The cold, fluorescent-lit, antiseptic little attorney meeting room was just down the hall from the one where I’d waited last week. The same air of desperation and despair scented the air of this place, and once again, I was impatient for my client to appear from behind the reinforced steel door. But as I sat calmly looking over my case notes as I waited for him, I couldn’t help but reflect that this visit to Bonneville was completely different from my last.

For one thing, the man I was meeting today was Max Pederson, who had finally been moved out of the general prison population thanks to the Masters pulling some strings. It had been a couple of weeks since I’d seen him in person, since he’d set me on the path that led me to Ethan and the Masters, and I couldn’t wait to tell him what we’d learned.

But by far the most important change since my last visit was Ethan himself. The man I loved wasn’t on the other side of that steel door anymore, but home with me, and I knew that he was mine in every way. When I’d finally made it out of bed this morning, showered, and dressed in my black pantsuit, Ethan had been lounging in the bed behind me—the bed we’d shared every night for the past week—watching me fix my hair back into a bun. Ethan had helped me choose the silver studs now fastened in my ears, and vetoed my contact lenses, reminding me that I looked hot and authoritative in my black glasses. And Ethan had wrapped his arms around me and whispered, “It’s almost over,” in my ear before handing me a to-go cup of coffee and sending me out the door to meet a uniformed driver, who’d driven me here.

He hadn’t wanted me to go, and at first insisted he’d go with me, but I’d told him this was my job. I wasn’t a helpless female and I wouldn’t be caged in. He’d let me go, reluctantly, and made me promise to be safe. Luis was safe, and Walker and Caelan were tracking the names of those on the Bianchi’s payroll. As soon as I left, I’d go straight back to my driver and the Masters.

To Ethan.

Somehow, with him there to tease me and push my limits, everyday chores became imbued with meaning and insurmountable obstacles became possible. Like earlier this week when, armed with information we’d gotten from Stella Bianchi herself, we’d found a way to get justice for two of the innocent men the Bianchis had framed.

After Stella’s revelations the other day, we’d had to veto our original plan to get Stella to recant her statement to the police in order to free Luis. It had seemed like the most straightforward option—the one that would have theoretically allowed Luis to resume his normal life and help take care of his mother. But knowing that people inside this very prison could have been actively planning to kill Luis, we hadn’t had the luxury of waiting for an appeal. And Xavier had reminded me that there was also a definite upside to keeping Stella in her family’s good graces until we could figure out a way to take Carmen and Alberto down for good.

In the end, I was glad Ethan and Luis had planned for an alternative means of getting Luis out. And I set that plan in motion two nights ago with a phone call to Luis in prison, delivering a coded message.

Yesterday, September 18th, Luis Omar Rivera-Cruz had been found unresponsive in the kitchen of the prison while on dish duty. Prison medics had been unable to revive him from what appeared to be a massive coronary and had rushed him into an ambulance and from there to St. Luke’s, where he had been pronounced dead. As his attorney of record and emergency contact, I’d been called to the hospital to identify his body, myself, and I’d fulfilled my duty with tears in my eyes, noting the light brown eyes and curly brown hair that matched the photo in his prison record. The doctors had verified this information using Luis Rivera’s prison dental records—records Walker had hacked, of course—and alerted Luis’ few surviving family members of his untimely demise. In accordance with his wishes, Luis’ body had been cremated immediately.

But because Walker Smith was a certified computer genius and Ethan was not only a master con artist but a fucking master of disguise, a wealthy man by the name of Javier Beacon was born at the exact moment of Luis Rivera’s death, and he strolled out of St. Luke’s not two hours later. Outwardly, Javier bore hardly any resemblance to the deceased man. His hair was nearly black and slicked straight. His eyes were a startling bright green behind a pair of thick hipster glasses, and thanks to the risers in his boots and the padding in his clothing, he appeared to be nearly three inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than Luis had been.

Nurse Corinne Booker, an old friend of Caelan’s who’d overseen the swap of the bodies, was now the proud owner of a completely paid-for house and would be enjoying a long vacation on a private island. Meanwhile, Javier had been given a plane ticket to Boston, along with the name of Walker’s old friend Rylan, who’d help Javier get acclimated to his new identity and further cover his tracks. And Ethan had personally promised to take care of Luis’ mother by ensuring she received a million-dollar windfall sometime very soon. My man was essentially Robin Hood these days.

I couldn’t wait to tease him about that when I got home. I was pretty sure I knew exactly how he’d react, and I couldn’t deny that the knowledge had me squirming against the hard chair.

The steel door clanged open, and Max Pederson shuffled in. His watery blue eyes found mine immediately, like he was latching onto a life preserver.

“Haven! Thank God,” he said, stepping forward eagerly and taking the chair across from mine at the little metal table. “You won’t believe what’s happened!” His sandy hair was disheveled, and agitation was clear in every line of his body, like he was about to impart bad news. “Luis Rivera, the man I who said he had information about the people who might have framed me? He’s… dead. And without his information, I have no idea how we’ll ever be able to prove that I wasn’t the one to kill Emma.” He raised his cuffed wrists to pass a trembling hand over his eyes.

I blinked. It hadn’t occurred to me that the news of Luis’ ‘demise’ might make it back here so quickly, and I hadn’t been prepared for Max’s reaction. But Ethan had admonished me firmly about confiding in Max any more than absolutely necessary.

“It’s not because I don’t trust him,” Ethan had said. “It’s safer for him not to know. Luis is only safe if everyone who knew him believes he’s really dead. As sad as that will be for the people who cared about him, their grief sells the lie. Trust me.”

And I did. From now on, I always would.

“Max,” I said softly. “I know this must be a very hard time for you. But I want you to know, I spoke to Luis before he died.”

He looked up quickly at my words, his cheeks wet. “W-what? How?”

I licked my lips. You’d think, with a reformed grifter sharing my bed, that lies would come more easily to me now, but they didn’t. Ironically, Ethan expected my complete honesty, and I gave it to him. Always.

“He made me his attorney,” I said, giving him part of the truth. “Several days ago, he told me more about the people he believed had framed you, and we’re taking steps to take them down.”

“We?” He frowned. “You and Sabrina and her friends?”

I nodded. “Yes. They’re all good, trustworthy men.” Now, anyway, I added mentally, biting my lip to hide my smile.

Max’s eyes narrowed. “If you know the B-.” He paused, looking around the room, as though afraid the walls had ears, and dropped his voice to a whisper, barely moving his lips as he spoke. “If you know that family is involved, you know that they’re incredibly dangerous. You and Sabrina, these men who are helping you, they need to know how serious…”

“They know,” I soothed him. “That’s why they called in some favors to get you transferred out of general.”

His mouth formed an “o” of surprise. “That was their doing?”

“It was,” I confirmed. “I put in the request, but they made sure it was handled as a priority.”

“I can’t thank them enough.” He shook his head. “My money. I can’t access any of it. I can’t pay them…”

“No, that’s not what this is about,” I told him, holding up a hand. “They don’t expect any payment at all. They just want to see justice done, including getting you out of here. And that’s why,” I said, pulling a sheet out of my folder, “Walker started looking more closely at your building’s security.”

In truth, it had been the information from Stella about Detective Wyatt Porter being on the Bianchis’ payroll that had tipped Walker off to start looking at the security more thoroughly. But Max didn’t need to know that, either.

Max leaned forward, looking at the piece of paper I was holding. It was a still photo from a security camera feed on the night of Emma Pederson’s death, time-stamped 10:03 PM. The security desk was empty as the night concierge was taking his fifteen-minute break, but a bouquet of summer flowers was sitting on one corner of the desk.

“That’s… a picture of the lobby of my building,” he said, looking up at me blankly. “I don’t understand.”

I pulled two more still shots from the folder, one time stamped 10:04 and the other 10:05, and laid all three side by side, so he could compare.

He shook his head. “What am I supposed to see? There’s an empty desk in all three pictures.”

“That’s what I said too, the first time I saw them.” I grinned. “But Walker, our computer guy, he misses nothing. Check out the little daisy at the bottom of the vase,” I suggested.

He obediently looked at the pictures in time order, then scowled “The flowers are perfect here.” He pointed one stubby finger to the first image. “Then it looks like one daisy fell off the stem,” he said, pointing to the next image. “But a minute later, it’s back as it was?” He pointed at the final image, then looked up at me. “That’s… impossible.

I nodded. “Totally impossible. In fact, it’s evidence that this feed was tampered with. And, according to Walker, it was a fucking sloppy job, too.” I cleared my throat, feeling my cheeks heat as I repeated the expletive, something I tried not to do in front of clients. “It means that someone looped the feed for a few minutes at that time. The camera wasn’t recording who came in or, more importantly, who might have left. And it also means that the security in your condo could have been tampered with, as well.”

He blinked in shock. “Does that mean…?”

“It means that Walker did more digging, on exactly what was happening in your apartment the night of the murder.” I pulled another sheet of paper from the stack and placed it down in front of him. “Max, why did you tell me you were watching videos the night of the murder?”

He glanced down at the paper, which showed a time-stamped chat conversation between Max and a woman who called herself SexxxyGlenda. The conversation had gone on for half an hour, with hardly a minute in between messages, and had included them trading images so lewd they’d be seared on my brain until the end of time.

Still, they were a freakin’ alibi.

“I don’t know her real name,” Max blurted. “I was just chatting with her over text. I mentioned it to the police when they were investigating, and the detective just laughed at me. He said it proved nothing.” He looked sad. “Would it have made a difference?”

I sighed. “Alone, that might not have. Combined with the camera tampering, it makes a pretty compelling case that you’ve been framed. At least, that’s how I hope the judge will see it when I file my motion to get you out of here.” I tapped the remaining papers in my folder. “I have everything here for you to sign.”

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “You can do that?”

“I can,” I promised him. “I will.”

“I’m leaving town,” he vowed, dragging his hands through his hair after he’d signed the forms and thrown the pen back down on the table. “As soon as I get out of this place, I’m going somewhere new. Starting over. And I don’t care if I never work as an attorney again. I don’t care if I have to live in a shack on the beach. I’m not taking my freedom for granted again. I’m not taking life for granted again.” He looked at me and shook his head. “I did things I’m not proud of. I prioritized the wrong things. The wrong people. I divorced my first wife, Erica, six years ago. Stupidest thing I ever did, and I’m going to tell her so, the second I get a breath of fresh air in my lungs. Sometimes it takes a tragedy to get a man to grow up... even when he’s fifty-three.” He gave me a self-deprecating smile. “But it’s never too late, right?”

“Never,” I agreed, thinking of the tragedies that had made Ethan change his life, and the crazy twists and turns that had led us back together after all these years. “My mom always says, ‘Where there’s life, there’s hope.’” And, I added to myself, when you truly love someone, there’s nothing you can’t come back from.

A few minutes later, I packed up my papers as the guard took Max back to his cell, hopefully for the last time, and as I was escorted out of the building and headed for the car that would be waiting for me, I felt none of the usual anxiety and helplessness I usually felt when I left my clients behind. The bleakness of Bonneville couldn’t touch me when I knew Ethan was waiting for me at home, Luis was starting his new life, and the Bianchis were enjoying the last few days of their reign of terror, whether they knew it or not.

I grabbed my cell phone and tapped Ethan’s name to call him. My good mood was even better when I could share it with him.

God. I was such a sap for this man. The Haven Wright I’d been last month would have shaken her head and made gagging noises. But I wasn’t ashamed of it in the slightest. I’d bear the title with pride, the same way I carried Ethan’s marks on my ass.

I felt my lips curving into a goofy smile, my feet light against the gray asphalt of the parking lot as the phone began to ring.

I was so intent on seeing Ethan I never noticed the man who climbed out of the shadows between two parked cars and grabbed the phone out of my hand.

“Nice and easy, Ms. Wright,” he said, and I looked up to see a man smiling down at me, like he and I were old friends reunited. He was tall and thin, with a pointy nose and sharp-honed cheeks. His hair was shaved tightly against the sides of his head and only slightly longer on top, and his eyes were absolutely chilling. They were blue, but unlike Ethan’s eyes that had reminded me of endless warmth even when I’d tried to convince myself I hated him, this man’s eyes were cold. Soulless.

“Who are you?” I demanded. I didn’t expect an answer, and in any case, the furious pounding of my heart told me that whoever he was, he was a Bianchi henchman.

“Doesn’t matter,” he told me blithely, dropping my cell phone into his pocket. “Because right now, you’re going to smile and walk with me to my car.”

“Like hell I will,” I told him, my eyes roaming around the mostly empty parking lot. Ethan had insisted on sending me to the prison with a car and driver today, even though we’d assumed the possibility of a threat against me was minimal. The driver had waited for me. Or at least, he was supposed to have waited.

“Looking for your car?” the pointy-faced man asked without losing his grin. “He got called away on a family emergency.” He pursed his lips and shook his head with exaggerated sadness. “So hard to get good help, isn’t it?”

My stomach lurched. The driver was gone. He’d taken my phone. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

“I don’t know what you want with me! I have hardly any money,” I blurted.

The man laughed out loud. “What I need from you is more valuable than money. I need information. I want to know exactly what your former client Luis Rivera told you about his crime. I want to know what he told you about Eli Warner’s death.” He pressed his hand to my side, and I felt something hard dig into my rib through the material of my suit jacket. A fucking gun. “Now. As I said. You’re coming with me.”

My mind wheeled through my choices, which were few, and the possible dangers, which were legion. I could attempt to fight him off and be killed. Or go with him… and be killed. And all I could think was that either way, Ethan would lose someone else he cared about.

He didn’t wait for me to reply but began dragging me further into the lot with one arm wrapped around my waist and the other jamming the hidden gun into my side, when suddenly a red sedan pulled into the lot. The man slowed as the car parked not far from us. He shifted his body slightly to further conceal the gun as a tall man in a guard uniform stepped out of the sedan.

“Say a word and I’ll kill both you and him,” the man warned me, and I swallowed.

“Hey!” the guard called out with a friendly grin. “I didn’t think you were working today, Hunter!”

I fought the urge to vomit as my fear blossomed into terror. The man holding me was Hunter? The guard who worked directly for the Bianchis? The man who likely had something to do with Eli Warner’s death?

“You know me, James,” Hunter replied easily. “Just love this place so much I can’t stay away.”

“Sure, sure,” James said, grinning. He looked at me expectantly, like he was waiting for an introduction. I felt the gun jab painfully into my flesh and tried to hold back a wince.

“Haven,” I told him. “Haven Wright. I’m an attorney. For several of your prisoners.”

“Oh?” James frowned, glancing between Hunter and I like he was trying to fathom why Hunter and I were standing so freakin close together. He shrugged. “Well, I’ll let you know if I need an attorney at any point then, ma’am. Anyway. Listen, Hunter, I have the golf clubs you lent me,” he said, heading for the trunk of his sedan. “If Cindy’s dad was basing his approval of our marriage on my putting ability, dude, I would be screwed, but I appreciate the loan.”

“Not now,” Hunter said quickly. “You’ve gotta get inside and we’re in a hurry.”

“Nah, won’t take a second,” James said affably, fitting the key in the lock. “I don’t need to be inside for a few and the damn things are rattling around in my trunk.”

“Keep the clubs, James,” Hunter insisted. He nudged me in the side with the gun and I gasped as I took a stumbling step past James, toward a group of parked cars. “Practice your swing.”

“Hunter? Man, are you okay?” James called from behind us.

“Never better,” Hunter said, and his hand on my waist tightened so hard I squeaked in protest, but he didn’t relax his hold. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “Walk faster.”

But I wouldn’t. Getting in a car with this man would be certain death. I deliberately slowed my steps, giving James time to get back in the building.

“I swear to God, you’d better fucking walk,” he spat. “You will not be the first person I’ve killed, and you will not be the last, understand? I’ve killed men I called my friends, Ms. Wright, so believe me when I say that your pretty face won’t even give me a moment’s hesitation.”

I’ve killed men I called my friends. Did he mean… Eli?

“They’ll see you,” I whispered. “There are cameras all over this lot, and they’ll see you.”

He chuckled darkly. “They’ll see what I want them to see. Two old friends, maybe a pair of lovers, strolling to our car. Nothing remarkable about it. Hell, I killed a man inside the fucking prison and got away with it. I’ll get away with this too. Pays to have friends in powerful places.”

“Eli Warner?” I demanded. “You caused the riot that killed Eli Warner?”

He stopped short and turned to look at me. “He did talk.” He shook his head. “Fucking Luis. Running his damn mouth and getting people killed. Asshole shoulda learned from his mistakes.”

I realized that my only chance of escape was to make a break for it now. I stepped forward fast—faster than Hunter had been expecting—and whirled around, so his hand ended up wrapped around my front and the gun was jamming into my other side. James was still standing next to his car, watching us with a concerned frown on his face.

“Did you need my number?” I called back to him.

“The fuck are you doing?” Hunter hissed. “Walk!”

I ignored him, focusing on James. “I can give you my number if you want. Just in case?”

“He doesn’t need your number,” Hunter said over his shoulder. He forced a chuckle, even as his hand clamped down on my hip and I could feel his gaze searing my face. “We’re guards, not inmates.”

“Actually,” James called, drawing the word out slowly, like maybe he was making connections. “You never know. Gimme the digits. Just in case.” He grabbed his phone.

I swallowed and rattled off ten digits I happened to have learned by heart when Ethan had been memorizing our phone numbers before he went to prison. The numbers for the Masters’ Manhattan penthouse. I could only pray that James would call them soon.

“Got it,” James said. “See you around, guys.” He slammed his trunk closed and walked toward the building.

Hunter turned me around and forced me toward the car. “You stupid bitch,” he fumed. “I should kill you right now.”

“But you won’t,” I said confidently. “Not when your bosses expect you to bring me to them.” And now that James wasn’t in danger, I realized I had nothing left to lose.

Without hesitation, I brought the point of my high heel down on his instep. He hissed in surprise, letting go of my waist. Before he could regain his balance, I elbowed him with all the force I could muster, then turned and ran back towards the relative safety of the prison, praying I could make it in time.

The sound of squealing rubber made my hair stand on end, as I ran for the door. Someone in a car was coming, and the sound of feet pounding behind me told me Hunter had recovered. He was coming after me. The door was right there, within my grasp, and I reached for the knob when I felt my hair pulled from behind. I screamed and fell backward, and as soon as his arms tightened around me, I heard the car screech to a halt. They had me cornered. A dry sob of desperation caught in my throat and mustering all the courage I could, I turned my body and ignored the pain in my scalp, kicking out to fight back. I’d face whoever would drag me into their car and to Bianchi.

The grasp on my hair fell away and the man was dragged backward away from me. I fell to the ground on my knees and blinked in surprise at a flash of familiar auburn hair. Ethan. He’d come for me.

He had Hunter by both arms, restraining him from coming after me. “Haven, get it in the car!” he bellowed as Hunter pulled and fought. I raced to the open door of Ethan’s car, and screamed as Hunter got his arm away and swung toward Ethan. Ethan ducked the blow, then tackled Hunter to the ground, kneeling over him and pinning his wrists to his sides. He held him like that, restrained, and yelled over his shoulder.

“Hit the alarm, Haven. Now!” It took me a second to realize what he meant, then I grabbed his keys and hit the red panic button on his key ring. A loud, deafening alarm went off, and the door to the prison flew open, armed security guards flooding the parking lot.

I slumped against the side of the car door. We were safe.