Rogan swore quietly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I glanced at him. Our stares connected.

Wow. His eyes turned a deep, bottomless blue and they were filled with need. It got away from him and now he was thinking of me naked. A woman would have to be dead not to respond to that, and I wasn’t dead. Not even a little bit.

Anticipation zinged through me. I knew exactly how much space separated us. I felt every inch of it, charged with electric energy. If he touched me right now, I’d probably jump a foot in the air. I stared straight ahead. We didn’t do well in a small, confined space. This was a terrible idea. Maybe I should roll down the window to let some of the sexual tension out.

We needed a distraction, or I’d end up pulling over and we’d end up in the back seat, doing . . . things.

“It makes no sense to go after Jaroslav Fenley’s family,” I said. I had spent a fair amount of time with the background on the three other lawyers and I’d refreshed my memory with my notes on my phone while Rogan and Cornelius wrote their contract. “He lived and breathed his career, according to his home computer. Harper was his only significant relationship in the last few months.”

“Bernard broke into his computer?” Rogan guessed.

“Yes, in thirty seconds. Jaroslav’s router password was ‘admin.’ Probably explains why he fell for Harper.”

“He cut corners,” Rogan said.

“Yes. It takes an effort to change your router password. Most people have to look up how to do it. It takes time and effort to maintain a meaningful relationship. Harper didn’t require a relationship.”

“He could get away with sex and some light pillow talk.” Rogan grimaced. “I know the type. The man is a walking security risk. He works only as hard as he has to to get ahead. His goal isn’t to do his job, it’s to get to the place where he doesn’t have to do his job while still getting paid.”

“It looks that way. Jaroslav logged a lot of billable hours. It looked good on paper. He slept, worked, and worried about his student loans. Bern’s still going through the files, but so far he didn’t find anything incriminating. Jaroslav’s parents live in Canada and he doesn’t keep up with them. His brother just had a baby. It’s all over his family’s Facebook. Jaroslav hadn’t commented on the baby pictures. His family is a dead end, so it’s out. I take it you don’t want to talk to Harper?”

Rogan shook his head. “She’s our only link to this conspiracy. We need to preserve her as long as we can.”

“That leaves us with two choices,” I said. “Marcos Nather’s family or Elena de Trevino’s. Nather’s is closer.”

“Nather it is.”

Marcos and Jeremy Nather lived in Westheimer Lakes, in a typical Texas suburban house: two stories, brick, at least three thousand square feet, with four bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a two-car garage. The neighborhood was about seven to eight years old, just enough for the prices to go down slightly. The house wasn’t out of their price range, and according to Bern, their credit looked healthy. Marcos Nather had been a successful lawyer and Jeremy Nather worked as a software engineer employed at a start-up that developed fitness apps. His LinkedIn profile showed that Marcos had worked for Forsberg for the last three years. Before that he worked for Zara, Inc., an investment firm. Marcos and Jeremy had been married for six years and neither had any magic talents. I ran through all of that for Rogan while I drove.

“Where do you get your information?” he asked.

“Why? Planning to get into the private investigator business?”

“Call it curiosity.”

Aha. “A lot of it comes from online databases. We get public records and we pay for the access to criminal history, credit checks, and so on. Social networks are a gold mine. People post a huge amount of personal information online and all of their social accounts are usually connected.”

And that was why, although I had an account at every major social network—including Herald, which was devoted to speculation about Primes, general fangirling, and a lot of fanfic—none of my accounts had any personal information. I didn’t vent online, I made no political comments, and I dutifully posted at least one or two cute kitten pictures every week or so, just to reassure the network algorithms that I wasn’t a bot.

“What’s this?” Rogan pulled a book out of the side pocket on the door. An elaborate arcane circle decorated the front cover. “Circlework: Practical Applications.”

That was my stakeout replacement for Hexology, which was incredibly useful, but so dry it put me to sleep. I had already read Circlework cover to cover, but I hadn’t memorized all of the circles I’d marked as important, so I brought it with me and faithfully tried to reproduce the illustrations on my legal pad while I waited for my insurance fraudsters to stumble.

“What about it?”

I could just ask him directly if he sent them. But then I would know. For some reason not knowing seemed like a better option. Some part of me liked to think it was him.

He flipped through the book. “If you’re ever in need of instruction, I’ll be glad to give you lessons.”

I glanced at him. “What will it cost me?”

“I’ll think of something.” His voice promised all sorts of interesting ideas.

“Bargains with dragons never end well.”

A smug smile touched his lips, turning his expression wolfish and hungry. “That depends on what you’re bargaining for.”

I shouldn’t have gotten into the car with him. That was the long and short of it.

The GPS spoke in Darth Vader’s voice, informing me that my destination was in five hundred feet on the right. Saved by the Sith.

I parked in the shade under a tree, retrieved my gun, and slid it back into my custom women’s on-the-waist holster, where my suit jacket hid it. Men had a much easier time with the concealed carry. I was short-waisted and my hips had a curve to them, so a regular holster just jabbed the gun into my ribs.

Rogan and I made our way to the front door.

I rang the bell. “Best behavior.”

“I remember,” Rogan growled.

The door swung open revealing a man in his thirties. Of average height, with light brown hair and a short beard, he resembled a typical guy you’d encounter in the suburbs: the kind with a steady job, who went to the gym three times a week, and let himself eat a little more than he had ten years ago. His eyes were hollow.

“Now isn’t a good time,” he said.

“Mr. Nather, I work for Cornelius Harrison,” I said, holding out my card. “My deepest condolences.”

He blinked, took my card, and read it. “Private investigator?”

I had to get inside before he shut the door in my face. “House Forsberg is refusing to investigate the murders. Mr. Harrison has asked me to find out what happened to his wife. He wants to be able to tell his daughter that her mother’s murderer didn’t get away with it. I’m deeply sorry to intrude on you in your time of grief. We just need a few moments of your time.”

Jeremy looked at me and sighed. “A few minutes.”

“Thank you.”

He led us through the foyer to the living room sectioned off from the kitchen by an island. Two young children, a boy and a girl, lay on the rug. The boy, older by a year or two, was playing with an iPad, while the girl was building something with Legos. An older woman, her eyes bloodshot, sat on the couch with a book. She glanced at us, her face haggard.