Page 12 of Blue Moon

When they laid out the terms to Hill, he readily agreed to help. Ryder didn’t trust him an inch, but he doubted Hill would try to run, not after they’d found him so easily the first time, and especially not after Ana threatened to gut him if she had to hunt him down again. The man was a morally bankrupt opportunist, not a hardened criminal. He’d help them to find Irina and the money, and in return, he wouldn’t have to spend the rest of his life in a six-by-eight-foot box with a roommate named Piranha.

What a fuckin’ weasel. Ryder’s heart ached for Luna, for the life she’d been pushed into. Everyone around her took advantage of her talent, from her mom and her cousin to the staff she employed. But equally, she didn’t like being alone. He hoped Kory was supporting her. The guy was an asshole, but he was a rich asshole, and probably the “friend” who demanded the least from her.

Three hours later, they’d broken the news about Irina to Emmy; briefed Khatia, an investigator from the office in Tbilisi who would be assisting them; and relocated to an apartment on the outskirts of the city that Blackwood used as a safe house from time to time. Their team in Georgia was small, only forty people, but they were well-trained and also well-placed to operate in Russia when necessary.

The apartment was sparsely furnished but clean, and Khatia had sent an intern to pick up groceries. Ana handcuffed Hill to a chair while she made coffee in a cafetière, and Khatia settled in at the kitchen table with her laptop and a bowl of cashew nuts. The first step was an in-depth interview with Hill to find out everything he knew about Irina. Ryder knew from working with Hallie that the smallest clue could lead to a big break, and all they were certain of at the moment was that Irina was a beautiful liar who preyed on weak-minded men. Plus she was smart, ruthless, and an excellent actress. In her emails, she’d claimed to work as a freelance interior designer in Tbilisi, with family back in South Ossetia who relied on her for financial support. Hill had been sending her money out of his own pocket even before he emptied Luna’s bank accounts. Irina had begged for more to fund her grandma’s cancer treatment, he claimed. The weeks spent living in luxury on Luna’s dime had merely been an added bonus.

“Milk?” Ana asked Khatia.

“Just black.”

“I take milk,” Hill said, and Ana scowled at him.

“You’ll have what you’re given and like it.”

Ryder wanted to punch his fucking teeth out.

To stop himself from doing exactly that, he stepped into the hallway and checked his personal phone. He didn’t use it much because life revolved around work these days, but he’d given the number to Luna. Work comms weren’t private, and his friendship with Luna had moved beyond that.

He saw the missed call.

Dialled his voicemail, heart thudding against his ribcage.

“I…I don’t know where to start. Some guy sent me linguine. And earrings. The earrings came first, but they went to the theatre, not my apartment, which was kind of creepy but not really because lots of weirdos send me gifts, but now there’s pasta and he knows where I live. And I don’t know who he is, but he seems to think he’s a dead Roman guy and I’m Cleopatra, so I’m pretty sure he’s a psycho. And…and I don’t know what to do. That’s crazy, right? I mean the Mark Antony guy, not me not knowing what to do, because I never know what to do. Should I eat the pasta? I’m so, so hungry, and I think maybe the microwave broke because there’s smoke, but not, like, loads of smoke. The fire alarm didn’t go off or anything. Anyhow, I…I don’t even know why I’m calling you. Forget I said all that, okay?”

The line went dead.

What the actual fuck?

He tried to call Luna, but there was no answer.

Shit. He must have cursed out loud because Ana poked her head through the doorway.

“Problem?”

“I don’t know.”

“Elaborate.”

Ryder replayed the recording, on speaker this time, and it sounded even worse the second time around. Luna was rambling, but she was also scared.

“What does that mean?” Ana asked. “A dead Roman guy sent her linguine?”

“Maybe she’s drunk?” Khatia suggested.

She didn’t sound drunk; she sounded terrified.

“Luna doesn’t drink much,” Hill put in.

“Nobody asked you,” Ana and Khatia said in perfect unison, and Khatia kicked the leg of the chair he was sitting on for good measure.

Ana took a sip of her coffee, then swore because it was too hot. “You tried calling her back?”

“There’s no answer.”

“So call the Vegas office. Get them to send someone to her apartment.”

“It’s five thirty over there.”

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