The bus station was Miguel’s destination; in his panicked state of mind it glowed like a lighthouse. He’d come to Skagit by bus, he’d leave by bus. He’d start over again, like he had before. This time he would be more careful, not fall into a false sense of security. No one would be allowed close to him, that way he couldn’t hurt them.

Half jogging, half running down the alleys and sidewalks between the apartment building and the bus station, he occasionally stopped to hide between dumpsters to catch his breath, fearful that Buck would realize he was gone before he could get far enough away. Buck had to know something was up by now—it wouldn’t take Miguel ten minutes to grab something from the apartment, not even three.

Sweat dripped down his forehead and into his eyes; his shirt was stuck to his back. It wasn’t hot enough to be sweating like this. Miguel’s body was alternating between hot and freezing; he couldn’t regulate himself. He knew he was close to a panic attack, or something like it. He stopped again behind a deli, leaning and putting his hands on his knees to try to catch his breath. A crunching sound came from his left, back down the alley. Miguel’s heart slammed in his throat as he huddled between the doorframe and the dumpster.

A homeless older man shuffled past. Miguel had seen him around town and knew he was harmless. His rheumy eyes skipped over Miguel, not seeing him at all. He moved slowly out of Miguel’s line of sight, muttering to himself. Miguel wouldn’t have to fall far to end up where that man had.

There was nothing left of his life in Skagit but the cash in his pocket. No spare clothes, no jacket, no phone. No hope. But that didn’t matter. Hope was shit anyway. All hope ever did was make him feel he was safe, when he never had been. It had been hope with a false bottom.

Why had the bitch called Fate chosen this moment in time to give him Nate? It was, simply, a worse sort of false promise; a glimpse of a future that could never be. Shoving his thoughts aside, Miguel tried to calm his breathing. When he felt a little more under control, he began quickly walking again toward the edge of downtown.

The bus depot had been built in the 1920s or ’30s. It was one of Miguel’s favorite buildings in Skagit; even with all the changes over the years, and the great American way of tearing down and rebuilding, the bus station had remained the same. A squat, one-story building with a small granite-tiled waiting area, long mahogany benches, and a large parking lot for the buses that rumbled and belched as they waited to load or unload passengers. Along the side of the structure was an original mural expounding the convenience of bus service: “See America By Bus—The Modern Travel Way.”

The line for tickets was longer than Miguel expected, and since he didn’t have a credit or debit card, he was forced to wait and pay in person at the old-fashioned ticket window. The older man processing requests seemed purposely slow, each movement he made sketched out deliberately in advance. Miguel felt itchy and exposed, wanting this part to be over as soon as possible. He would hide in a bathroom stall until it was time for the bus to leave. If he’d had a passport, Miguel would’ve bought a ticket to somewhere in Canada and truly disappeared. Instead he bought a ticket to Portland and then Eugene, Oregon. Eugene was a college town; maybe he could find another anonymous rooming house there. Who knew.

Stepping away from the ticket counter, he stuffed the remainder of his cash and the ticket into the front pocket of his jeans. Several groups of people swarmed around the waiting area, and an espresso stand in the far corner was doing brisk business regardless of the time of day and the summer heat outside.

Nonchalantly, Miguel started down the corridor toward the men’s room. Pushing the door open, he slipped inside, taking a deep breath of relief. The underlying odor of ancient urine and old linoleum sloppily disguised by pine-scented cleaner didn’t bother him; it was almost a comfort. At the sink, he washed his hands before wiping the sweat from his face and neck.

The door opened, letting another traveler inside, and before Miguel could see the person a once-familiar body pressed against him from behind, smashing his hips painfully against the edge of the counter. A deep voice whispered in his ear, “Hey baby, what’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?” There was a whiff of laughter at the end of the sentence. Miguel struggled automatically, trying to turn around. “Don’t.” Something unpleasant pressed against his ribs. “Feel this?” Miguel nodded; something was hot and wickedly sharp against his skin. “Good boy.”

Justin’s soft southern accent dripped with sweet poison. Miguel used to love the sound of his voice. That’s how they’d met; Miguel had heard him talking to a friend at a bar, and his lazy drawl had made Miguel stop and stare. They’d made eye contact, and by the weekend they were sleeping together. Two weeks later he’d moved in.

“I got us a place for the weekend, just like old times. We can take walks and look at the water. I’ll make you breakfast in bed. If you behave. If you don’t behave, I’ll have to hurt your little friend, the pretty one from the coffee shop. It was so nice to see you there, helping another lost soul.” Justin breathed softly into his ear, still keeping him pressed against the counter.

Miguel nearly vomited. Justin had been in the Booking Room the day he had comforted Angel. That was the only person he could be referring to; Miguel hadn’t had time since then to go for coffee, and he’d never done anything like that before. He thought he’d been so careful.

“How did you find me?” he whispered to the wavy piece of metal that passed for a mirror.

Justin chuckled, low and deep in his chest. “I never lost you. Are you coming? Angel is waiting.” He let go, stepping back and heading toward the door with the assurance of a man who held all the kings and aces.

Miguel followed.

Justin led him outside to a late-model black SUV much like the one Nate drove. Nate was a regret. Miguel knew now: the universe, god, whoever, had opened a door to something special—just a crack so Miguel would know what he was missing—and then slammed it shut. Again.

He went wordlessly, because really, what do you say when a psychopath is leading you to certain death? Miguel knew better than to get into the SUV, but if he didn’t, he would be responsible for Angel’s death as surely as if he killed him with his own two hands.

Justin started the car and pulled away from the curb. He’d been parked in a loading zone, no doubt because he felt entitled to. Miguel didn’t know why he tried to memorize everything he saw along the drive, as if he was by some miracle going to get to a phone—and if he did, who would he call? He wasn’t putting any of his friends on Justin’s radar.

Even by Skagit standards, it was a gorgeous afternoon. The temperature was somewhere in the low 70s, and a summer wind was blowing in across Skagit Bay. The sky was an indescribable shade of blue and stretched infinitely overhead. Miguel thought that he would have liked to see that sky again with Nate. Instead he had fallen into an elaborately set trap.

They were heading down Old Charter, which ran north and south along the edge of Skagit Bay. They passed the old ranger station. Miguel could see how much further along the restoration was since the last time he had driven by. He tamped down an irrational wish that he would be alive to see it finished. Formidable Douglas firs, Pacific madrones with their oddly peeling cinnamon-brown bark, and ponderosa pines populated both sides of the windy road, occasionally parting to offer drivers a view west out past the glittering bay to the islands beyond. Not a cloud in sight.

Eventually Justin turned right off Charter and bumped the SUV down a long driveway with signage announcing Private Property—No Trespassing. A newer home was perched on the edge of a cliff. The house was gorgeous and in other, less life-ending situations Miguel might have appreciated its construction. Three stories of glass faced west; even in the most inclement weather, occupants would enjoy a magnificent view. Decks jutted out on each level, and at the ground floor a patio with a large gas grill and table and chairs was protected by an awning, waiting for vacationers to enjoy the day.

Justin led him through the front door. Even that was a work of art, dark wood intricately carved with flowers and exotic birds. As Miguel had thought, the view from inside was immediate and intimidating. It followed a person everywhere.

The owners—not Justin; even though he had a key, Miguel was certain of that—had furnished the dwelling in the latest Sunset magazine style. White couches positioned for optimal views, a large glass coffee table, and a double-sided gas fireplace. The kitchen was open to the great room, beautiful and fully appointed with stainless steel appliances and gleaming cookware. A long countertop with a bowl of fruit placed in its center stood between the two spaces.

“Where’s Angel?”

“Are you worried about your little friend? He’s fine. What do you think of the place?”

“Why are you doing this?” Miguel didn’t know what he was doing, trying to engage this psycho who had controlled his life for too many years.

Justin almost looked offended, which, if Miguel hadn’t been terrified, would have been funny. “I’m treating you to a weekend away. You work too hard. Come see the rest of the house.”

There was nothing to do but follow him. Miguel couldn’t leave Angel in the house with Justin, even if he could find a way to escape. There was no evidence of a landline; did builders put those in houses these days? Were they required?

They passed the second floor, which from the quick look Miguel managed had several bedrooms and a large bathroom. On the third floor, the master bedroom took up half the footprint of the house. Like the rest of the place, it was decorated entirely in white. The walls, accents, and bedding, all snow white. The young man on the bed was as pale as Miguel remembered.

“Angel,” Miguel whispered.

Angel slowly turned his head as if he hadn’t heard the two of them coming up the stairs. His gaze was vacant, and he was not nearly as petrified as Miguel expected. He didn’t answer, probably because there was duct tape covering his mouth. His expression was uncomprehending. This was not the anxious kid who’d melted down at the Booking Room just a week ago.

“What did you do to him?”

“Poor Angel, he was so upset. I had to offer him a sedative. He is doing much better now. Right, Angel?” The way Justin crooned “Angel” made Miguel’s skin crawl.

“What do you want from me? I’ll do whatever you want. Please, let Angel go.”

The room was freezing, or maybe that was just Miguel. Angel didn’t seem to be cold, even though he was naked on top of the white comforter, his dark hair the only splash of color on Justin’s canvas.

“Take off your clothes.” Justin walked closer to the bed, looking down at Angel as he spoke. “Now.”

Whatever else Justin had been doing in the years since Miguel had left him, he had been keeping fit. He was bigger, heavier, and probably stronger than Miguel. Miguel tried to think how he could overpower him… but there was nothing. He wished he’d taken self-defense or karate or something so he could be the hero right now.

Instead he took off his clothes. The air was chilly against his skin.

“Good boy.” Justin picked up the small pile of clothing, tucking it under his arm. “Get on the bed. I didn’t realize until now, the two of you will be lovely together.” He looked at Miguel, long and assessing. “Don’t do anything stupid. Our pretty Angel will pay for it.”

Miguel got on the bed. It dipped under his weight as he slid as close as he dared to Angel.

“Lay down.” Justin stood at the end of the bed, acting, Miguel thought, much like a curator in an upscale gallery would while arranging his art, a finger to the corner of his mouth as he considered the display. “I was right, you are beautiful together. Put your hands behind your head, Miguel. Very nice.” He reached out and tugged Miguel’s left leg, arranging it so he was fully exposed, knee bent and pointing outward. “Perfect. Stay just like that. I’ll be right back.”

Justin left the room, taking Miguel’s clothing with him. The snick of the lock echoed in the vast silence of the room. Miguel looked over at Angel. His eyes weren’t vacant anymore; their expression was pleading and full of fear.

“How long have you been here?” Miguel was afraid to take the tape off. If they were going to get away, they would need the element of surprise.

Angel shrugged, then held up three slim fingers, shrugging again. For three days, Justin had imprisoned Angel. While Miguel had been seducing and playing house with Nate, Angel had been suffering.

“Has he done anything?”

Angel shook his head. Thank fuck.

A surge of vicious emotion overwhelmed Miguel.

All these years he’d lived in fear of Justin finding him in Skagit, fear of being forced to return to the way things had been in Spokane, fear for his job, fear for his life. All these years he’d allowed this… this despicable piece of shit to rule his life and his happiness? For what? So Justin could come waltzing back in as if he owned Miguel—and now he was adding Angel to his list of ruined lives?

No. Fucking. Way. Not going to happen. Miguel’s heart pounded in his chest. He was surprised Angel couldn’t hear it, the sound was so loud in his own ears.