Page 59 of Ethan & Grace

That was clearly my cue to leave. I pulled the door shut behind me and pushed Mr. Darlington’s final words as far out of my mind as I could.

I grabbed my cleaning trolley and the hoover and headed over to Ethan’s place. I tried to rein in my bouncy steps—it was ridiculous. I was acting like some lovesick teenager, instead of keeping my cool. This was Beelzebub, for crying out loud. And what was the thing I’d read online again? Just because he’s good for your hole doesn’t mean he’s good for your soul.

I rang the bell to announce myself, then held the golden key card up to the sensor outside Ethan’s penthouse. I pushed the door open. No matter how hard I tried, I still couldn’t keep the smile off my face. I’d grown so used to being sad-Grace over these past few months that I’d almost forgotten about cheerful-Grace, the old me. And thanks to Ethan, I now remembered what it felt like to be her, even if only for a little while.

He was slouched on the sofa with his computer on his lap. Memories of the last time I’d seen him sitting there surfaced, sending a tingling between my thighs. The feeling was strong enough to almost make me abandon my resolve to not sleep with Ethan during working hours. Why did he have to be so damn attractive? Even now, wearing just a plain T-shirt and the kind of jeans every guy in London owned, he looked devastatingly good.

“Hey!” I barely recognised my own voice, which came out high and a little squeaky.

Ethan looked up at me. His lips curved into a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His blue irises were dull, and the faint laughter lines that usually appeared when he smiled were absent.

“Hi.” Even his voice sounded different.

Something was wrong.

The excitement I’d felt at seeing him again collapsed like a house of cards, leaving only a simple thought: He doesn’t want you anymore. He’d had me, and now that his fantasy was fulfilled, I’d lost my appeal.

My stomach tightened, but I refused to let my wounded pride show. “I’d better get to work.”

“Can we talk first?” Ethan asked.

So you can tell me what happened between us was a mistake?

Rose had been right. Whatever was going on between Ethan and me wasn’t as simple as a one-night stand with a stranger. We knew each other, and over the past few weeks, a small bond of friendship had started to form. Ethan had helped me at the club, comforted me, shown understanding for my investigation, and kept me company on the hotel corridor floor. And now he wanted to end all that, which hurt far more than I was willing to admit.

“Sure,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.

He cleared his throat. “Could you sit down?”

He apparently wasn’t planning to get it over with quickly and painlessly, but he couldn’t hurt me. No pain could ever compare with losing Amy. Ethan might bruise my pride, but he couldn’t break me. Or at least that was what I told myself as I sat down beside him on the sofa, leaving a deliberate gap between us so his scent and his closeness wouldn’t cloud my thoughts.

“What do you want to talk about?” I asked, as if I didn’t already know.

Without a word, Ethan reached for the sheet of paper lying on the table in front of him. Was he really going to end things with a letter? No, that wasn’t his style.

He handed me the handwritten note. Five names were listed on it:

Frederick Beaumont

Rupert Carrington

Isabella Kensington (?)

Courtney Larson

Claude Asterdam (?)

I knew these people. Not personally, but I knew of them. They were all friends of Mr. and Mrs. Darlington. Mr. Beaumont golfed with Mr. Darlington every Sunday, and Mrs. Kensington co-chaired London’s Finest Society with Mrs. Darlington—a women’s club for bored, rich trophy wives. Mrs. Larson was an old school friend of Mr. Darlington, and Mr. Carrington, a childhood friend of Mrs. Darlington, was now a banker who managed their fortune. The ties between the Asterdams and the Darlingtons were numerous. Claude and Natalia Asterdam’s children were friends with Henry and Ethan, and Olivia had even dated Henry for a while. Mr. and Mrs. Darlington naturally hadn’t told me any of this, but you couldn’t help but get to know people when you worked for them and spent as much time in their home as I did.

Ethan cleared his throat again. “I know you didn’t ask me for help, and I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Amy and what you told me about her accident. I did a bit of digging . . . and this is what I found.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, confused. My brain was still too focussed on preparing for Ethan to dump me to follow what he was saying.

“These are the names of my suspects,” he explained patiently, setting down his laptop.

I glanced at the screen. An Excel spreadsheet was open, full of names marked up in different colours.

“Like I said, I couldn’t stop thinking about Amy and the accident, so I talked to Henry and Hank from security to find out more about the night of the Pearl Gala.”