact.

My car, which is hitched to the back of a tow truck and already halfway down the street.

I feel in the back of my brain that I should run and catch it, but just as fast as the thought arrives, it’s discarded. That’s proof. Father will get a call. He’ll know I was here.

At best, I’ll be punished.