The scent of the night followed me into the darkened hallway of the Aldridge estate like a physical shroud. It was a cocktail of high-end sin: expensive gin, the ozone of a dance floor’s fog machine, and the unmistakable, citrusy sting of Sandro’s orange-peel cologne. It clung to the fibers of my silver chainmail dress, a metallic weight that made every step toward my suite feel like a march toward a firing squad.

I didn’t turn on the lights. I didn’t need to. The moonlight filtering through the tall, arched windows of the corridor was enough to illuminate the shadow waiting for me near the landing.

“The orange peel. The...