“Roger that,” Owen said. “And Gin?”

   “Yeah?”

   “Be careful. I don’t know what I would do if you were the one missing either.”

   I smiled again. “That’s something that you’ll never have to worry about.”

   “Promise?”

   “Promise.”

   • • •

   By the time I finished my call with Owen, I’d reached my destination: the Five Oaks Country Club.

   Five large, circular buildings made up the club, which featured all of your usual amenities, including tennis courts, swimming pools, and more. Given the cold, most of the outdoor areas were deserted, although I could see a few hardy souls off in the distance, bundled up from head to toe, walking across one of the golf greens. A couple of miserable-looking caddies with heavy bags of clubs slung over their shoulders trudged along behind the golfers. A gust of wind swept over the land, and they all stopped and tucked their chins down into the tops of their puffy parkas until the blustery breeze had subsided.

   I parked my car and headed for the center building, an elegant structure of pale gray stone and gleaming glass that served as the club’s main social area. I pushed through the double doors and walked down a long ivory-carpeted hallway, listening to the hushed whispers of the stones as they murmured about money, manners, station, and all the other things that were so important to the people here. I reached out with my magic, focusing on their soft, sly mutterings, but no loud, obvious notes of danger or violence trilled through the stones. Whatever had happened to Elissa Daniels, I didn’t think that it had started here.

   Only one way to find out for sure.

   The hallway led into a large corridor with several sets of double doors set into its walls. The two doors in front of me were standing wide open, and the trill of more than a dozen conversations drifted over to me. No one was standing at the nearby host’s station, so I stepped up and peered inside the club’s main ballroom.

   Round tables covered with pale peach linens filled the massive space from one end to the other. An acorn—the country club’s rune—shimmered in gold thread in the center of each tablecloth and napkin and was also engraved into all the silverware. A glass dome curved over the ballroom four stories above, letting in the weak winter sunlight, as did the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the back wall. Multiple sets of stairs led to the upper levels of the ballroom, where more tables were situated.

   The ballroom served as the country club’s restaurant, offering gourmet brunch, lunch, dinner, and drinks to its wealthy members and their guests. Given the cold outside, everyone wanted to be warm and comfortable inside, and people had flocked to the club to eat, drink, socialize, and scheme against their frenemies.

   Being a Five Oaks member was a status symbol that told everyone exactly how obscenely wealthy you were, and I recognized more than a few faces in the crowd: the mayor, the police chief, a couple of local congressmen, and, of course, several underworld bosses, all dressed in their best business suits. My gaze roamed over them all in turn, men and women, seeing who was sitting with whom, who was pointedly ignoring their companions, and who had more martini glasses on their tables than plates of food. Despite their nice clothes, understated jewels, and benign smiles, more than one killer lurked in this crowd. I wondered if Elissa had had the misfortune to find that out for herself.

   A particularly loud guffaw caught my attention, and my gaze flicked to a table in the center of the ballroom where a man with wavy black hair was using a large glass of wine to gesture at his companions.

   Damian Rivera.

   I blinked, wondering if it was really him, but yes sirree, the Circle member was here and holding court, like he was the king of the country club. Several women were sitting at his table, all leaning forward and hanging on to his every word. Rivera might be a notorious drunk, but he was an extremely rich notorious drunk, and the society sharks, as Finn called them, would be eager to make themselves available to a man like him to try to pry some of his money loose for themselves.

   I scanned the crowd again, but I didn’t see Hugh Tucker or any of the other Circle members in the ballroom. Perhaps they knew better than to draw such attention to themselves.

   But Rivera wasn’t alone. Bruce Porter stood against the wall, looking bored and texting on his phone, knowing that his boss was in absolutely no danger from anything other than gold diggers. Still, Porter was a professional, and he glanced up from his phone every few seconds, scanning the ballroom and making sure that his boss was still secure. The dwarf must have sensed my stare because he looked in my direction.

   I ducked my head, pivoted away, and stepped back into the corridor, out of Porter’s line of sight. I couldn’t afford to let him know that I was onto his boss. Not until I was ready to make my move against Rivera and the rest of the Circle.

   I peered through the crack between the open door and the wall. Porter was still staring in this direction, his middle-aged face pinched into a frown, but he didn’t start across the ballroom to come investigate. He must not have spotted me after all—

   “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” a snide voice asked.

   I turned around to find a man standing behind me, his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing an expensive but subdued navy suit that was tailored to his tall, skinny frame. Everything about him was perfect, from the way his dark brown hair curled over his forehead, to his square gold cuff links, to the small gold acorn glinting in the exact center of his light blue tie. A gold name badge glimmered on his jacket: Marco, Club Manager.

   Marco’s dark brown gaze drifted over my black fleece jacket, jeans, and boots, and his lips curled with disgust. “I’m sorry,” he said in an arrogant tone that indicated that he was not sorry at all. “This is a private club. We are not open to the public.”

   He said the word public as though it were some sort of horrendous plague upon all mankind. Or at least upon those with money.

   “Good thing I’m not the mere public, then,” I said, giving him a razor-thin smile.