Page 166 of His Good Girl

“I know Ms. Hale well enough to understand that being told to sleep during a crisis likely had the same effect as handing her a flare gun in a library.”

I dragged a hand over my face. My study was dark except for the green-shaded lamp on the desk and the city glow beyond the windows. Papers from Hartwell were spread out in front of me, but they had become irrelevant the second Avery’s promise appeared on my phone. “I should have told her about the first photo.”

“Yes. You should have.”

“Thank you, Benjamin.”

“You’re welcome. I assumed you had called for pain.”

“I called because we need a private investigator.”

“No,” he said.

I blinked. “No?”

“No, you are about to say you will use someone discreet and boring from Tom’s list. Then I will remind you that Tomthinks private investigation means a retired police detective with orthopedic shoes and a fondness for carbon copy invoices. Then you will tell me you are not calling Ryan. Then we will waste twelve hours rediscovering desperation before you call Ryan anyway.”

I stared into the darkness. “I am not calling Ryan. Ryan is not a private investigator. Ryan is a liability.”

“Ryan is exactly what we need.”

“Ryan once acquired a minister’s deleted emails during a charity auction.”

“Incorrect. He acquired proof that a minister had failed to delete his emails during a charity auction. These are legally distinct in the swampy moral universe where Ryan lives.”

“I hate that you admire him.”

“I don’t admire him. I respect tools. Some tools are hammers. Some tools are lock picks. Ryan is a glitter-covered crowbar with a wireless plan.”

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.

Ryan Morrison had begun as a friend of a friend. Graham Ellery had used him during an ugly shareholder fight ten years ago, then passed his name to me with the warning, ‘Do not call him unless you want the whole truth and can afford the invoice.’ I had called him once, years ago, when a subcontractor tried to hide a bribery trail behind three shell companies and a golf foundation. Ryan found the money, the mistress, and the condo in Aruba.

He was brilliant.

He was intolerable.

He was, unfortunately, necessary.

Benjamin waited in silence, which was somehow worse than if he had gloated.

“Call him,” I said.

“I already sent him a summary.”

“Of course you did.”

“An efficient assistant anticipates surrender.”

“I have not surrendered.”

“You were about to.” I heard keys clicking on his end. “He’ll call you in five minutes. Try not to sound rich and wounded. It excites him.”

He hung up.

Ryan called in two.

“Callum Rowe,” he said when I answered. His voice was smooth and faintly amused. “My favorite billionaire with a structural-integrity complex. To what do I owe the horror?”