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Max considered him. “You’d tell me if the TBI was starting to be a problem, right? Another bad hit and—”
“I’m good, Coach. I promise.”
Max considered him, then pointed at his food. “That mac and cheese is to die for.” He patted Hudson’s arm and walked away.
Hudson stood at the window, staring at the courtyard, and beyond, the top of the Eiffel Tower. The sun had started to burn through the gray, tipping the tower with light.
The NFL.
“Are you sure?”
The question, not directed at Hudson but overheard, came from Yannick Mayer, Iris’s crew boss. The man easily stood six foot four, blond hair, built—no one messed with Mayer when he made a questionable call. He talked with another official, also built, this one clearly American the way he stood, arms folded, his mouth a grim line. Reminded Hudson a little of one of Iris’s bossy brothers.
“According to the report that Camille got, yes. It looks like poison. They’re trying to nail down what kind.”
Hud must have made a sound—no wonder he’d failed at being a spy—because they looked at him. And, oh well, he took a step toward them and cut to the chase. “Abe waspoisoned?”
Yannick glanced away, toward a woman who carried cake to the table. Could be Abe’s mother. But Hud wasn’t stupid—he’d kept his voice low.
“It’s not official,” the other man said. Hud remembered him now—Zach Warton, fellow American, mid-forties. “But Camille said that she’s hired a private investigator. Apparently, if it’s murder, the insurance company won’t pay out life insurance.”
“Murder. You think Abe was murdered?” This, a whisper, because, well,murder.
And then there was the whole “hit on Iris” thing, so maybe…
Maybe it wasn’t about her personally, but her as a football official.
“I don’t know,” Yannick said. He turned, however, to Hudson. “You were with her, weren’t you?”
Hudson stilled. “Um…”
Yannick pulled out his phone. Scrolled and opened an app.
Instagram. “I have a fan account?”
“Apparently, and someone in Athens spotted you in a restaurant. With Iris.”
He took the phone.
Not a great shot—but that had been about two minutes before he’d gone down, his head pounding, his brain short-circuiting. They sat at a table, reading menus.
“You know the rules, Bly. I don’t care if you’re old grammar school pals—the last thing she needs is a hint of scandal.” He put the phone away. “Stay away from our crew.”
Hudson just stared at him. Drew in a breath. And the words nearly—nearly—left his mouth.What if I told you someone was killing off ELF officials?
But no. Because that sounded crazy, even in his head.
So he nodded. “Excuse me.”
He headed down the hallway in the direction Iris had gone. A bathroom, a master bedroom—and at the end of the hall, a room decorated for a child, with a mural of an enchanted forest, an ornate makeup table and mirror against one wall, an overstuffed single bed with a pink comforter, a massive plush bear in the opposite corner and…
And no Iris.
He stepped into the room, his chest empty. “Iris?”
A beat, during which his imagination had a good run at him, and then, “Out here.”
Two doors opened to a balcony—who thought that was a good idea for a child’s room?—and on it sat Iris with a little girl in a faded blue dress, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, her dark hair pulled back with a band, creating a puffy halo intertwined with gold clips. She looked up at him with golden-brown eyes, then wiped them with her hands.
