Page 71 of The Liar

“I—” A shrill ringing pierced the sex-drunk fogginess of my mind. I frowned. “What’s that?”

“Ugh. My work phone.” He looked torn. He clearly wanted to ignore it and finish our conversation, but he knew it could be something important.

“Answer it,” I said.

He scowled, but he dug his phone out of his discarded jeans pocket all the same. “This better be fucking important,” he growled into the receiver.

A few seconds later, he paled. “What happened to Portia?”

WEST

“She didn’t turn up to dance tonight,” the woman repeated. She hadn’t given me her name, but considering how I’d answered the phone, I couldn’t blame her.

“And that’s unusual?” I was pretty sure it was, but it paid to clarify.

“Yes.” She sounded impatient, but there was a trace of fear in her voice too. “She always turns up for her shifts. It’s how she hooks clients for her other job.”

“You’re sure she’s not just late?”

“She’s never late,” the woman insisted. “She’s not answering her phone either. Look, I can’t talk now. I have to go back on stage. Can you meet me out behind the Red Door at eleven?”

I checked the time. That was an hour away.

“I’ll be there.” I hesitated. “Who am I talking to?”

“Sapphire.” She hung up.

I stared at the phone, stunned.

Fuck, I hoped Portia had taken a nap and slept through her alarm or been distracted by an emergency. If someone had gotten wind of her poking her nose into Sasha Sloane’s death, I shuddered to think what might happen—and it would be my fault. I was the one who’d recruited her to gather information.

“Portia is missing?” Joanna asked, already clambering off the bed and searching for her clothes. I felt a pang of regret over our moment having ended so quickly—my work interfering, once again—but I couldn’t leave Portia if she was in trouble.

“Yeah.” I pulled myself together and started dressing too. “She didn’t turn up for her shift at the Red Door.”

“Which is obviously out of character, or no one would have been concerned,” she said.

“Exactly.” I paused, my shirt halfway over my head. “I’m, uh, sorry about this.”

She huffed. “It’s just the way things are until the case is over.”

I tugged the shirt down. “I wish it wasn’t.”

“Me too. So, who made the call?”

“Sapphire. One of the dancers.”

Her brow furrowed. “Ah, yes. We met her.”

“She says that Portia isn’t answering her phone, and considering how much she wanted answers, it’s not outside the realm of possibility that she decided to get them for herself.”

Joanna winced as she tugged on her pants. “For her sake, I hope she’s just sick and forgot to mention it to anyone.”

“Me too.” But it didn’t seem likely.

We were both dressed now—unfortunately—and I took a brief moment to study Joanna’s face. I wished I could tell how she was feeling about the fact we’d just had sex. It meant the world to me that she trusted me enough to be vulnerable and let her submissive side show, but she’d quickly become all business.

Did this mean she wouldn’t dump my ass as soon as the case was done, or had it been one last romp to remember her by?

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