Through despair, Mike hears the clink of metal and moves his eyes slightly to the desk, to the tool that was just set down. The metal blades are wet. Red. He closes his eyes as a wave of nausea sweeps through him.

There is warm breath on his face and he opens dead eyes to find the monster staring at him. “Show me everything. Prove who she is. Then, I’ll decide whether to kill you.”

Not the most encouraging statement. This prick should work on his pep talks. The man rolls the wheelchair around, repositioning Mike’s broken body in front of the keyboard; struggling to think, he lifts broken hands to the keyboard. His world glosses over red, and he struggles to stay upright, absent of even the consciousness to curse his own soul to hell.

I have failed her.

CHAPTER 66

HUNDREDS OF HOURS of work get deciphered in four easy minutes. Mike tries to drag out the process, but his finger is the only impediment. And while it still functions, the cutters stopping short of the bone, each brush against something brings a new wave of agony. The dickhead produces a bottle of pills, says it is codeine. Promises relief once he gets what he wants.

So Deanna Madden’s world is opened up to him. Mike shows him the truth, a copy of her actual driver’s license, borrowed from the Tulsa County DMV. Shows him her original lease, the term, the address. The man wants to see pictures, and so Mike opens up his Deanna spank bank, his skin crawling at the way the man’s breath quickens and pants like an adolescent teenager over her images. The images are the best of the best, three years’ worth of hand-selected shots from over twelve thousand images. They have the ability to get Mike off in five minutes. This asshole would probably last two.

He tries, in one remaining act of nobility, to hide Jeremy. Flips quickly past the folder with his images, just a couple, taken from social networks in a moment of jealous stalking. But the man’s eyes are quick, his hand jerking out and stopping the mouse’s scroll. “Who’s that?” He points.

Mike shrugs. “Not sure. A brother?”

The man doesn’t need to ask his name, Mike’s OCD organization provides that in the helpful image titling, the photos titled JeremyPacer01, JeremyPacer02, and JeremyPacer03. The man’s hand settles on Mike’s bad shoulder and squeezes it tightly, the movement bringing a rush of pain so strong he cries out. “Or boyfriend?” the asshole digs.

“Or a boyfriend,” Mike responds dutifully, any self-respect he once had circling the drain of this man’s hell. “But he doesn’t live with her,” he adds quickly. “So he shouldn’t be an issue.”

“How do you know that?” The man’s hand threatens a second squeeze.

“Please don’t,” Mike begs. “Please. The boyfriend has his own house. Lives about fifteen minutes away. I swear. They both live alone.”

“Give me his address too. In case she’s there.”

Guilt is almost as heavy as pain. It weighs him down, pulling his heart apart with sharp, dark fingers. He has failed her in the most invasive ways possible. And now Jeremy, though he could give two shits about him. Sure, there was more that he could have shared. He didn’t volunteer the fact of her wealth, the question not thought of or inquired about by this man. And why would it? No one thinks the tiny girl with the innocent smile and shitty-ass apartment is a millionaire. And no one, including himself, has any idea what she is fully capable of.

For the first time all night, Mike fights the ridiculous urge to smile, the gesture hidden in a grimace of pain at the act of picking up a pen. Writing awkwardly, he keeps his index finger up, the handwriting scraggly and rough as he records both of their addresses for this man’s sadistic needs. Yes, I have failed her. Yes, I am leading this maniac directly to her door.

A flutter of hope rolls persistent in his stomach, and the pain, for a brief moment, subsides.

I hope she cuts him to shreds.

CHAPTER 67

MARCUS WALKS FROM the house, pulling on the fingers of his gloves, noting the stubborn scar of discoloration, barely discernable on the black leather. He inhales, thickness in his chest, what feels like the beginnings of congestion clogging his airflow. Fuck. A cold is, right now, the last thing he needs.

He probably should have killed the cripple. The guy had seen his face, not that his face was anything distinct or recognizable. Any other situation, he would have killed him. But if something was wrong, if the girl wasn’t there… the cripple is the only tie he has to her. So he’d left him alive. Trussed up like countless sluts he had had before, the ritual of tying the knots peaceful in its familiarity.