Guilt.

Good.

“Your lawyer’s on his way,” she says in a strained voice, taking a seat across from me. “You don’t have to say anything, and you shouldn’t. But please listen.” I notice her throat bobbing with a hard swallow. “Four months ago, Assistant Director Sinclair approached me. The FBI were trying to build a case against your uncle after an informant avoiding drug charges identified him as the leader in an international car theft ring involving the Russian mob. I was tasked to get close to you, so I could gather evidence that could lead to a conviction of the key players.”

She sounds the same and yet so completely different. So much older, smarter. “We believe that this theft ring is responsible for several violent carjacks in the Portland and Seattle area.”

“No,” I interrupt, unable to control myself as my anger boils. “Rust wouldn’t be involved in anything that hurts people.” He wouldn’t lie to me.

She doesn’t argue or counter what I’m saying. “Cases like this one.” She opens a folder with a picture of a blue Buick on one side and the badly beaten face of a man on the other. “And this one.” Another folder. Another car, another picture, this time a beaten woman.

My head’s shaking. They’re not pinning this on Rust. No way. He’s not even here to defend himself and he’d never . . .

“And this one.” The folder opens to a cherry-red Ford F-250 truck with fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. Next to it is the picture of a male.

Very obviously dead.

A wave of nausea hits me. I remember that truck. That truck was in the warehouse.

“I believe you,” she says slowly. “I believe you that Rust wouldn’t knowingly be involved. But what if he wasn’t knowingly involved? What if someone had been slowly working his way into his organization. Someone who wanted to take over. Who may have wanted to take over the network and cut him out. Who may not have been so smart or vigilant about the kinds of thieves and wheelmen they hired. Who wanted cars to sell, and fast.

“If we can get the right information, we can stop this from happening again. You’re not betraying Rust anymore, Luke.” She makes a move to reach forward but then freezes, pulling her hand back. “If you tell us everything you know, I’ll make sure you walk away from this. Safe.” She leans in, her eyes pleading with me, looking so honest. They’ve lied to me before, though. Many, many times. “Don’t ruin the rest of your life protecting criminals. I know you aren’t one. You’ve done the right thing before, Luke. Do the right thing again here. Don’t let more innocent people get hurt.”

Alex. She’s using Alex against me. Did she know all along, when I drove up that driveway, who she was about to meet? Or did she just figure it out, because it’s her job to figure things like that out? Did she use the whole abusive ex-boyfriend angle because she somehow knew that it was a soft spot for me?

Jesse passed on Alex’s condolences, telling me that she didn’t come because she was afraid of someone from that circle recognizing her. She’d rather remain missing in their eyes. The poor woman still lives with a cloud of fear over her. And now these assholes are about to drag her into this mess—and Jesse, and Jesse’s dad—just to get at me. I know that’s why Sinclair says he’s launching an investigation. He doesn’t give a shit about her.

Fuck, Jesse will never talk to me again if that happens, if I bring this disaster to his doorstep. To his father’s doorstep. If they figured out how the sheriff abused his power . . .

The door bursts open and an old guy in wire-rimmed glasses storms in. “Get away from my client, now. All room recording stops immediately.”

Rain moves to stand.

I should hate her. Maybe I will once the shock wears off. “Was any of it real?” I ask, my voice as hollow as my chest.

She only stares down at me, blinking away the tears that form in her light blue eyes.

Is that even real?

Not that it matters anymore.

“They don’t have enough to make this fucking stick,” Fred, my lanky and brash lawyer, who drops more f-bombs than I’ve ever heard before, promises. “Any judge would throw this case out the second it entered his courtroom. Now, what he may say about the investigative techniques used on you . . .” he mutters with a wicked gleam in his eye. One that says he wants to stand in front of a judge and publicly flay Rain. The excitement disappears just as quickly. “But I have to warn you, I get the feeling that they’re working on a few other angles into this case. If they bring someone in and that person gives names up—which always happens—you could be facing some serious time.” Fred’s obviously past the point of wondering whether Rust and I were ever involved in a car theft operation. He hasn’t even bothered to ask. “They’re offering you a pretty good deal right now. Voluntary cooperation in exchange for confidentiality and immunity against all charges connected with this case. They don’t want you, son.”

Son. Rust used to call me that all the time. I have to remind myself for the thousandth time that he’s dead. That I can’t call him to help me get out of this mess. That, in a way, he got me into this mess.

Fuck . . . Flashes of those pictures hit me again, and anger boils inside.

Of that car seat that these very hands in front of me yanked out of the truck.

“But what if I don’t know enough?” I counter.

He busies his hands with a stack of papers. “They seem to think you do.”