Page 6 of Capitol Matters (Marionette #2)

I stayed at Bitters long after the rest of the gang went home, drinking my way through Nash’s inventory while scouring the internet for anything I could learn about my intended kidnapping victims. I took notes, penciling them in alongside coded names—mostly unflattering physical descriptions—then torched Maximus’s original list.

I also looked up the recipe for chloroform and pondered stocking the Porsche’s front trunk with rope and cloth kerchiefs to use as gags. Telekinetically pinning people’s mouths shut was a valid tactic, but not one I wanted to rely on. My brainpower could be put to better use.

I tried not to think about Donovan’s part in all of it. I especially didn’t want to consider what life would be like for eight prisoners locked in hot, shitty storage garages for the next four weeks. No way Grimm sprung for climate- controlled models.

I was still trying not to think about it when Holland found me seated at a desk in the Investigative Department, mixing Red Bull with coffee in a mug I’d found in the office kitchenette.

“Got something else for me to sign?” I asked to her arrival.

Opening the center drawer revealed an assortment of pens left behind by the desk’s previous occupant.

Holland came to a stop beside me. “To assist with the staffing shortages, I’ve picked up a patrol route,” she said. “So, we’re getting out for a while today.”

“Thank God.” I shoved the drawer closed.

“Plus, it might be a good idea to give everyone some space.” She smiled grimly. “I’ve received a few complaints.”

The bullpen felt like a ghost town this morning. I’d seen investigators flitting in and out of the offices and pulling the blinds for privacy. I wondered what they knew about my arrangement with Holland. She seemed to want to stash me away like some shameful thing to be utilized but not discussed. It aligned with her father’s narrow view of me, which drove me to drinking last night when I knew I worked better sober.

“Complaints? About me?” I drew an exaggerated gasp. “I’ve been a model citizen.”

Aside from giving Tobin every bit of what he had coming with that shock collar yesterday.

Standing, I turned to get the first unobstructed view of my partner for the day. Her low-cut, white satin top showcased modest breasts and collarbones so dished out I could take shots from them. She pulled off her sunglasses to polish the lenses.

I licked my lips. “Damn, Investigator. You’re patrolling in that? You’ll have the criminals lining up for a pat down.”

“Me first.” A male voice from behind spun me around.

Not one of the investigators—at least, not one I’d met previously. This man wore a suit like them, but his demeanor was altogether different. He cut a path between Holland and me, coming alongside her to slip an arm around her waist. When he leaned in to kiss her cheek, her forced smile made me cringe.

“Preston.” She chased the greeting with a nervous laugh. “This is—”

“Fitch Farrow.” He extended a hand toward me. “I wondered when we would meet.”

Rather than take him up on the offered shake, I opened my palm to call the coffee mug off the desk. It flew to my grasp, barely sloshing, and I lifted it to my mouth. A noisy slurp found it predictably bitter and somehow tart. With a grimace and cough, I muscled it down.

Preston’s hand fell away, dusting against his slacks as though that had been his intention all along.

“Preston is an ambassador,” Holland informed me. “He works with my father on human/witch relations.”

Maximus being the witch in that equation left no question as to Preston’s role. I gave him another long look, from his tasseled leather loafers to his United States flag tie pin and ended on his arm riding low across the small of Holland’s back .

So, she had a human boyfriend. Interesting. And he was here despite the quarantine? That implied he was a resident. Also interesting.

Preston pulled away from Holland to prop his fists on his hips.

“I never thought I’d see the day the Capitol stooped to collaborating with felons,” he mused. “Quite the contradiction to Maximus’s peaceful platform.” He must have noticed Holland’s frown because he added, “But, of course, I trust your judgment, darling.”

With his suit jacket pulled open, I checked for a shoulder holster or sidearm and found neither. Ambassador equals politician , I reminded myself. A pompous pretty boy with diplomatic immunity and his hand in Holland’s father’s hip pocket.

The hangover headache pinballed around my brain as I thought over Maximus’s list and wondered what description I would have given Preston if he’d been on there, and I suddenly wished he were. I might not have minded locking him in a stuffy garage for a month or so.

“So, how about that patrol?” I asked Holland.

“Right.” She startled to awareness with a nod. “Pres, I’m afraid you caught us on our way out. I’ll be back after lunch if you’d like to visit then.”

“You’re taking him with you?” His eyebrow arched. “Just the two of you?”

“Is that a problem?” The warning in Holland’s voice didn’t elude Preston, who raised his hands in surrender.

“Just concern for your safety,” he said.

Her frown lingered until she broke away and headed toward the exit .

I telekinetically sent the coffee mug back to the desk and turned to follow the retreating investigator. “Good thing you trust her judgment,” I told Preston, then smiled. “Darling.”