Free Let Me Go by Chelsea Cain

said.
    â€œThat’s your problem, my friend,” Jack said, reaching forward to straighten Archie’s bow tie. “You don’t know when to give up on people.”
    Karim produced a small black electronic gadget about the size of a deck of cards. It had a dial on it and a small red light. He held it in front of Archie. “Any wires you want to tell us about?” he asked.
    â€œI told you,” Archie said. “I’m invited.”
    Karim scanned the gadget up and down Archie’s body, front and back. “He’s clean,” he said to Jack. “I hope you’re not offended,” Karim added to Archie with a shrug. “Can’t be too careful.”
    â€œOf course,” Archie said.
    Karim pocketed the gadget and then held out his hand in front of Archie, palm up. Archie knew what he wanted. He set the mask on the desk, opened his tuxedo jacket, pulled his weapon from his holster, ejected the magazine, put the magazine in his pocket, and then laid the gun in Karim’s open hand. “I’m going to need that back,” Archie said. It was his personal weapon, registered under his name. Leaving it out of his sight was an insane proposition. Karim would know that. Which was exactly why Archie needed to allow it. It was a gesture of trust. Or recklessness.
    â€œOf course,” Karim said. He put the gun on the desk behind him. “Now I just need you to empty your pockets,” he said.
    Archie reached into his pockets and emptied out the contents on the desk. The compass. The brass pillbox. His wallet. Cell phone. Badge. Karim picked each up and inspected it. He came to the pillbox and opened it. “What are these?” he asked, looking at the white pills.
    â€œPainkillers,” Archie said.
    â€œI thought you went to rehab for those,” Jack said.
    Archie picked the mask up off the desk and put it on, snapping the elastic band around his head. “I did,” he said.
    Karim held the pillbox out and laid it in Archie’s palm. “Enjoy the party,” he said.
    Archie closed his hand around the box and slipped it back into his pants pocket. “So where’s Leo?” he asked.
    Cigar smoke veiled Jack’s face. “He’s around,” he said.

 
    CHAPTER
    11
    Â 
    Susan pulled at the hips of her dress. She’d chosen a strapless maxi number with pockets and a tight structured bodice. The dress was gold silk, and the lining was just a hint too snug. It was possible that she was a six and not a four, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to admit it now. Star had presented her with ten pairs of shoes in several sizes. She had picked out a pair of gold ballet flats, all the better if she had to make a run for it. Star had done her makeup and managed to slick Susan’s shoulder-length bob into something resembling an updo. Once Susan was deemed properly gussied up, Star had presented her with a rhinestone-encrusted mask at the end of a long black wand. It was a female fantasy cliché: being whisked off to a ball and dressed up like Cinderella. In reality, it just felt creepy.
    But now, as Susan held the sparkly mask up and peered through it, she had to admit, Jack Reynolds knew how to throw a party. The grounds had been transformed into a wonderland. White paper lanterns glowed in the darkened trees. Torch-lined paths wound through gardens to hidden bars and musical quartets. There was a surprise around every corner: a fire juggler, a trapeze artist, women clad only in body-paint tuxedos serving salmon tartines off silver trays. A Charlie Chaplin movie projected onto strips of muslin stretched between two massive Douglas firs. Susan guessed there were five hundred guests, at least. Everyone was wearing masks, but she still thought she recognized a few of them. The scions of old Portland families; people whose ancestors had made a mint clear-cutting old-growth forest, or running whorehouses for sailors down by the