Page 83 of Only the Wicked

Twenty-Three

Rhodes

Evie Thompson stands on the sidewalk outside of The Hamilton, holding her phone, glued to the screen. She doesn’t look up once.

Her dark hair with grown-out highlights is split down the middle, tucked tightly behind her ears. The charcoal suit she’s wearing is no nonsense, as are her short, natural nails.

Her father is a secretive hedge fund manager, born in Egypt, and he maintains ties throughout the Middle East. As one of my first investors, I owe his daughter this meeting. I would’ve met with her anyway.

Evie could’ve gone the route of spoiled, entitled rich kid, but she didn’t. She’s worked her ass off. Top of her class at Harvard Law, and she chose the public servant route. Probably an easy choice for someone with what has to be a sizeable trust fund, but she could be spending her days traveling the world and chasing hard-to-get handbags, and she’s not. Therefore, she intrigues me.

I stand in front of her as she types away on her screen. She continues typing, fingers flying, clueless that if I wanted, I could read the email response she’s tapping out.

I clear my throat and large brown eyes flash.

“Just a minute,” she snips.

Alright then.

“I’ll go inside and get our table.”

By the time the hostess has gathered two menus, Evie’s at my side.

“I’m not going to eat,” she rushes. “Why’d you change the location?”

“A precaution,” I admit.

I should probably warn her to be more cautious. She’s climbing in the ranks and there are those who might be interested in her work.

“What’re you doing these days?” I ask as we slide into a window booth.

Before she can answer, I say to the hostess, “We’re only having drinks. Do you have a cocktail menu?”

“On the back,” she says with a smile. “Our smoked salmon appetizer is the best, if you decide you want something to snack on.”

“Thank you,” I say.

The restaurant is basically void of people this time of day but before long the after-five crowd will hit. However, at this time of day on a summer Friday, the patrons may be tourists. The D.C. power players are likely long gone for the summer weekend.

Evie taps on her phone and then with a sigh, sets it down on the table and flips it over so she can’t see the screen.

“Done?” I can’t help but ask. I’m not certain if she’s Gen Z, but she’s definitely self-absorbed.

“Sorry.” She picks up a glass of water and sips. Those eyes of hers are so large her portrait could be mistaken for AI. They make her look young, probably younger than she is.

“You wanted to meet?” I prompt.

“If I gave you a list of names, could you get me information on them?”

I sit back, amused. “What’ve you heard? That I sell information to the highest bidder?”

I’ve heard the rumors. There’s a vestige of truth to them, but it’s not as simple as the rumors insinuate. Nothing ever is.

She sits back and places her hands demurely in her lap. “Let me start over. I’m sorry, my mind is all over the place this afternoon.”

I can see that. While her hair is pulled back tightly behind her ears, the strands around her shoulders fall uncontrollably around her in an unkempt, wind-blown fashion.

“I’m working a human trafficking case.”