Davon woke to the sound of an alarm clock, its shrill ring drilling into his skull. A splitting headache pulsed behind his eyes, slowing his movements to a painful crawl. "Oh, shut up," he cursed, the words gritty in his dry throat.
He forced his eyes open. The room was unfamiliar. The door to the en-suite bathroom opened, and the Texan woman emerged, wrapped in a robe, steam curling out behind her.
"Up early, detective?" she asked, her voice still thick with sleep.
Ignoring her, Davon pushed himself up, his body aching in protest. His detective's mind automatically cataloged the room. It was a distorted mirror of Cassey's—the same dimensions, the same cheap attempt at opulence. But where Cassey's had been a stage for a nightmare, this was a shrine to tawdry fantasy. The walls were plas
