Page 72 of The Wild Charge

“And a reason they’re not flying direct to New York,” he said. “She doesn’t give a fuck about Knoxville. She’s coming to talk to us in person.”

The butterfly twist in her gut now held nothing of excitement. She glanced down at her phone, blank-screened, as if it might offer more information. She’d been feeling more and more helpless the longer this case stretched on – thefartherit stretched. Every day – every minute, it seemed – the web expanded out, gaining new threads, some tangled, some leading off into impenetrable shadows. She’d blamed some of it on her pregnancy hormones, unrealized at first, but now…with even Raven acting strangely…

She didn’t realize she’d swayed sideways until a familiar, deceptively strong arm caught her around the waist and eased her down into a chair. She blinked away black spots and glanced up to find Fox looking down at her with a strapped-down sort of worry.

“Here, baby,” he murmured, so low she wasn’t sure if the others had heard it. “When did you eat last?”

She swallowed down a surge of nausea at the idea. “I haven’t.”

“Taco Bell turned out to be less than appetizing,” Axelle said. “I’ll go see if there’s something better in the kitchen.”

“And tea,” Fox added.

“Right.” Booted footfalls receded across the hardwood – and, oh, when had she shut her eyes?

“Eden,” Fox prompted.

“Fine. I’m fine.” She braced her hands on the edge of the table and gathered herself, embarrassed and worried by the amount of effort it took. “Just…” She waved. “Hormone bollocks.”

One corner of his mouth twitched, briefly. “I hear that’s shit.” His gaze slid toward Ratchet – tapping away on his laptop – and back. His voice lowered another fraction. “How was it with the doctor?” His gaze fixed on her, serious, focused. Truly asking, wanting to know, and not simply making conversation.

Her throat tightened with sudden force, and warmth kindled in her stomach, smoothing away some of the jitters. “It was good,” she said, and heard the catch of emotion in her voice – saw the spark of surprise in his face in response. “Doctor said all the at-home tests were correct. Prescribed vitamins and a clean diet. We set up an appointment for an ultrasound.”

He nodded, expression calm – save his eyes, which went fever-bright and hectic.

“Don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out.”

She bit back a smile. “What are you and Ratchet working on?”

He knocked the table and motioned to Ratchet, who picked up his laptop and moved around to show her.

“I can stand up,” she groused, but neither man acknowledged her. Ratchet set the laptop down and leaned over her shoulder to point at the screen.

“I’ve been going down the rest of Luis’s list of names and digging into their local police precincts’ records. Some hacking, some string-pulling and favor-asking, and it’s taking for-freaking-ever, but I’ve made some progress.”

“I can see that.”

“All of them – do you mind?” When she shook her head, he leaned closer to click through open tabs: police reports. “All of them have had charges brought, even the model chick. This is Matt Moretti – the restaurant guy. Back in 2005, four women accused him of ‘unwanted touching,’ and, in one case, ‘rough sex without consent.’ This was all within a six-month span.”

“Slow learner, that Matt,” Fox said.

“Yeah, and according to this, he was still only managing one of his father’s restaurants at the time, and wasn’t loaded like he is now. In 2005, he was accused of raping a model at a club opening. This was in January. The charges got dropped two weeks later, and in March, he announced he was opening his first solo restaurant.”

“He came into some money,” Eden said.

“Yeah. And then all the other charges got dropped right after.”

“Feds get involved?” Fox asked.

“I can’t tell that, but look at the guy’s meteoric rise ever since.” Ratchet had other tabs open: glossy magazine spreads, guest appearances on cooking shows across several channels; a cookware line and a line of needlessly chic chef aprons.

Eden stared at the man’s face on the screen: his thick, black hair, and smooth complexion; the white teeth, the mischievous smirk that looked calculated to draw women in, moths to a flame. There was something about his eyes, though, that gave her goosebumps: a flat, sharklike disconnect. His entire appearance, his photograph poses, were calculated – and not with the skill that someone like Fox or Tenny could apply to such a task.

“And here’s Terry Windmere, the senator,” Ratchet continued, opening a new tab. “Half a dozen campaign aides have said he groped them and solicited sex, which they declined. One woman said he shoved his hand up her skirt in the back of a limo – and then there’s the photos.”

“Ugh,” Fox and Eden said in chorus.

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