Page 9 of Never Sleep with the Enemy

A sticky note stuck dead center on the inside of the elevator door.

BAD KITTY

3

LOGAN

Well, she’s gone.

Not sure why I expected otherwise.

Expected is the wrong word.Hopedis, too. I know better than to put my hopes and expectations in the hands of other people. They’ll only let me down.

Still, this one stings in a way I didn’t see coming.

I scan my suite from the bathroom doorway, shaking off the last of the shower’s warmth while rubbing a hand towel over my ears. The rest, I let the air take care of. A breeze slips in through the cracked window, cooling the lingering heat on my skin.

She left in a hurry. The bedsheets are tossed open. The aspirin I left her? Gone. The water? Empty. That’s good. I imagine she’s nursing the kind of headache that makes you swear off drinking forever. If she’d stuck around, Tesla could’ve whipped up one of her famous hangover cures—half witchcraft, half science, entirely disgusting—but I’m not surprised Katrina fled instead.

She’s in Criminal Records. And my band, The Electrics, spent the better part of our summer tour trying to sabotage theirs.

But I never wanted to. Not really.

I did what Ihadto do. What was necessary to give my band the shot they deserved. To give my girls the life they earned through blood, sweat, and tears.

I don’t regret that. Won’t apologize for it.

After all, wasn’t it just a little fun?

A flash of yellow on the floor catches my eye. I step forward, toes grazing a crumpled sticky note that didn’t survive the morning rampage.Did she read them?I picture her stomping through my suite, ripping them down one by one in frustration. A smirk tugs at my lips.

Then I spot the final crime scene.

The robe.

Or rather—the lack of it.

That little thief stole it.

A slow grin spreads across my face.

I’ll have to get that back.

4

KATRINA

Ishuffle into the hotel restaurant just before eight-thirty, my freshly washed hair pulled back into a simple bun. The hostess spots me and waves me through, pointing me toward the private table tucked behind a screen. I nod my thanks without breaking stride, my fingers smoothing down the front of my sundress. A stray wisp of hair escapes, and I tuck it behind my ear—one last tweak before I step into the deep end.

I hear them before I see them. Botsford laughter. That unmistakable, booming sound that cuts through the hum of the restaurant like a foghorn. Even in the most upscale places, they’re impossible to miss.

Stepping past the screen, I pause for half a second, taking in the sheersizeof them. I always forget how massive the Botsford family is until I’m standing right in the middle of them.

Kingston sits at the head of the table, Fiona at his right, Graham—their oldest son—on his left. Next to Graham is his wife, Jennifer, bouncing little baby Beverly on her knee. Then Hayden, the second Botsford son, and his wife, Penelope. Ira and Veronica sit beside them, their infant son, Remy, perched on Ira’s lap, looking bigger every time I see him. Rounding out that side of the table is Milly, the Botsfords’ long-time nanny, and Oliver—the honorary fifth Botsford son, who once lived with the family when he had nowhere else to go.

Across from them is Criminal Records. My brother, Knox, with Harmony always at his side. Then Jordan and Bronson, their hands lovingly clasped under the table. Harvey Moon sits beside them, staring at Addison like she was made of stars. An empty chair between Addison and Fiona waits for me.

And at the far end of the table, sitting opposite of his father, is Jonah.

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