By the time I got to the bar, Weston was already gone.
Camille Sinclair sat waiting for me in a corner booth.
A bartender walked me over, and he dropped his voice low as we crossed the floor.
"I already deleted the photos for you. Honestly, hanging on like that after a breakup makes a person's skin crawl."
He wore a beat-up jacket, and one corner of his mouth pulled into a wicked little grin.
On the phone, I had taken him for a bartender, and he turned out to be the house singer.
He was a good Samaritan on top of that.
None of the photos were anything I needed to hide, though he had a point about the whole business leaving a bad taste in my mouth.
"Do you have any idea what this bottle costs?"
I hadn't been in the seat ten seconds before Camille slid a glass across the table at me
