Something tugs painfully in my chest. She means it. I can see it in her eyes — the genuine warmth, the hope that I’ll accept what she’s offering.
Which makes what I have to do next so much harder.
“I want to ask you another question,” I say quietly. “And I need you to be honest with me. Really honest.”
Queenie’s smile falters. Her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around her wine glass.
“Okay…”
“Have you had any contact with Logan Reeves?” I hold her gaze, watching for every flicker, every tell. “At all?”
The change is instant.
A flash of something — fear, guilt, panic — that she covers almost immediately with a nervous laugh. But not fast enough. I saw it. I know what I saw.
“Logan? No, why would I?” She takes a too-large sip of wine, not quite meeting my eyes. “That man is tro
