Page 1 of The Wrong Monster

Chapter 1

Matilda

When I meet an informant, it’s never in daylight. Daylight makes people feel brave.

I want my informants to feel hunted. To feel like tomorrow is coming for them, whether they like it or not. Those people, a few drinks in, especially when we’re meeting in a luxury hotel at 10 p.m., those people tell the truth.

If tonight goes bad for the guy I’m meeting, he’ll get eight years tops. His evidence could help my client’s defense. So if he decides to play the game my firm has set up, he’ll get away with three. Out early on good behavior if he can manage.

I glance down at my outfit as the doors to the Pandora whoosh open with a scented hush. Everything about this hotel screams luxury, from the gold-veined tile floors to the fresh bouquets in the lobby. Spandex, Nikes, and a training shirt that looks more like a sports bra don’t exactly scream “preferred clientele,” but I didn’t have time to change after my workout and the four-hour drive up from NYC.

“Good evening,” the concierge greets with a tight smile. His eyes slide down the black spandex, then back up. He’s definitely not interested—just judging.

“Hi.” It comes out clipped. Side effect of being a lawyer. “I’m meeting someone.”

“Mmm.”

It’s a non-committal response, and in any other hotel less lavish than this one, the insinuation would be clear: Of course you are, honey. Girls like you are always meeting someone.

The ponytail holding my curls back is still tight as my gaze drills into the uniformed man. He taps away on a computer, glancing up.

“The guest’s name? I can check and see if they mentioned any… visitors.”

Fuck.

I pull my phone out of my purse and check the encrypted messages again. After ten. Ask at the desk. Keep my name out of it. Helpful as always.

He never told me what name the room would be under, or who I should ask for. I’d asked twice before leaving the city and got the same paranoid instructions both times. At Prescott, Hale & Mercer we have underlings who handle this kind of work. But Anderson, the particular underling assigned to my cases, has been out with a stomach virus all week. So here I am.

“Yeah,” I breathe, “um, he wanted this meeting to be… discreet.”

Eyes flash up at me. This man is sharp. Probably a pain in the ass for his manager, and a gossip. He straightens, head tilted.

“I see. Mr. Borisov said a woman would be arriving after ten. No name, no announcement. I believe this is the room you’re looking for, then.”

I’m already moving away from the desk, key in hand, when he says the name, and my steps falter.

Borisov? That seems like a stretch, even for an egotistical informant. How did he come up with that?

Catching myself, I straighten up and walk confidently toward the elevators. Five of them replicating my reflection back to me as perfectly as a mirror.

God, I should’ve pulled over at a rest stop and changed. The top is tight, rucking my breasts up so they look fuller than they are, and the jumper-style bottoms hug my curves and accentuate everything even more. The sneakers are definitely not taking away from how non-work-appropriate this outfit is.

Oh well. I’ll blend in better, go unnoticed.

Waiting for the doors to open, I glance to my right, to the backlit bar. It’s gorgeous and occupied by a few other guests. Older men leaning into pretty women, girls in their early twenties on the hunt for money or love or lust.

The elevator dings.

A silver-haired couple steps out, laughing over something only the two of them are privy to. They look to be in their seventies, bundled in matching quarter-zips embroidered with Lake Placid Invitational Golf Club. The woman catches my eye and smiles.

“Going up?” she asks, holding the door with one hand.

“I was planning on it.”

Her smile falters for only a second before recovering. “We just came from the rooftop lounge,” she says. “If you’re looking for a nightcap, the old-fashioned is wonderful.”

“I’m not.”