W e pull into a parking lot outside a Dunkin Donuts in Red Hook and we rifle through the file, hunting for a clue. Some piece of information that was overlooked when Raph was first arrested. Nate lays the battered green suspension file on the console between us, and one by one we begin to go through each of the papers. There’s a lot of repetition—witness reports from the same people, printed out in duplicate. Mary Rose Hardy came across the accident just after the police showed up. She heard the commotion and followed the sirens, showing up on the scene just as Raph was being taken away in the back of a police cruiser. Osman Musharef was just finishing up his shift at The Waldorf Hotel, when there was an almighty crash from outside and the entire building shook. He immediately went about ensuring the safety and wellbeing of two guests who happened to be having an argument at the rear of the lobby, close to the elevators. By the time he actually made it outside the hotel, Raph was long gone, already taken to the station. He said it was an absolute miracle anyone survived the wreck at all, given how badly damaged the car was.

There are more reports from people about the accident, each vague and unhelpful. “There wasn’t a single person who actually saw what happened, Nate. Not one of these people witnessed the accident. Something…something’s not right here.”

Nate holds his takeout coffee to his chest and stares blankly at the paper in front of him. “It’s not just that. There are other inconsistencies, too. It says here Paxton was in the back seat on the driver’s side of the car, and Thalia was in the rear on the passenger side. But then in this report…” He holds up another stapled document, the paper yellowed along one edge in a weird triangular stain. “This report says that Paxton was in the rear on the passenger side, and Thalia was on the driver’s side.”

“I suppose a detail like that might be easily confused if things were chaotic.”

Nate doesn’t look remotely convinced. “This accident report’s completely upside down. It doesn’t once talk about the severed brake lines. There are barely any forensic observations about the way the car impacted the hotel. It seems more concerned with the fact that blame for the incident must lie with the driver. I’ve counted the word ‘incompetence’ at least four times time. It’s not the accident investigator’s responsibility to place blame, only to record the bare facts of an accident.”

“And Chloe’s medical reports?”

“Vague, too.” Nate grabs the file and opens it, pointing down at the black ink. “Chloe Evans, aged twenty-seven. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Cause of death: massive head trauma. I’m not an expert on the subject, but I read enough autopsy reports when I was in the military to know they include a little more detail than that. They usually describe any defining birthmarks or scars. And they always record all injuries incurred in accidents. They haven’t said a word about any other injuries to Chloe’s body. If the crash was that bad, how could she have only sustained injuries to her head and nowhere else on her body?”

“You’re right.” I take a sip of my own coffee, frowning deeply. “What about the other medical reports? Are theirs just as vague, too?”

“I’m not sure,” Nate admits. “Hang on, I’ll find them.” He sets down his coffee and flips through individual sheets of paper and heavily stapled documents, some of them fastened together with bulldog clips. It takes a moment for him to find them. “Here. This is Paxton’s. And…this one’s Thalia’s.” He hands them both over to me. I take a look, and the difference is immediately noticeable. It’s like night and day. Where Chloe’s report is no more than three lines long, Paxton’s is extensive—two full pages of information. Every single cut, scrape and scratch was recorded, it seems.

Laceration to upper arm.

Laceration to both left and right hands.

Laceration to neck.

Hairline fracture to left radius.

Three broken ribs.

T halia’s report is the same.

B roken index finger on right hand.

Laceration to jaw.

Laceration to shoulder.

Dislocation of right arm.

Fractured collarbone.

Broken ribs.

R aph’s medical report , however, is notably short.

A brasions to forehead .

Mild concussion.

Bruised ribs.

I ’m about to comment on this when my phone starts ringing. I look down at the screen and my stomach rolls. The number isn’t one I have stored in my contacts, but I recognize it. Thalia texted it over to me earlier. It’s Paxton. I send a tense sideways glance in Nate’s direction.

“You’d better answer it,” he says, his voice calm.

My hands shake a little as I hold my cell to me ear. “Hello?”

“Ms. Dreymon,” the cool, collected voice on the other end of the line purrs. Paxton Ross clears his throat—a polite, gentlemanly cough. “I think it’s time and you I had a little chat. Meet me at Thalia’s apartment. I’ll be waiting there for you.”

“Okay. I’m bringing Nate with me, though.” I’d love to tell Paxton that I’m bringing Raph with me, but the way things were when we left, the look of pure fury in his eyes…god, if he knew what I was doing right now, he’d fucking kill me. He couldn’t have made it any clearer that he didn’t want me to digging into the accident. And even if I did tell him what was going on and where I’m about to go, it wouldn’t matter anyway; he hasn’t left his apartment in over five years, after all. I doubt he’d make an exception to come out now and help me do something he expressly forbade me from doing in the first place.

“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible,” Paxton informs me smoothly.

“Why not?”

“Because the authorities wish to speak to Nathaniel about the recent theft he committed at my workplace.”

No. Fucking. Way. I knew Paxton was a dick, but seriously? He called the cops? Such a shitty move. Just as I’m about to tell him to go to hell, to call him every name under the sun, there’s a rap on the car window. I look up, and all hope of having back-up at Thalia’s disintegrates. There, on the other side of the glass, a police officer is standing beside the car…and his hand is resting menacingly on top of his gun.

Fuck .