“First of all, I never said I killed Delgado. He took his own life. Second of all, I’m sorry I lied. But I told you, I didn’t want you risking your reputation for a sleazebag like—”

“And I told you I didn’t want you risking your life.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again. I’d never seen him so angry. “But I said I wasn’t going to sit around decorating bonnets. You should know by now I’m not that type of girl. And it turned out to be worth it. I have Delgado’s client list. Not the clients who bought his regular photographs—he had a separate thumb drive of private clients who bought what he called his ‘specialty photos’ . . . photos you definitely don’t want to see. Father Francisco’s name is on that list.”

Jesse made a face as if he’d tasted something bitter, but all he’d done was take another, slower sip from his champagne glass, which the waiter had come by to superciliously refill. “Ah. The good news never ends, does it?”

“It is good news, Jesse,” I said urgently, gazing into his eyes, which were still dark with suppressed anger, and something else I couldn’t entirely identify. “There was enough on that thumb drive to put Father Francisco—and a lot of other people—away, maybe even forever. I’m going to turn everything over to CeeCee tomorrow.”

Jesse’s lips twisted. “So the world is supposed to believe that Delgado had a crisis of conscience before he killed himself, and sent his list of private clients to the local press?”

“I think that’s best. CeeCee will make sure Becca Walters’s name stays out of it.”

Jesse nodded thoughtfully. “And perhaps this will allow the spirit of Lucia to rest.”

“Not to interrupt this touching moment, but can I just say one thing?” Paul held up one hand.

“No.” Jesse stabbed an index finger in Paul’s direction. “You should shut up, unless you want to end up like Delgado. And you”—his furious gaze snapped back toward me—“can hardly blame me for thinking the worst, especially after what David told me tonight. What bargain were you two arguing about when you pulled up? And what could possibly have happened graduation night? I was with you almost the entire time.”

“Jesse,” I said. “I wanted to tell you. I really did. But I was afraid of how you’d react—like now, for instance.”

He looked indignant. “What am I doing wrong?”

“Everything! I had this situation completely under control until you came in here—”

“Oh, please.” Paul groaned. “Much as I’m enjoying watching you squirm, Simon, I need to go shower, because I smell like a Venezuelan flight attendant. So I’m calling it quits for the night. I can assure you, de Silva, nothing happened on graduation night except one little moment of indiscretion on my part, for which your girlfriend kneed me in the balls. And then tonight, as the coup de grace, she forced me to watch a degenerate blow his brains out. There. Are you happy now? Seriously, I give up. She’s all yours.”

Jesse made a lunge at Paul as he rose to leave the table, catching him by the lapels of his suit jacket and causing all of the dishware to rattle noisily, and some of the silver to slide to the floor.

“She was never yours to give, Slater,” Jesse hissed, his face only inches from Paul’s. “Nor is she mine. Women aren’t horses, they don’t belong to one man or another, though maybe you think they do, since you’ve evidently been working so hard to steal her away.”

“I wouldn’t call it work.” Paul did not sound particularly troubled by the fact that there was six feet or so of fuming former ghost looming over him. “Not when you’ve made it so easy by failing to properly tend to her needs.”

Fortunately the sommelier hurried over at that exact moment, and he and I both managed to pry Jesse away from Paul in time to keep him from physically assaulting him . . . but not in time to keep every head in the restaurant from swiveling toward us.

I felt all of Jesse’s muscles tense beneath my fingers. He was itching to heave a punch in Paul’s face, and truthfully, Paul deserved one.

But neither the sommelier nor I wanted a scene in Mariner’s, especially at the Window Table. With our combined weight and a combination of pushing and pulling, we managed to get Jesse back into his seat before he did any damage.

“Jesse, please,” I begged him as the sommelier fussed over him like a mother hen, folding his napkin back over his lap, since it had fallen to the floor, and brushing off his suit. “Paul’s drunk. And, even if he completely messed it up, he did do you a favor tonight. You know you can’t afford to be anywhere near people like Delgado.”

Jesse turned his glare on me. I felt like one of the tiny cakes inside my stepnieces’ vintage Easy-Bake Oven, burning under the bright white lightbulb.

“Did me a favor?” He looked incredulous. “Susannah, I don’t need those kind of favors, from him or anyone, especially when they involve you. And,” he added with a dark glance in Paul’s direction, “he’s a little too drunk, don’t you think?”

“What? No.” I hurried back to my own seat just as the second course, a gold-rimmed plate of Monterey Bay wild salmon with Meyer lemon, was being laid there by a team of servers so professional they gave the appearance of not having noticed there’d been a near knockout in their restaurant. “He seems fine to me. Wait, what are you—”

I broke off as Jesse reached down beneath my chair.

“Really, please, carry on, you two,” Paul slurred drunkenly from the chair he’d sunk back into. To my amazement, he still hadn’t left the restaurant. “Pretend like I’m not even here. I’m used to it.”

Jesse pulled my bag from beneath the table and began to rifle through it. Suddenly I knew exactly what he was doing . . . and what he was looking for. My heart flew into my throat.

“Jesse, no,” I cried, reaching for the leather straps to snatch the bag away. “I—”

But I heard the distinctive rattle, and knew his fingers had closed over the prescription pill bottle before I could stop him. He pulled it from the depths of the bag and squinted at the label in the dim candlelight on the restaurant table.

“What are those?” Paul asked interestedly. “Suze, did you bring party favors? My kind of girl.”