“That’s what my contact said,” Evelyn tells us. “At any rate, the magazine’s doing a series on dueling resorts. This month it’s mountain resorts, your month it’ll be island resorts.”

“Dueling?” I say. “In that case, they should be focusing on Cortez and Lost Tides, because—” I cut myself off, because everything is kicking into place.

“What?” Jackson asks.

“Come on,” I say. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

I share my theory with Jackson and Evelyn as we hurry up the stairs to twenty-seven on our way to Trent’s office, and as soon as we reach the landing, Jackson bursts ahead of us.

“Shit,” I say, hurrying to keep up.

Karen, the receptionist, stands as we pass by, her eyes wide. “What—”

“Call Damien,” I snap. “Tell him to get down here. And Aiden, too.”

I glance at Evelyn as we both pick up our pace. I want to hear what Trent has to say for himself. More than that, though, I’m a little afraid that Jackson is going to pummel him into dust before I get there.

The truth is, my theory is only a theory, sparked by the idea that the resorts really are dueling—fighting it out, and playing dirty. I’m betting that whoever is developing Lost Tides has a chip on their shoulder against Stark International—and that they recruited insiders to do their dirty work. Trent, who was pissed off he lost out on managing Cortez. And Nathan Dean, who wanted a shot at designing the resort and wasn’t even in the running.

Part of me hopes that I’m wrong, even though that would mean that we’re left with a mystery.

But most of me knows that I’m not.

“You son of a bitch.” Jackson’s snarl fills the hall, followed by a loud crash. I burst into the room to see that Jackson has Trent up against a bookshelf that obviously got rattled during the impact, sending books and knickknacks tumbling. Jackson’s arm is tight against Trent’s throat, and Trent looks as if he’s about to piss himself from fear.

“Jackson!” His name is ripped from me. Not because I’m afraid he’s going to hurt Trent, but because I’m so damned on edge about the murder investigation, and any flash of temper could bite him in the ass.

Aiden Ward, the vice president in charge of the real estate division and both my and Trent’s immediate supervisor, hurries into the room. “Let him go.” The words are clipped, Aiden’s British accent more pronounced in anger.

Jackson ignores him. “Is it true?” he asks, getting right in Trent’s face. “Are you fucking with my resort?”

Aiden looks at me. “What the hell?”

But I don’t have to answer. Trent’s doing that for us. “It got out of control. I never meant for it—and the vandalism on the island—I swear that wasn’t me.”

“Bloody hell,” Aiden says. Apparently all the pieces have fallen in place for him, too.

“Let him go,” I say to Jackson, only my voice is softer than Aiden’s was. A little sad, even.

Jackson hesitates, but he complies. Even so, he’s taut as a wire and practically vibrating with energy. He wants to beat the shit out of Trent—that much is obvious. Honestly, I understand the feeling.

“You’re a fucking lunatic,” Trent snaps, rubbing his throat. “I bet you did kill that asshole. Christ, you practically killed me.”

“Don’t make me regret that I didn’t.” Jackson’s voice is low and very dangerous.

Behind us, pretty much the entire department has gathered in the doorway. Beside me, Evelyn shifts, and I know that she’s thinking what has already crossed my mind—if anyone who’s witnessed this scene tells the police, it’s not going to look good for Jackson.

I tell myself they won’t. They’re loyal to Stark. To the project.

And I tell myself there’s not a damn thing I can do about it right now, anyway. Right now, I just need to focus on this.

I draw a breath. “Are you the developer? Is Lost Tides yours?”

He shakes his head. “No—no, they came to me. They knew I got passed over, and—well, they came to me.”

“Who?” Aiden asks.

“The development team. But Roger Calloway’s the main guy.”

“I know that name,” Jackson says, looking at me. But I just shake my head. There’s something familiar about that name for me, too, but I can’t place it at all. I look at Trent. “Who’s Roger Calloway?”

But it’s not Trent who answers. It’s Damien, who has arrived and is striding into the room. “Calloway was one of the players in the Brighton Consortium,” he says, and another piece clicks into place.