Page 94 of Gilt

I pinch the screen and zoom in. It’s hard to make out the card’s gold foil lettering, especially since the cup cuts some of the info off. “It looks like a-c-h-è, but I know there’s more.”

“There’s part of a phone number, too.”

I sit up on the bed and reach for my laptop. “So we know The Dealer is in Vegas.”

“He didn’t take any pics of you in California,” she says with a nod, “and he was obviously here today.”

“That’s about the only thing I miss about Palm Springs,” I mutter as I open Google. Typing in what I can see on the business card, which is nothing more than the letters and a few digits of a phone number, I hold my breath and hit search.

“Anything?” Josie asks as the search results load.

Frowning, I scroll down and stop when I hit the third entry. Cachè. Half the phone number listed matches what I could read on the card. “That can’t be a coincidence.”

“What?” She worms her way next to me so that she can see the screen. “I don’t get it.”

“I forgot you failed French.”

She jabs me in the stomach. “I didn’t take French.”

“Cachè means hidden.” I give her a second to process this. “Like—”

“The Dealer,” she finishes for me. “Holy shit.”

“Did I earn my badge?” I ask her.

“With honors.”

We both fidget as Cachè’s homepage loads. The website is sleek and modern, carefully presented with very little information. “Let’s see. They’re located in Las Vegas. Big surprise. No clue what they’re selling…or hiding.”

“Click on that,” Josie says, pointing to the company policy page.

The company policy consists of a single line:

Cachè provides singular companionship with uncompromising discretion.

“Wait,” Josie fumbles for words as it hits both of us. “Cachè is a brothel.”

“I think they use the term escort agency.”

“Is there really a difference?”

We both know there is. You don’t grow up in Nevada without knowing a bit more about issues of vice than most people your age. “Hand me my phone.”

Josie sucks in a breath before she relinquishes it. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“You’re right. This is why he posted this photo.” I check the number on my computer screen as I begin to dial.

“So maybe it’s a trap,” she says nervously.

“I don’t think The Dealer wants to hurt us.” I hesitate before I hit the call button. Talking to the agency isn’t dangerous. It’s just about information, so why is my heart lodged in my throat?

“How do you know that?”

“Because whoever it is followed you around long enough today to get a photo of the most embarrassing part of your day.” I tilt my head toward the Weckman’s bag.

“Everybody poops, Emma.” She jumps on the bed and begins to pace nervously. “What are you going to say?”

“I’m going to wing it,” I admit before I press the green circle. It only rings twice before a breathy voice answers.