“Not today’s concern,” said Grayson. “Talk about Senator Hathaway.”
The tension in Ben’s shoulders relaxed. “Senator Hypocrite, we called her here.” He bit his lip. “I feel bad about it now. Her death is awful.”
Grayson held up the picture of Jason Owens. “You see him with her?”
Ben shook his head. “But Hathaway was in the VIP room all night, like she always is when she’s here.” He winced. “Maybe I should have called the cops when I saw the news, but we weren’t supposed to tell anyone Hathaway came here. And I didn’t see her myself at all, I just made drinks.”
“Someone brought the drinks into the VIP room,” said Grayson.
Ben nodded. “Cookie did. They wanted privacy, so Cookie’s the only one who went in there all night.”
“Then we’re gonna need to talk to Ms. Cookie—”
“Mr. Cookie.”
“Mr. Cookie,” Grayson corrected, without blinking. “We’re gonna need—”
“You can’t,” said Ben. “He’s not coming back. He emailed and said he’s moving to Australia today.” He gestured at Reece. “That’s why we’re hiring.”
“Australia.” Grayson leaned on the bar, putting himself eye level with Ben. “And you didn’t think you ought to call the cops when the only person who saw a US senator hours before her murder up and moved to Australia the same day?”
“I told you, we all promised not to tell anyone she came here,” Ben said stubbornly. “Life is hard; people come here for a break. What kind of shit bartender would I be if I couldn’t keep their secrets?” Then his expression faltered. “Cookie’s okay, though, right? He really did go to Australia?”
Oh no.
Reece tensed, but Grayson said, “I don’t know. But I’ll find out, all right?”
If that was supposed to be reassuring, Reece couldn’t tell, because it sounded the same as everything else Grayson said. But Ben nodded jerkily, and he did look like Grayson’s promise had made him feel better.
Reece scrubbed a hand over his face. Maybe the video footage would show Hathaway leaving, or at least some clue as to how the night had gone so wrong. He looked to Grayson, but the other man’s eyes were on the TVs above Ben’s head again.
Ben noticed too. His gaze flicked over Grayson, like it had earlier. “You a football fan?”
Grayson continued to watch the screens. “Once upon a time,” he said at last, then looked back down at Ben. “And if you want to pass for an empath, notice this one being careful not to watch the game because his little heart might stop if he sees another quarterback sacked.”
Reece scowled. “YourI know everything empathshtick got old a long time ago,” he said, as Frodo marched into the room, red-faced.
“When did I say Stone Solutions’ director of IT could come look at my security footage?” Frodo demanded.
“When this became the last known stop of a murdered senator,” said Grayson. “And you found all your files deleted, didn’t you?”
“Not the point,” snapped Frodo. “I have my own people to handle this sort of thing.” He pointed up at Grayson, then down the hall. “My office, handsome.”
“Excuse me?” said Grayson.
Frodo stuck his nose in the air. “We’re about to fight and I don’t fight in front of empaths.”
“Ben’s not an empath,” said Reece.
“And we’re not fighting,” said Grayson. “Fighting implies reciprocation. I’m not gonna listen to a word you say.”
Frodo drew himself up to his full height, which still left him shorter than Reece and somewhere below Grayson’s shoulder. “Not in front of Ben and the empath. Come on.”
“If that’s what you want.” Grayson followed him across the room to a spot along the wall, where Frodo began to gesture wildly while speaking in hushed whispers.
Not interested in joining, Reece perched on a barstool and pulled out his phone while he waited for Frodo to lose.
Ben leaned on the bar in front of Reece. “What can I get you?”
