Chapter 30

Lisa

As I watch Jennie exit the room, I'm cognizant of a thick, heavy pressure in my chest. She's trying to hide her pain, to be strong, but I can tell that what happened is ripping her apart. Her breakdown this morning was just the tip of the iceberg, and the knowledge that I'm to blame for this—that I'm to blame for everything—adds to the violent rage churning in my gut.

This is all my fault. If I hadn't been so fucking eager to please her, to make her happy by giving in to her every whim, none of this would've happened. I should've listened to my instincts and kept her on the estate, where nobody could've touched her. At the very least, I should've denied her request to go to that accursed club.

But I didn't. I let myself get soft. I let my obsession with her cloud my judgment, and now she's paying the price. If only I hadn't let her go alone to that restroom, if only I'd chosen a different club . . . The poisonous regrets swirl in my brain until I feel like my head will explode.

I need to find an outlet for my fury, and I need to do so now.

Turning, I head for the front door.

"I brought the cousin here," Bambam says as soon as I step out onto the driveway. "I figured you might not want to go all the way to Chicago today."

"Excellent." Bambam knows me too well. "Where is he?"

"In that van over there." He points at a black van parked strategically behind the trees farthest from the neighbors.

Filled with dark anticipation, I walk toward it, with Bambam accompanying me. "Has he given us any info yet?" I ask.

"He gave us access codes to his cousin's parking garage and building elevators," Bambam says. "It wasn't difficult to get him to talk. I figured I'd leave the rest of the interrogation to you, in case you wanted to speak to him in person."

"That's good thinking. I definitely do." Approaching the van, I open the back doors and peer into the dark interior.

A skinny young man is lying on the floor, gagged. His ankles are tied to his wrists behind his back, contorting him into an unnatural position, and his face is bloodied and swollen. A strong scent of piss, fear, and sweat wafts toward me. Bambam and my guards did a solid job of working him over.

Ignoring the stench, I climb into the van and turn around. "Are the walls soundproof?" I ask Bambam, who remains on the ground.

He nods. "About ninety percent."

"Good. That should suffice." I close the doors behind me, locking me in with the boy—who immediately begins to writhe on the floor, making frantic noises behind the gag.

Pulling out my knife, I crouch next to him. His struggles intensify, panicked noises growing in volume. Ignoring the terrified look in his eyes, I grab his neck to hold him still and wedge the knife between the gag and his cheek, slicing through the piece of cloth. A trickle of blood runs down his cheek where the knife cut him, and I watch it, relishing the sight. I want more of his blood. I want to see this van covered with it.

As if sensing my thoughts, the teenager begins to blubber. "Please don't do this, man," he begs, sobbing. "I didn't do nothing! I swear, I didn't do nothing—"

"Shut up." I stare at him, letting the anticipation build. "Do you know why you're here?"

He shakes his head. "No! No, I swear," he babbles. "I don't know nothing. I was in this club, and there was this girl, and I don't know what happened 'cause I just woke up in this warehouse, and I didn't do nothing—"

"You didn't touch the girl in the yellow dress?" I cock my head to the side, twirling the knife between my fingers. I know exactly how cats feel when they play with mice; this kind of thing is fun.

The young man's eyes widen. "What? No! Fuck, no! I swear, I didn't have nothing to do with that! I told Sean it was a bad idea—"

"So you knew they were going to do it?"

Instantly realizing what he's admitted to, the boy starts babbling again, tears and snot running down his battered face. "No! I mean, they don't ever tell me nothing until they do it, so I didn't know! I swear, I didn't know until we were there, and they said to watch the door, and I told them it's not fair, and they said I should just do it, and then this other girl came, and I told her to go away—"

"Shut up." I press the sharp edge of the knife against his mouth. He falls silent instantly, his eyes white with fear. "All right," I say softly, "now listen to me carefully. You're going to tell me where your cousin Sean eats, sleeps, shits, fucks, and whatever else he does. I want a list of every place he might ever visit. Got it?"

He gives a tiny nod, and I move the knife away. Immediately, the boy starts spewing out names of restaurants, clubs, underground fighting gyms, hotels, and bars. I use my phone to record all that, and when he's done, I smile at him. "Good job."

His cracked lips quiver in a weak attempt at an answering smile. "So now you're going to let me go, right? 'Cause I swear I didn't have nothing to do with that."

"Let you go?" I look down at the knife in my hand, as if considering his words. Then I look up and smile again. "Why? Because you betrayed your cousin?"

"But . . . but I told you everything!" His eyes are showing white again. "I don't know nothing else!"

"Yes, I know." I press the knife against his stomach. "And that means you're useless to me now."

"I'm not!" he begins yelling. "You can ransom me! I'm Jimmy Sullivan, Patrick Sullivan's nephew, and he'll pay to have me back! He will, I swear—"

"Oh, I'm sure he will." I let the knife's tip dig in, enjoying the sight of blood welling up around the blade. Tearing my eyes away from it, I meet the young man's petrified gaze. "It's too bad for you that his money is the last thing I need."

And as he lets out a terrified scream, I slice him open, watching the blood spill out in a dark, beautiful river of red.

After I wipe my hands on the towel someone thoughtfully left in the van, I open the door and jump out. Bambam is waiting for me, so I tell him to dispose of the body and head back into the house.

It's strange, but I don't feel much better. The kill should've relieved some of the pressure, eased the burning need for violence, but instead, it seems to have only added to it, the emptiness inside me growing and darkening with every moment.

I want Jennie. I need her more than ever. But when I enter the house, the first thing I do is head into the shower. I'm covered in blood and gore, and I don't want her to see me like this.

Like the savage murderer her parents accused me of being.

When I emerge, the first thing I do is check the tracking app for Jennie's location. To my intense disappointment, she's still in Rosé's room. I contemplate going there to retrieve her, but I decide to give her a few more minutes and catch up on some work in the meantime.

When I open my laptop, I see that my inbox is filled with the usual messages. Russians, Ukrainians, the Islamic State, supplier contract changes, a security leak at one of the Indonesian factories . . . I scan it all with disinterest until I come upon an email from Frank, my CIA contact.

Opening it, I read it swiftly—and my insides grow cold.