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Marchant drains his glass and rolls his brown eyes. He slinks back to his arm chair, reminding me momentarily of the Pink Panther. “You gotten any more calls from Smith?” he asks me. Josh Smith is the LVPD's lead detective on this case , and he's been on me like white on rice since the morning we called to report Sarabelle's disappearance.
I toss back the remainder of liquor in my glass and stand, stretching my sore legs. “I think he's finally gotten the hang of calling Lehland," my attorney.
“What about your old man?” Marchant asks.
“His people have stopped calling, too. I guess they've got all their fires put out.” No one but Josh Smith and a few others from Love Inc. and Heat Enterprises know Sarabelle disappeared from my room in particular. Given the political sensitivities, it needs to stay that way.
Marchant, on the other hand, has been all over the news. His business hasn't suffered at all. In fact, he says it's picked up. Bunch of sick fucks out there.
His phone buzzes, and I feel a jab of guilt. He should be at work. He's busy, week night or not. I should have met him there.
Now I have to get him out of here before Priscilla shows up. He has no idea what's going on between the two of us, and I'd like to keep it that way for a while longer.

Twenty minutes later, I'm on the balcony attached to my room, pretending to read The Financial Times on my tablet and wishing Priscilla would hurry the hell up.
My life has been fucked up this way ever since that night with Sarabelle. I woke up the next morning stark naked, sprawled out on my back, with a splitting headache, a killer case of dry-mouth, and a lipstick heart drawn around my left nipple. When I sat up, the room tilting around me, I spotted a yellow note stuck to the nightstand by the king-sized bed. Large, feminine handwriting I recognized from the note the night before looped around the page.
“ Last night, the Hunter was hunted. Do you remember how hard I made you cum? xo, P”
I didn't remember, but I'd been roofied before, and I knew what the hangover felt like. Not sure what I'd done with Priscilla Heat and hoping to hell and back that the answer was nothing , I slung my clothes on and left without giving Sarabelle a second thought.
I got the call from Marchant on my phone about an hour later. “Did you take Sarabelle with you?”
Now, sitting outside on this dry Nevada night, I take a sip of my brandy, remembering how suffocated I'd felt sitting beside Marchant in the private waiting room inside the LVPD. How ill I'd been, hearing that another escort had gone missing a few weeks before. Ginnifer Lucky, a 22-year-old from Arkansas. Vanished just after her last shift at another brothel. I had an alibi for that night in August, but Marchant didn't. It had been his night off, and he'd spent it at his private home in Summerlin.
Neither of us answered any of their questions. LVPD didn't need to know anything except that Sarabelle fell asleep in my room and I awoke the next morning to find her gone. I was back at the Wynn two hours later, and I was even more worried. I had no idea what had happened to Sarabelle, and the shit I did know didn't add up.
Donnie, the escort who'd brought me the drugged drinks, confirmed they came from Priscilla herself. According to the sticky note I'd found in my room the day after, I had fucked her that night, but I didn't remember doing so before I got the drinks, and afterward I'd been drugged to fuck and back. I could have performed in my juiced-up state, but it seemed unlikely. Had she really come into my room after filming all night with Marchant for a sunrise fuck with a man she roofied? What would be the point of that, anyway? Some kind of ridiculous fetish?
The biggest question was whether or not I was the only person in my room when she arrived.
If so, then who had taken Sarabelle?
The person who'd tried to send Marchant an S.O.S. about the camera malfunction was an escort named Geneese Loveless. Richard, March's