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with him, but this wasn’t even fair.
    “You’re talking about someone I love,” he said, pressing the spatula into the sandwiches.
    They sizzled.
    Grant finally lifted the sandwiches onto the plates and carried them over to the island.
    “Bon appétit.”
    He was hungrier than he’d realized, and drunker too. In between bites, he caught bursts of electric clarity—he was actually sitting in Paige’s kitchen, sharing a meal with her.
    As she lifted the sandwich to her mouth, the sleeves tugged back from her wrists. He glimpsed the scars from a past suicide attempt, but thankfully, no needle sores.
    “How’s the sandwich?”
    Through a mouthful: “Unbelievable.”
    A full minute passed.
    Neither of them spoke but it wasn’t as uncomfortable as before.
    Jazz slunk in from the living room.
    Grant watched as Paige took tiny bites. Just the effort of eating seemed to pain her.
    She said, “I just assumed you were still with the PD, but are you?”
    “I am.”
    “And how’s that going?”
    “Fine.”
    “Yeah? Some interesting cases?”
    “Always.”
    “So you like what you do.”
    “I love it. Do you?”
    “Do I love what you do?”
    “You know what I mean.”
    “I’m making fat bank, Grant.”
    “So I hear.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “I had to threaten Eric to get a referral.”
    “Not cool.”
    “He made it sound like you didn’t see guys like me.”
    “Like you?”
    “Low net-worth individuals.”
    “Wait. You’re upset I won’t just fuck anyone who slides me a couple of hundreds?”
    She had a point there.
    “How about a tour of the place?” Grant asked. “Love to see what you’ve done with the upstairs.”
    Her eyes went wide; her breathing accelerated.
    “No.”
    “Why?”
    “No.” She practically yelled it the second time, leaning toward him across the island, her eyes narrowing, teeth grinding together, the ugly monstrous addict rearing its head.
    “Fine. Sorry I asked.”
    Grant got up and walked over to the Bose—Miles Davis noodling away on the trumpet.
    “Bitches Brew? Not his most popular but as good as anything he ever did. I love this part.” He turned the volume up a few decibels. “Where’s your bathroom?”
    Paige pointed to the door at the end of the kitchen.

Chapter 8
    Grant sat down on the edge of the bathtub.
    Fished the phone out of his pocket and scrolled through the contact list.
    Don McFee.
    One of the first friends Grant had made after leaving the academy. One of the few who’d stuck around during those dark days after Paige disappeared in Phoenix and he’d been hell-bent on death by escorts and scotch.
    Don answered on the fifth ring, a sleep-drawl in his voice.
    “I wake you?” Grant asked, speaking low into the phone.
    “It’s all right.”
    “I’m going to owe you huge for this one.”
    “Then I guess I’ll keep the tab running.”
    “I’m at my sister’s place in Queen Anne. Twenty-two Crockett Street. It’s not far from your house.”
    “You’re with Paige?”
    “Long story. She’s not looking so hot right now. I’ve never seen her so thin. She’s wasting away.”
    “Grant, we’ve been through this. You can’t fix her.”
    “This isn’t like the other times. She looks like a chemo patient.”
    “Let me come pick you up. We’ll get some coffee and talk about it.”
    “I’m not leaving my little sister like this.”
    “You want me to show up uninvited at ten o’clock so I can tell her she’s an addict? I love you, man, but that road leads nowhere. You want to do another intervention, fine, but let’s do it the right way.”
    “I’m not asking you as a counselor.”
    “Is her life in imminent danger?”
    “No.”
    “Then as your friend, I’m telling you this isn’t what she needs. An ambush will only work against you.”
    “Did I mention she’s a prostitute? I haven’t seen her in five years, and now she’s fucking guys for cash.”
    “Christ. I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t make me do this on my