Page 83 of One Filthy Kiss

“When precisely?”

“I don’t log the guests’ movements. I’d have a stalking charge slapped against me quick as I can blink.”

My patience is close to being empty. “Do you get many British guests?”

He shrugs. “A few.”

“How many would you say?” At his vacant stare, I add, “A rough guess will do. One a week. One a month. Or am I way off track?”

“I don’t know. Not frequently. I don’t pay much attention to their accents.”

“But you remember this accent.”

I don’t even have to ask the question; he knew exactly who we were looking for when we first walked in and mentioned the room number.

He twists his nose from side to side as if scratching it with his moustache to reach an itch. “I remember the kid. Don’t get a whole lot of those in here.”

“Ah.” Now we’re getting somewhere. “Is this the kid you’re talking about?”

I unlock my phone and show him a picture of Amber watching the penguins being fed at the zoo. It was taken from behind—I respected Meggie’s wishes to keep her sister’s face out of any images or videos we might take—but the hair is unmistakable.

“Could be.” He appears to be more interested in the penguins than Amber, trying to figure out where the picture was taken and how it might affect him.

I have no qualms about enlightening him. “This was taken at Central Park Zoo in New York. Five days ago.”

I give him time to process this clue to his guests’ continued absence.

“Like I said.” Another shrug. “I don’t keep tabs on my guests’ movements. If they pay the check, they’re free to come and go as they please.”

I spread my palms wide in agreement. “Would it be fair to say though, that you’d notice a man entering a room he didn’t pay for?”

His eyes flicker back and forth between me and Bruno. “I guess.”

I lean closer. There’s a glass partition separating us, but I’m close to smashing it with my fist and squeezing the guy’s neck until his lips turn blue. “The time for guessing is done. So, let’s try again. Would you notice a man entering a room he didn’t pay for?”

Pause. “Yes?” It’s the question mark at the end of the word that tips me over the edge.

One glance at Bruno is all it takes.

He’s through the locked door to the front desk and behind the glass partition before I can stand up straight and smooth my jacket. The guy’s right arm is twisted behind his back, and the faint crack that reaches my ears before he howls like a dog is the sound of the first finger being broken.

Sweat beads on his forehead as he turns dark eyes my way. He can’t even remember the question with the pain shooting up his arm and down his spine.

“Did you see a man entering Ms. Walsh’s room?” My voice is cold.

“I saw her come back to the room with someone. A man.”

My fists clench. The Fish—if he was the one who broke into Meggie’s room—had an accomplice. My gut is already running a marathon around LA trying to figure out who she might be.

“What about the little girl?”

He shakes his head and winces as Bruno applies more pressure to his twisted arm. “No kid. I didn’t see the kid with them.”

“You didn’t think that was strange?”

His mouth opens and closes, the panic behind his eyes real. The longer he takes to answer, the greater the likelihood of getting another finger broken. “Yes,” he blurts out. “But I don’t get involved in domestics. No point. They always end up?—”

“Domestics?” I cut him off. “They were fighting?”