Page 128 of Things We Left Behind

I thanked the manager for allowing me to commandeer her office, then headed for the marble lobby.

It was the Saturday before Valentine’s Day, and the self-­important murmur of DC’s young and elite nearly drowned out the live piano music in the bar. I’d been one of them once. Now I was something wholly different.

Everyone was either a pawn or a king. The pawns wanted to grow up to be kings, and the kings missed the innocence of being a pawn.

He ruined you. He ruined us.

Sloane’s words from the previous weekend echoed in my head.

She didn’t know what she was talking about. She didn’t know me. She certainly wasn’t in any position to judge me. I’d meant what I said. Happiness wasn’t for everyone. I preferred security. I’d built a life that was impervious to any threats.

“How did it go, boss?”

Nolan leaned casually against the concierge desk, his fingers in the bowl of mints.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

A raucous burst of male laughter rang out from the bar.

Nolan straightened from the desk. “A little bird of prey named Petula told me you had an important, after-­hours meeting. And after that tail you had to shake and Holly’s trouble, I figured you might want some backup. At least until I saw Maureen Fitzgerald walk out of here on a security monitor a minute ago.”

“Spying on your employer isn’t generally a smart business move,” I pointed out.

“Eh. You say spying, I say having your back.” He unwrappeda mint and popped it into his mouth. “Did the lovely madam have any information on our deceased pal Felix?”

I scanned the lobby. It was crowded with well-­dressed, well-­funded people certain of their importance. Men and women who spent their days chasing power or catering to it. I nodded in the direction of the bar.

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Nolan said and followed me.

Forest-­green walls, dark wood, and paintings of hunts on the English countryside made the bar feel like an old-­money country estate library.

We created a space for ourselves at the end of the mahogany bar where we were sheltered from prying eyes and ears by a thickly carved column.

I caught the eye of the bartender and held up two fingers. He nodded and snagged a bottle of bourbon from the top shelf.

“She may have just closed the book on who put Nash’s name on that list,” I said, keeping my voice low.

“I’m all ears.” Nolan looked at ease leaning against the bar, but his eyes were constantly scanning the room. You could take the man out of the marshal service, but you couldn’t take the marshal out of the man, I supposed.

The bartender delivered the bottle and glasses with a hesitant fold at the waist.

“Did that guy just bow to you?” Nolan asked.

“It happens,” I said.

He shook his head and sighed. “To walk in your shoes for just a day.”

“It’s not nearly as entertaining as it looks,” I muttered.

“Oh, I’d find a way to have some fun,” he insisted.

He probably would. Some people were cut out for a life like that. Each day was an endless source of entertainment and enjoyment. Sloane’s life would be like that. She’d choose a man who would make her laugh. Who’d be home for dinners. Who’d wake her up on a lazy Sunday morning with an adventure planned.

My jaw clenched.

I was important, respected, and feared. Yet all I could think about for the past week was Sloane’s accusation that I’d wasted my life on the wrong things.

“Tate Dilton,” I said, keeping my voice low.