The park was empty at ten in the morning, mist still clinging to the ground. Valentina sat on a bench, the video file queued on her phone, waiting.
Sierra arrived in civilian clothes—jeans, a fitted jacket, sunglasses hiding her eyes. She sat on the opposite end of the bench, not looking at Valentina.
"This is blackmail," Sierra said.
"No, this is conversation." Valentina pocketed her phone. "Blackmail comes later if you don't cooperate."
"What do you want?"
"The truth. About you and Connor. About what really happened the night Thomas Reynolds died."
Sierra laughed, bitter and sharp. "You think I know? I wasn't there."
"But Connor told you. Didn't he?" Valentina watched Sierra's profile. "Pillow talk between lovers. He told you his version, and you believed him because it served you
