I’m sure I looked a little startled and a lot confused as I squinted at Joan. “Wait, you want me to be the bad cop?”

She nodded. “That’s right.”

“But I’m not bad cop. You are bad cop.”

“No, you’re confusing reality with fiction. In real life, I’m always the bad cop, and you’re always the good cop—which is why we switch roles when we’re playing our parts. The good cop is always pretending to be the good cop, and vice versa.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but the knock sounded from the door again, firmer this time, followed by Patricia’s voice saying, “Ms. Catrel, I have your tea.”

Resigned to the oddness of this situation and anxious about its outcome, I angled my laptop toward the room as instructed and crossed to the entrance. After inhaling a steadying breath, I opened the door.

Patricia was standing in the doorway. Behind her was a cart with tea and lovely sandwiches and petit fours. And behind the cart, with two serious-looking hotel security guards on either side, was sour-faced Brona O’Shea.

I opened the door wider but stepped to block Patricia from entering. “Thank you, Patricia. I can bring the tea in. Ms. O’Shea and I would like some privacy.”

“See, Patty. I told you, you’re not needed.” This came from Brona. From the way she spoke to Patricia, I surmised the two women were more than acquainted.

Patricia’s gaze was laced with worry, and she shifted a half step forward so as to whisper, “Ms. Catrel, I am very discreet. Send security away if you must, but please reconsider. I’ve…had the distinction of acting as Ms. O’Shea’s liaison while she stayed with us in the past. I must advise you against—”

“She said leave, Patty. Now take your goons away, but leave the fancy tea. I’m parched.” Brona said this as she elbowed her way past the guards and to the suite entrance. She gave me a pinched look as she brushed past, lifting her chin in the air like I was beneath her notice. I did see that she had a manila envelope tucked under one arm. It was bulky, and I guessed it contained something more than papers.

I allowed her to enter and turned a calm smile to Patricia. “All will be well. I’ll call when we’re done with the tea service. Thank you.”

Patricia looked like she wanted to protest again but instead handed the tea cart over to me and then closed the door. I wheeled it into the sitting area.

But before I was quite finished relocating the tea, Brona said, “I like my tea with lemon, milk, and sugar.”

“How nice for you.”

Brona whipped her head toward where my laptop sat on the desk and the sound of Joan’s voice, laden with sarcasm and disdain. Brona turned her attention to me, then the laptop, and then to me. Her big blue eyes gave the impression they might pop from her head.

“What…what’s this? Are you recording me?”

“No,” I said softly.

“Maybe,” Joan teased at the same time. “Ms. O’Shea, allow me to introduce myself. I am Joan Davidson from Davidson and Croft, the firm responsible for Mr. Fitzpatrick’s public image and general well-being.”

Brona stepped closer to the desk and opened her mouth to speak, but Joan cut her off.

“No need for chitchat. Here is how we’re going to do this: you are going to tell me what you want, and I am going to do everything in my power to give it to you, assuming it’s within reason and assuming that whatever you’ve brought in that envelope is worth the price. Now, what do you want?”

“I don’t—I mean—I want—”

“Please, dear. Hurry up. I have a meeting in fifteen minutes, and I won’t be made late.”

Brona lifted her chin, her eyes flashing fire. “Fine. I want money, a million euros—no! I want five million euros. And I want a recording contract with one of the big labels.”

Joan gave her a sideways look. “Ooookay—”

“And I want to record a song with Beyoncé.”

Joan smiled then suppressed it, clearing her throat. “Sure. That’s all very doable. Now, what am I buying?”

Brona curled her lip, gave me a smug, hateful glare, pulled the envelope from under her arm, and began to spread the contents on the nearest table. “It’s photos, see? And a tape of Ronan…and me…having sex.”

My stomach twisted uncomfortably as Brona used her pregnant pauses to show Joan and me several eight-by-ten photos and then a mini-DV tape.

It wasn’t precisely jealousy that I was feeling, more like an echo of jealousy that Ronan had ever been with someone else. It was irrational and silly. And yet it made some fierce, shadowy part of me roar with outrage. I wanted to burn the tape. I wanted to slash the photos. I wanted to claw her eyes out.

Instead, I gritted my teeth and returned my attention to Joan.

“Come closer to the monitor. I need to see the pictures.”

Brona did so happily, showing each of the pictures to Joan one at a time and pausing significantly between each.

Then I heard Joan say, “Meh.”

“‘Meh’? What do you mean, ‘meh’?” Brona huffed.

“I mean meh. So what? Who cares?”

I saw Brona’s back stiffen as she straightened with surprise. “He’s got a spreader bar on me! I’m gagged and tied up, and there’s a collar and leash, and—”

“Yes. My eyes work quite well. I can see all that. I just don’t see why these pictures would be worth five million euros to anyone, least of all Mr. Fitzpatrick. I assume the tape is more of the same?”