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Goldstein: Leave WHAT with you? I’ll collate the evidence and start putting together records for an Interpol investigation.
My eyes narrowed.
Me: Sure. Thanks for keeping me updated.
He replied, but I ignored his text channel and, instead, hit up Dead To Me.
Me: Senator John McClure.
Dead To Me: Doesn’t believe women have rights to their uteruses, thinks we should be stuck in a kitchen, and was pivotal in that deal that fucked Alaskan reservations up the ass and is going to turn it into oil soup…
Dead To Me: That the Senator John McClure we’re thinking of?
Me: Sure is.
Me: He needs to be gone.
Dead To Me: Any reason other than the above.
Me: Goldstein says he has a sex slave in his house. It would be wise to monitor his property.
Me: McClure has a wife. See if she’s in the know.
Dead To Me: If she is, she’s a goner too. Just warning you. I’ll do her for free.
Me: Don’t coordinate with Goldstein. He isn’t in the know about our sideline.
Dead To Me: He knows of me.
Me: How?
Dead To Me: Fucked him.
Me: Ah, shit. When? In fact, never mind. Did he make you?
Dead To Me: He knows what I’m capable of.
I rubbed my temples—this was an unexpected complication, but if they never came into contact, then there wouldn’t be an issue.
“O’Donnelly.”
That had my head whipping to the side.
I knew I’d be sharing the cabin with one other person but… fuck.
My eyes flared wide as I took in the weirdly angelic features of Temperance goddamn Black.
“What are you doing here?” I snarled, her mere presence triggering an earthquake in my mind.
She was worse than nails on a fucking chalkboard or one of those bastards who couldn’t chew pizza without keeping their mouths closed.
She studied her nails. “I’m keeping you company.”
“I don’t want your company.”
Her sniff told me that she really cared about my ‘wants.’ “I’m under orders.”
My throat tightened. “Whose orders?”
