And they still won’t tell me what this is about.

The three times I’ve asked if I need a lawyer, Sinclair’s asked me if I’ve done something that deserves a lawyer. I think I’ve held up well, given I’m ready to piss my pants.

“Don’t you want to help us find your uncle’s killers? The people who did this to him?” A new set of pictures is tossed down in front of me. Of Rust, hunched over the steering wheel of a black SUV, wearing the exact same burgundy shirt he was wearing the night Rain and I met him at The Cellar. No wonder he wasn’t answering any of my calls the next day. They must have got to him on his way home.

I look away from the image, but not before it is firmly emblazoned in my mind, tears stinging the back of my eyes, threatening to spill. This guy’s a fucking dick.

Tap, tap, tap over Vlad’s face again. “What do you know about him?”

Rain’s words of warning echoing in my ears. “I’ve already told you everything that I know.”

“What about him?” A glossy shot of Aref lands in front of me.

And that confirms that this is about more than catching Rust’s murderer. I shut right down. “A friend of Rust’s. That’s all I know.”

“I think you’re lying.” He sits back, folding his arms over his chest. He’s a big guy, probably about my size, and yet I feel small in this room with him. “I think you know exactly who Vladimir and Andrei Bragin are. I think you know that your uncle’s been selling stolen cars to them to be exported overseas, by Aref Hamidi.” He leans in. “And I think you’ve been helping him do it.”

I focus on my gold watch, trying to hide the panic. How the hell do they know all of this? “I own Rust’s Garage, and I work in the office. That’s all I do.” I hope he can’t hear the shakiness in my voice.

“Oh, I think you do plenty more. Helping us now will make things easier for you later. The way I see it, there are all kinds of things we could pin on you. You could see ten . . . fifteen years locked up. I think they’d like a guy like you in there. And I’m guessing your friends won’t be helping you out.”

If he’s trying to scare me, it’s working.

Suddenly, he switches directions. “What do you know about Alexandria Petrova’s disappearance?”

I hear her name and my head snaps up before I can control myself. He lays down an older picture of Alex, back when she was still driving a Z8 and wearing Versace.

“Nothing.”

“You sure?”

I shrug. “I used to see her around.”

He nods slowly. “I’ve launched an official investigation into her disappearance.”

“She’s been missing for over a year and now you’re investigating?”

“So you know she’s missing?”

I clench my jaw and he smiles. Sneaky bastard.

“So you don’t know anything about where she is or what may have happened to her?”

Where the hell is this coming from? “No.” I pause, feeling like this asshole just slipped an invisible noose around my neck and it’s tightening with each word out of my mouth. “I think I need a lawyer.” The firm Rust retained for his estate stuff also has a criminal law division.

Sinclair stands, leaving all the pictures on the table. “For the record, I believe Vlad killed your uncle and we have evidence that may help us prove it.”

Hope sparks inside my chest.

“But I’m less inclined to pursue that while a car theft ring that’s hurting innocent people is still in operation. One that I think Vlad killed your uncle in order to take over. Chew on that while we get you a phone to call your lawyer from.” He takes a few steps but then stops, waving at someone behind the glass to come through. “But first, I’d like to introduce you to someone.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand, his tone suddenly lighter than the one he’s used for the last hour.

The wait for the door to open feels like forever, and when it does—when I see the face that appears, her light blue eyes zeroing in on mine to hold them—I feel like someone’s punched me square in the chest.

“Luke, this is Officer Clara Bertelli.”

Chapter 56

CLARA

I’ve always enjoyed that moment when the target realizes who I really am. The predictable emotions that cycle across people’s faces—recognition, understanding, shock. Sometimes it stops short at anger; other times it finishes with resignation, because they know they fell for the ruse and they’re done for.

But I’ve never seen a target’s face filled with such hurt.

Not until today.

Doors close somewhere outside the observation room. Warner and I watch an officer stroll in and drop a brown bag and a Coke on the table next to Luke. I know that it’s from a certain food cart vendor without asking. Just another way for Sinclair to send a message to Luke.

We know everything there is to know about you.

The lump in my throat is making it difficult to talk, to swallow . . . even to breathe. I’m not sure who got kicked harder in the chest when I stepped into that interrogation room. Luke certainly looked like he had taken a swift boot.

For a moment, I thought I was going to leave a pile of vomit on the floor.

There was no time to utter a single word, or apology. Sinclair did it for impact, quickly ushering me back out and leaving Luke in the room by himself. To stew over every intimate moment we shared, every dangerous word he ever spoke to me, every way that I could nail him to the wall with what I know, while waiting for his lawyer.