They’d handcuffed me to a bar set into the metal table—the chair and the table were bolted to the floor—and left me in silence for what felt like hours. A mirror was on the opposite wall, reflecting my pathetic appearance. It was definitely two-way, and I wasn’t naive enough to think I was totally alone. Someone was watching on the other side of that thing.

I shivered, my wrists aching from where the handcuffs were chafing against my skin. My shoes were lost someplace back at the Halcyon, so my bare feet were numb. Fuck, it was cold in here. After the heat of the Nevada desert, it was like I’d been transported to Siberia…or a refrigerator. This is all part of their game, Sloane, I thought to myself. They’re trying to make you crack.

I didn’t know how much time had passed when the door finally opened. I guessed that was the point. Leave me alone with my thoughts so I could stew over what I’d done. Be more pliable to confess. Etcetera, etcetera.

I studied the man as he walked in. He was tall, had dark features—maybe Italian descent—bushy eyebrows, chocolate eyes, and was heavyset. A complete tough guy. It was the same agent who’d done the honors back to the Halcyon, minus the gun pointing at my face.

“Betty Marini,” the man said. “I’m Agent Sloss.”

I hated him already. Don’t fucking call me Betty.

Sloss slid into the chair across the table and leaned back, regarding me with a closed expression. His eyes gave nothing away, but he made it crystal clear he was the one with the power, and I had nothing.

“Nice dress,” he said, his voice loud in the silence. “Were you going somewhere fancy?”

I didn’t reply. Instead, I thought about what Chaser would do. Good fucking question. We’d never gone over interrogation dos and don’ts. Best to say nothing and don’t twitch. Twitching was bad. Television had taught me interrogators were trained to pick up on body language so they could tailor their questioning to hit the right buttons.

“Fine. Let’s skip the pleasantries and get down to business. You care to explain these to me?”

Sloss opened the file and took out several photographs, then slapped them onto the table in front of me. Lining them up, he glanced at me, waiting.

I stared at the photographs while attempting to keep my expression passive. Don’t twitch, Sloane. I recognized all the images from my road trip with Chaser. The service station where the Hollow Men tried to shoot me out the back. The bus station in New Mexico. The train station in Albuquerque. I was in all of them, Chaser was in some, but we were on film. That was bad.

I looked up at the agent, and he raised his eyebrows expecting an answer.

“I’m cold,” I said.

Sloss leaned back in his chair and gestured toward the two-way mirror. We proceeded to have a staring competition, both of us stoic as fuck until the door to the interview room opened and another agent walked in and handed him an FBI branded jacket.

It was adding insult to injury, but I let Agent Sloss drape it over my shoulders. He didn’t even bother to uncuff me so I could wear it properly. If it slipped and fell on the floor, it would be too bad. Snide assholes. To him, I was just another piece of shit criminal he’d dedicated his life to putting behind bars. He didn’t want to know my story, he just wanted to pin a motive on it, sit me before a jury, bask in the glory stamped on his report card, and then claim his government pension and a gold watch when he retired.

What would he do if I told him about my father’s plan to sell me to King? What would he do about my self-defense argument? He could be a good guy, or he could be firmly in King’s back pocket. Either way, I was headed for bad news city, population me.

Sloss already believed my guilt, and I couldn’t help thinking about what the FBI did to Chaser. He’d dedicated himself to them, and they’d abandoned him when he needed them most. I wanted to believe there was good left in the world, but I was highly doubtful I’d find any shred of it here.

Best to say nothing.

Sloss sat down again and nudged a photograph forward.

“This,” he said, tapping the image with a thick finger. “This is you, isn’t it?” It was a grainy still from a security feed, the footage taken from a service station. “We found two guys shot up out the back the same day this image was taken.”

I assumed he had a whole case planned out where this led to linking me to the murder of my father. There had to be evidence somewhere, or this could be him clutching at straws. They’d had a tip-off—enough grounds to arrest—but hadn’t found enough evidence to charge me. He might be counting on me to slip up to solidify his case.

I hated not knowing. Shit, that night when Chaser and I had driven toward LA, I’d had the chance to turn around and leave this life behind. Chaser offered me everything, but I wanted revenge for me and also, on his behalf. Had I been selfish? I felt a pang of regret and glanced at Sloss.

“What’s all this about, Betty? You hide away on the other side of the country, live a normal life, then you team up with this guy and return to California.”

He knew so much…

“What happened at the Fortitude compound?”

I said nothing.

“A few weeks ago, there were reports of gunfire. When the local PD investigated, the place was empty.”

I stared at him.

“What about that fire? A convoy of motorcycles was seen leaving a cabin on the border of Joshua Tree. A cabin, which burned to the ground. You know what emblem was on the jackets of those men? The crossed swords of Fortitude Motorcycle Club.”

I felt like rolling my eyes, but I held on tight.

“You shot and killed your father that night, Betty. Point-blank in the chest.”

I noted that he didn’t produce a photo of the body.

“What were you doing at the Halcyon?”

Man, I was getting tired. I wondered what Chaser was doing. Hopefully, he was working on a way to break me out without bringing down the hammer of the law on us. Posting bail? I wondered if he’d called Gasket. They needed to do a scrub for renegades in the remaining crew, but the more Sloss talked, the more I wondered if there was a mole or if it was all just unsubstantiated evidence from Rocket—who, Chaser told me, had been left for dead—or one of his renegade buddies.

Sloss stared at me, clearly frustrated with my silence.

A knock at the door elicited a sharp sigh from my interrogator, and he stood, the chair scraping on the floor. Flashing me one last glare, he strode over and left, leaving me with the photographs of mine and Chaser’s road trip adventure. The jacket slipped from my shoulders and fell to the floor. What a mess.

My gaze flew to the door as it opened again, but instead of Agent Sloss, another man walked in. He didn’t look like FBI in his sharp tailored suit. It was black with a subtle gray pinstripe, matching shirt, and silk tie. His silver-streaked hair was swept back in a fancy quiff, and a short, clipped, neat beard gave a rough edge to his refined appearance. When his gaze met mine, a chill prickled my skin. There was nothing there. No light, no anger, no happiness…just…nothing.

“Do you know who I am?” the man asked. His voice was deep and gravelly with just a hint of a Southern accent.

I glanced at the mirror, then at the security camera.

“No one’s watching,” he said. “What happens from here on out is off the official record.”

As he folded himself into the chair that Sloss had occupied earlier, he unbuttoned his suit jacket with practiced flair. This was a guy who loved his refinement, reveled in class and intellectual manipulation. It could only be one person. King.

“I know what you did,” he said. “That’s the only reason I’m talking to you now, Sloane. The only reason.”

“So you’re King…” I mused, tilting my head to the side. “Honestly, I can’t see what all the fuss is about.”

If he was here, then all this… It meant nothing. It was a ruse to get me into custody, to shift the sands of power into the hands of the Hollow Men. Their reach went further than Chaser or I had believed if he was sitting in an FBI field office, looking as smug as he did right now. We hadn’t been fighting a monster sent up from the bowels of Hell, we’d been fighting Satan himself.

“This was a setup from the beginning, wasn’t it?” I asked. “Everything we’ve done…”

“You’re a smart girl,” King drawled. “Tell me, how much did you love your father?”

“Why the hell do you care?”

“I’m trying to gauge what kind of women you are, Sloane. It is Sloane, isn’t it? Betty does not suit you at all…” He tilted his head to the side and studied me. “I couldn’t flay and fuck a Betty. Too…proper. But Sloane…”

My only chance was to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse. I had to stick to the plan. I had to give him Chaser on a silver platter.

“My father never loved me,” I began. “He felt nothing when my mother was murdered, and he was going to sell me to you. He had no regard for human life.”

“So, no love lost.” He curled his lip. “But why did you kill him.”

“Excuse me?”

“Why, Sloane? It’s a simple question. Why did you murder your father?” He shivered, then let out a laugh. “Even I didn’t kill my own father. That’s twisted.”

Don’t take the bait, don’t take the bait…

When I didn’t reply, King sighed and shook his head. “I’m disappointed. As Anthony Marini’s daughter, I expected more from you.”

“I may be his daughter, but I’m not him,” I said, my voice low.

King’s expression twisted into anger, and he slammed his fist on the table, making me jump. “Why?” he bellowed.

The handcuffs dragged against my wrists, and I winced. “Because I hated him.”

He stood up, resting his palms on the tabletop, and my gaze lowered as a flash of silver glinted underneath his shirt. “I fucking hated my father, but I didn’t shoot him in the heart,” he exclaimed. “Why did you kill him?”

Anger exploded through my body, and I wrapped my fingers around the chains holding me in place. “Because he was a monster.”

“Don’t lie to me, Betty.”

“Don’t fucking call me Betty.”

“You liked it, didn’t you?” He stared me down, standing over me. “You liked the power.”

“Yes!” I screeched.

King’s lips twisted into a grin, and he sat back down, smoothing his fingers along his jaw. “See? That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

I trembled, my chest heaving. The twisted son of a bitch.

“Why?” I whispered. “Why does it matter?”

He continued to smile at me creepily. “I suppose you’re wondering, what now?”

My jaw tensed.

“As I see it, you’re out of options, but I’ve got an offer that could help greatly with that.” King leaned back in the chair, looking cool, calm, and collected. The MO of a true psychopath. “You’ll be released without charge, but that’s only temporary. If you want it to be permanent, you have to do something for me in return.”

Of course, he wanted something. All psychotic criminal masterminds did.

“What?” I drawled.

His lips curved, obviously pleased with my apparent interest in his incoming offer. Smug bastard.

“I want Gunnar Mason. Alive.”

I swallowed hard, my heart twisting. It was the same thing I was going to offer King when I walked into his casino. The exact thing. Did Chaser know? It didn’t matter now because King had taken all the power away from me and twisted it all for his own gain. If I didn’t do what he said, I was fucked. If I’d managed to make the offer at the Halcyon, this would be a different story.

Hand over the only man I’d ever loved? I wasn’t sure I could do it when Chaser himself offered, let alone now.

“So, what’ll it be beautiful?” King asked. “Life in prison or freedom in exchange for your boyfriend’s life?”

Not even a day had passed since my arrest, but I’d already morphed into a different woman. Life was in a constant state of flux, and so were the people in it. I could do this. I could twist King’s game and ram it straight up his ass.

“You’re such a sadistic bastard.”

He grinned, flashing a set of perfect, pearly white teeth. “I do love these life or death choose your own adventures. It makes life so much more interesting.”

“More interesting than your perverted sexual torture victims?”

“If you wanted to join in, you should’ve let your daddy hand you over to me. Though we can still come to an arrangement if orgasming while bleeding to death is your ultimate fantasy. If you don’t give me Gunnar Mason, you will hang from my ceiling and bleed like a choice cut of meat with my cock in your pussy…or be locked up in a maximum security prison where there are people worse than me looking for flesh as ripe as yours.” King rose to his feet and smoothed down his suit jacket. “Make your choice now, Sloane.”

“Fine,” I snapped. “I’ll do it.”

He turned and strode toward the door, not even bothering to glance back as he delivered the final term of his twisted offer.

“You have forty-eight hours.”

“I’m going to need some shoes!” I shouted after him.