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I grab a piece of bread from one of the baskets at the center of the table, and I slide over a small plate one of the guests hasn’t touched. After I pour olive oil, then balsamic vinegar onto the plate, I dip the bread into it and take a bite.

I eye the man next to me. That tailored suit he wears hides the paunch of his belly. On his wrist he wears a Rolex. The file said he was an accountant. I know they make decent money, especially here in LA, but they don’t make money this good.

“Why don’t we get right to the point?” I say. As I talk, I set up my phone so that the camera records our exchange. For good measure I pull out a handheld tape recorder and turn it on.

“I’m going to record this exchange. Please say yes out loud and give your consent to this interview.”

Micky’s brows stitch together as he fights the glamour in my voice. It’s no use. “Yes,” he finally says between clenched teeth. This guy is no fool; he might not understand what’s happening to him, but he knows he’s about to get played. He knows he’salreadygetting played.

As soon as he agrees, I begin.

“Have you been embezzling money from your mother?” His senile, terminally ill mother. I really shouldn’t have read the file. I’m not supposed to get emotionally involved in cases, and yet when it comes to children and the elderly, I always seem to find myself getting angry.

Tonight’s no exception.

I take a bite of the bread, watching him.

He opens his mouth—

“From This moment until the end of our interview you will tell thetruth,” I command, the words lilting off my tongue.

He stops, and whatever he is about to say dies on his lips. I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. Now that he can’t lie, it’s only a matter of time before he’s forced to admit the truth.

Mickey fights my glamour, though it’s useless. He’s starting to sweat, despite his placid features.

I continue eating as though nothing was amiss.

Color stains his cheeks. Finally, he chokes out, “Yes—how the fuck did you—”

“Silence.” Immediately he stops speaking.

This sicko. Stealing money from his dying mother. A sweet old lady who’s biggest failure was birthing this loser.

“How long have you been doing this?”

His eyes flicker with anger. “Two years,” he grits out against his will. He glares at me.

I take my time eating the last of the bread.

“Why did you do it?” I finally ask.

“She wasn’t using it and I needed it. I’m going to give it back,” he says.

“Oh, are you?” I raise my eyebrows. “And how much have you…borrowed?” I ask.

Several silent seconds tick by. Mickey’s ruddy cheeks are turning a deeper and deeper shade of pink. Finally he says, “I don’t know.”

I lean in close. “Give me your best guess.”

“Maybe two hundred and twenty thousand.”

Just hearing that number sends a slice of anger through me. “And when were you going to pay your mother back?” I ask.

“N-now,” he stammers.

And I’m the Queen of Sheba.

“How much money do you have available in your accounts at the moment?” I ask.