BENEDICT
Jet lag is a persistent b***h.
It was two in the morning, and my brain was still operating on Manhattan time. I stood in the darkened kitchen in a pair of gray sweatpants and a black tee, pouring myself a glass of ice water and staring out the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that overlooked the back courtyard.
A sharp splash broke the quiet of the estate.
I frowned, setting the glass down on the island and sliding open the heavy glass door. The cool night air hit me as I stepped onto the stone patio, scanning the grounds.
Near the grand marble fountain in the center of the courtyard, a dark silhouette was swaying dangerously.
It was Valerie. Her straw hat was gone, her blonde hair was a wild, messy halo around her shoulders, and her pale blue summer dress was wrinkled. Sh
