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“No, no, no. After I left, she called me and told me she got it from some bartender named Nick.”

“I wouldn’t put it past Peter to give her the drug,” I say.

“I wouldn’t, either, but she swears he didn’t. She apologized for saying it was Peter, that she’s just out of it and so angry with Garrett and Peter. But this whole thing is so un-Tessa-like. Tessa never lies to me. And Tessa would never take drugs from a stranger. I’m worried about her.”

“She’ll be all right,” I promise. “I’ll make sure she gets everything she needs.”

Skye squeezes my arm. “You’re so good to me. But she claims she’s okay. That her mom is taking care of her. She made a joke that her mom might drive her back to the vodka bottle, but then she got serious and said to me that she’s glad her mom is there.That it’s nice to have parents sometimes. And Braden, it hit me.”

“What hit you?” I grin. “I’m the only one who’s allowed to slap that gorgeous ass.”

She smiles. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“My breakthrough. When Tessa talked about her mom taking care of her, even when she was getting on her nerves a bit, it made me realize that even though we had our struggles, I love my mother, and I’m really glad she’s still around.”

My heart swells a little.

“You’ve forgiven her,” I say. “Forgiven her shortcomings.”

She nods. “Yeah. And it feels all kinds of right.”

I take another sip of Wild Turkey.

Now if I could just forgive my mother.

For dying.

And forgive myself.

For causing it.

Chapter Forty

Monday morning I’m back in the office in Manhattan, meeting with Dimitri and Lizzie on putting out yet another fire while Skye is meeting with her team at Susanne Cosmetics.

My phone dings with a text from Skye.

Eugenie wants to take us both to dinner tonight at eight. Are you free?

Sure, I text back.

Just as I press send, Dimitri clears his throat, reminding me of the task at hand. The next several hours pass in a blur of panicked phone calls, garbled emails, and hastily scribbled notes.

By two thirty, I’m drained and disheveled but ready to face the rest of the afternoon when my phone dings again.

A text.

From my investigator in Boston. He’s been working with me to expose Beau Reardon and his architecture firm in Boston, but they’re smart. They don’t leave trails.

I got you a meeting.

With whom?I text back.

Someone who can help. Louisa’s Ristorante in Little Italy. Tonight at eight. Don’t be late.

Damn it, I need a name.

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