After waiting around at the police station for five hours, I’m called up to the front desk again, only to be told there isn’t a detective available to talk to me.

“It might be a while, so it’s best to go home and wait until you get a call from us,” Ceceil tells me tiredly.

“How long do you think that will be?” I ask, trying not to sound as irked as I feel, but it’s been a long night and early morning filled with worry. And until I find Zoe, I’m never going to be able to rest.

“I’m not sure.” She glances around the waiting room crammed with people either being brought in, being brought out, or people there to bail someone out. “It’s been an extremely busy night. My bet is that it won’t calm down until this evening. I don’t know what it is about storms, but it always seems to increase the arrests we make. For some reason, it makes people lose their damn minds.”

I think of Zoe and the last time I saw her. How the storm was howling fiercely through the town. Then I picture the streets being flooded with people, ready to commit crimes, and Zoe wandering into the midst of them—

“Oh, for the love of God.” Ceceil picks up her phone and pounds in a number. “Yeah, can you please send an officer up to the front office? There’s a man outside about to throw a brick through the window—”

The sound of shattering glass sends me ducking for cover. I throw my arms over my head, shielding myself as shouts and screams fill the air

Oh, my god. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Who throws a brick through a police station window?

I peek up to see the culprit, but can’t see a dang thing through the officers swarming the room and the people fleeing out the front door.

“Are you okay?”

The voice holds a slight amount of familiarity to it.

I glance up and find Zane looking down at me worriedly.

I don’t know whether to be relieved or not. Whether I should fear him. I’m unsure why he’s here at the police station, if he’s in trouble or just here to bail someone out. Ceceil seemed to know him, but she didn’t seem that thrilled about it.

“Yeah, I’m fine!” I shout over the chaos. My knees knock together as I stand upright, keeping my back close to the counter to avoid getting trampled. “I’m just not used to this sort of stuff.”

His brow arches. “Is anyone used to this?”

I collect my bag from the counter. “Police probably are.”

He wavers. “Some are, but not all of them.” When I give him a puzzled look, he adds, “Meter cops would definitely be freaking out right now.”

“I don’t know about that. I once saw a meter cop get threatened by a guy just because he gave him a ticket. And the guy was huge. Like, bodybuilder huge.” I drape my purse over my shoulder and step toward the door, eager to leave.

Then I think about Zoe and stop dead in my tracks. I know Ceceil said I should go home, but how can I just take off when she might be out there somewhere, scared out of her mind, maybe in pain.

Maybe dead.

I try to blink the thought from my head as tears sting my eyes.

Zoe, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry for letting this happen.

This is all my fault.

Just like my parents’ deaths.

I thought I had the guilt under control, but Zoe’s disappearance seems to be triggering it.

“Is everything all right?” Zane asks, startling me. I honestly thought he’d walked away by now.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I breathe in, struggling to fight back the tears.

“Why are you here, anyway?” He drags his gaze up and down me, and my heart reacts, slamming into my chest. “You don’t look like the type who spends a lot of time in the police station. Then again, looks can be deceiving.” He pauses, as if waiting for me to say something. When I don’t, he frowns. “Huh.”

What a weirdo.

“Why are you here?” I question. “You seemed pretty comfortable with the receptionist, so I’m guessing you come here a lot.”

He rests his elbow against the edge of the counter, the corners of his lips quirking. “Oh yeah, me and Ceceil go way back. Back to before I even started working here.”

“You work here?” Okay, now I feel absurdly stupid. “I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to …” I bite down on my bottom lip, my cheeks heating.

“Imply that I’m a criminal?” he finishes, still wearing that same amused grin. “Oh, I am. Or used to be, anyway.”

I wait for him to embellish, but he doesn’t. Instead, he studies me in the same unnerving way he did when I first saw him.

“Look, if you need help with anything, I have connections here.” His relentless gaze makes me squirm. “I could help speed up the process of whatever you’re trying to get help with. I know things can work a little slow sometimes.” His gaze flicks to a couple of officers hauling in the guy who broke the window. “And it’ll probably move even more slowly now.”

I want to accept his help for Zoe, but hesitate because … “Why would you do that for me? You don’t even know me.”

He stares at me for so long I swear his gaze is going to bore a hole through my forehead. “Let’s just call you my good deed for the day.”

I debate whether to accept his offer. It seems like there’s more to it than what he’s letting on. Does it really matter? All that should matter is finding Zoe.

“My friend’s missing,” I tell him. “I filled out a missing person’s report and everything, but the receptionist said it’ll be a little while before a detective will be available to take the case.”

“How long’s she been missing?”

I glance at my watch. “For almost thirty hours. We were in this club … and she was talking to these guys, and they bought us drinks …” I take a breath. “That’s pretty much the last thing I remember before I blacked out.”

He frowns. “You blacked out?”

“It wasn’t because I was drunk.” I feel the need to defend myself.

“I never thought it was.” He pauses. “What club did you say you were at?” When I tell him the name, his frown deepens. “I need to go report this to my boss.” He sticks his hand into his pocket. “If you can think of any more details, or if your friend shows up, call me.”

I take the card from him and, as our fingers brush, I swear I get the strangest sensation of familiarity, as if I’ve met him before. But he doesn’t look familiar. I don’t think so, anyway.

“You act like something’s wrong with that club,” I say, clutching the card in my hand.

“I can’t talk about the details to you,” he says, backing toward the door. “Let’s just say that club has an infamous reputation for people going missing.”

“I …” The words die on my tongue as he vanishes through the door.

Sighing, I glance at the card. His name and number are printed on it, along with the city police department logo, but it doesn’t list a job title. Maybe because he works undercover?

I read the name a few more times. Zane. Zane. Zane. Where have I heard that name before? It’s not that popular of a name, but not so strange that I probably haven’t met more than one.

But no matter how many times I mentally say his name, I can’t connect a reason to the familiarity.

Giving up, I tuck the card away into my back pocket then push out the doors. As I step outside, my stomach starts to twist with knots, my head pulsating. Sucking in a breath of air, I collapse to my knees as little flickers of memories from the night before start to resurface. Memories of after Zoe and I left the club.

While I can’t piece together everything, one image stands out as clearly as the busy, sun-kissed street in front of me.

Blood.

I had blood on my hands. Zoe’s blood.

Stumbling to my feet, I run all the way home, not slowing down, even when rain begins to pour from the sky again.

Fuck, another storm. Just what I need.

More fear pours through me as I worry someone else is going to get hurt tonight.

Or maybe it’s just me.

From what I just remembered, maybe I deserve it.

By the time I make it to my loft, I’m drenched in sweat, rain, and tears, and my brain is drowning with fragments of images of Cole, Nolan, blood, screams, pain, and Zoe.

Blood on Zoe. So much blood. On her and me.

“I think I may have done something to her,” I whisper as I collapse to my knees.

I don’t know why or how or what I did, but I’m afraid and disgusted and sick. Vomit burns at the back of my throat as I race to the toilet and hurl.

After I empty out what little food I had in my stomach, I lie down on the cold, tile floor. My brain hurts. Everything hurts. Just like Zoe hurt the other night.

“What did they make me do?” I whisper, hugging my knees to my chest as I sob hysterically.

I’m crying so loudly I barely hear the buzzing of my phone, but I do manage to hear the soft ping.

“Zoe?” I whisper, hoping upon hope it’s her. That maybe, despite the bloody images filling my thoughts, she’s okay.

The message is from an unknown number.

Unknown: Madelynn, you better keep your mouth shut. If you don’t, we’ll send this to the police.

Attached is a photo of me kneeling over Zoe. And the same blood that covers her also stains my hands.

What really confuses me is how they refer to me by my middle name.

Just who the hell are these people, and what did they make me do?