I pull out my own phone and send a text—It’s Nikki. I need to see you. Are you in the hotel? Can I meet you?

I hold my breath as I wait for the reply, hoping he will answer and not simply ignore my plea. So much time passes that I’m beginning to think that’s exactly what he’s going to do. Then the reply comes, and I sag with relief.

Room 315.

I gather my things and hurry to the elevator. I want to get there before he changes his mind. I stand by the elevator call button, my finger repeatedly jabbing the down arrow even though the light is already illuminated. Finally it comes, and I join a teenage couple who stand next to each other, his hands in her back jeans pocket and vice versa. The sight makes me smile, and I turn away, afraid that the simple public display of affection is going to make me cry.

I get off before them on the third floor and take a moment to get my bearings. Then I turn and hurry down the hall until I’m standing at the door to suite 315. I knock and wait, then sigh in relief when Charles Maynard opens the door and ushers me in.

“Thank you for seeing me,” I say. “Damien is—well, he’s asleep.” It’s a euphemism for “he’s a wreck,” and I think Maynard knows it.

He gestures toward the sofa. “Sit down. You want a drink? I just walked in the door when you texted. I was considering ordering a late lunch.”

“I’m fine,” I say as he walks to the wet bar and pours himself a very large Scotch.

“You must be relieved,” Maynard says, which is probably the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever said to me.

“Of course I am,” I snap, with more irritation than I intend.

He glances at me over the Scotch bottle. “Sorry. That sounded patronizing.”

My shoulders sag. “I came here because I don’t understand what happened. And I need to know. I need to know because Damien—”

But I can’t finish the sentence. I can’t say—even to this man who has known Damien since childhood—that for some reason this non-trial seems to have broken him.

At the same time, I can’t leave. Maynard is my only chance for answers, and I cannot leave this room without some.

So I wait, and the only sound between us is the hum of the air conditioner. I fear that Maynard will say nothing, and that I will be forced to tell him how Damien walked through the hotel like a zombie. How he now lays asleep on the couch. How he seems shell-shocked, like someone who just went through a battle.

I don’t want to tell him, because in some small way it feels like I am betraying Damien if I do. Damien Stark is not a man who shows weakness, and that he has shown me is only more proof that he trusts me. I can’t break that trust now. But that leaves me tongue-tied, with no way to explain why I’ve come here.

Maynard, thank God, comes to my rescue.

“He’s tied up in knots, I take it?”

“What happened back there? Why was the case dismissed?”

Maynard looks at me for a moment, and I can see that he is weighing whether or not to tell me.

“Please,” I say. “Charles, I need to know.”

One more moment passes, and then he nods. Just one quick movement of his head, but it seems to change everything. I feel lighter. My breathing comes easier. I lean forward, no longer caring what it is that he’s going to tell me, but simply needing to hear the truth of it.

“The court received photographs and video footage,” Maynard says. “That was what happened after the opening statement. The reason for the in-chambers conference. The images were shown to the prosecution and to the defense. In light of that evidence, the court decided to drop the charges.”

“The court?” I say. “I thought who gets tried was always up to the prosecutor.”

“Prosecutorial discretion is a broad power in the States,” he says. “Not in Germany. The ultimate decision was up to the court, and both the prosecution and the defense presented quick arguments supporting the decision to dismiss.”

I nod, not particularly interested in the legalities of who had the power to let Damien walk. I’m still hung up on the why.

“All right,” I say stiffly. “So tell me what the photographs and videos show.”

Maynard focuses on the papers on the coffee table, then reaches out to idly rearrange them. “Exactly what Damien didn’t want to testify about. Things he wanted to keep private.” He looks up at me. “Don’t ask me to tell you more, Nikki. Just telling you that much pushes ethical boundaries.”

“I see.” The words are hard to force out past the knot of tears that has formed in my throat. I may not know exactly what’s in those pictures, but I get the general idea. And I understand why seeing them would wreck Damien.

I stand, because right then all I want to do is return to him. To hold him and stroke him and tell him that it will all be okay. That nobody else knows.

Then a horrible thought occurs to me. “Will the court release that stuff?”

Maynard shakes his head. “No,” he says firmly. “Damien was given the duplicate set, and the court has ordered the file copy sealed.”

“Good.” I take a step toward the door. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Give him time, Nikki. It was a shock, but this doesn’t really change anything. There wasn’t anything in those photos that wasn’t already in his past.”

I nod, my heart breaking for the boy who had to live through that nightmare. “Thanks,” I say again, then step out into the hall and pull the door closed behind me. I take a deep breath and lean back against the door frame. A shudder cuts through me, and I sag to the ground, my legs no longer able to hold me up. I press my forehead against my knees, wrap my arms around my legs, and cry.

No wonder Damien is wrecked. The one thing in all the world he didn’t want made public came out of the sky like a meteorite and smashed him in the head. And, yeah, the photos are sealed now, but the judges saw them and the lawyers saw them. And someone out there had them. And that someone must still have copies.

Shit.

I need to go to him. I need to hold him and tell him that it will be okay, and I rise to my feet and move slowly to the elevator. I press the “up” arrow to call the elevator to take me back to the suite, then immediately curse my own selfishness. I need to go to him? I need to hold him? What Damien needs is rest—he as much as told me so himself. What I want—what I need—can wait.

With almost painful brutality, I jam my forefinger against the “down” button, but I don’t want to wait. I need to move, and if I’m not moving toward Damien, I need to be going somewhere else. I shift my stance in the hallway, feeling suddenly at loose ends. At the end of the hall, a lighted sign marks the stairwell. I hurry that direction, then slip off my shoes. I hold them by the heels and run down the three flights of stairs in my bare feet. It feels good—it feels right—and when I reach the bottom of the stairs, I slip my shoes back on and exit the stairwell into the lobby.