“I was doing some digging today,” Jack starts, passing me a sheet of paper. Hayes’s grainy photo is at the top of the page, though he looks a little younger in the picture than he does now. More hair. Fewer wrinkles. Smaller second chin. A brighter spark in his eyes, obvious despite the poor resolution. Beneath his photo are his details. His full name. His birthdate. Height. Education.

Years of service in the FBI.

And below that, his license approval as a Private Investigator.

A chill sweeps into my arms. I look from the paper to Jack, his lips set in a grim line.

“What is this, Jack?” I ask, though the pieces are already clicking into place. Jack’s reply is to hand me the next sheet of paper.

“Something about him wasn’t sitting right with me. I couldn’t get it out of my head,” Jack replies as I start reading the next page. On the upper left margin of the page is the logo for the FBI.

“Jack…did you…did you hack into the FBI’s records?”

One of his shoulders lifts in a little shrug. He tries to hide a self-satisfied smirk as he chews an olive, but he fails when it lights his eyes.

“You did. You hacked into the fucking FBI. How—”

“The more important issue is probably this,” Jack says as he points to the middle of the paragraph on the sheet, which appears to be a summary of an internal personnel hearing. He’s highlighted a single sentence.

The decision of the Office of Professional Responsibility committee is the termination of Eric Christopher Hayes as active agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

I skim the details, my mouth dropping open as the information invades my cells like a vein of ice crystallizing in my flesh. “He was let go five fucking years ago?”

Jack nods, handing me the rest of the papers. “These are the details of the hearing. Essentially, he was reprimanded for the negative impact that his obsession with the Silent Slayer case was having on his work. It seems the case was still an ongoing investigation, but was deprioritized when the Slayer appeared to go dormant. But Hayes didn’t fall in line. His other casework suffered. There were some outbursts, and when he was evaluated he was found to be combative, resistant to authority. Eventually, they let him go. It looks like he took a year off, and then resurfaced when he obtained his PI license. He’s rogue, Kyrie. He’s rogue and he’s centered on you, the key to the case he could never solve.”

My fingertips are cold as I flip through the pages, barely processing the words in the transcripts. My thoughts are spiraling into darker places than pages and ink. They’re descending into revenge. Into blood and rage. Because I know what Jack doesn’t. That it’s not just me that Hayes is centered on. It’s me as a vehicle to the man who is taking shape as his true prize.

Dr. Jack Sorensen.

My grip tightens on the edges of the pages until my knuckles bleach, my heart galloping as I struggle to subdue the urge to rush from Jack’s house and hunt Hayes down myself.

“You should stay here until we can figure out how to get rid of him,” Jack says, knocking me sideways from my thoughts of justice and retribution.

I blink as though that simple motion might bring me back from the alternate universe I seem to have dropped into.

“What?”

“I don’t want you around Hayes.”

“I…you…what the fuck?”

“He’s volatile, Kyrie. Possibly unhinged. You’re safer here.”

I take the time to study Jack’s face. He wears that same expression of worry that he had the other day in his lab when he gave me the Slayer’s hyoid bone, as though something deep and fraught and unfamiliar has crawled to his surface and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

My gaze drops from his and I look at the food on the coffee table. The glass of wine in my hand, which is not glass at all but metal. I listen to the playlist. It’s a song I have on one of mine.

This is all…for me.

“I…um…” I try to swallow the sudden brick that appears in my throat and demands all my pain. The thought rises that it would be safer for Jack, too, if I stayed. If Hayes believes Jack is a killer and I’m not, maybe my presence here can protect him. It could be enough to prompt Hayes to reconsider his theory, and maybe we’ll have enough time to create a false trail for him to follow.

I glance at Jack again before my gaze travels to the safety of the room.

“I have a dog.”

Jack laughs. Actually laughs. I look over in time to catch the way it lights his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes, folding his dark lashes together. “I know,” he says. “Apparently, I lose five points in the arbitrary Thunderdome points system every time I forget his name. Which is impossible to forget, by the way, because it’s awful.”

A breathy huff passes my lips as I drop my focus to the papers that have started to warp in my grip. Jack’s hand folds around my wrist, but I struggle to look up as my heart hammers its rhythm into his grip.

My well-being is in your very best interests, my voice says, the creek trickling in the background. When I close my eyes, I see Jack there, standing in the sliver of moonlight, ready to kill me. Maybe he would have, if I hadn't made that threat.

I’ve never regretted my words more. They might have kept me safe, but they make it impossible to discern fantasy from reality.

“I’m serious, Kyrie,” Jack says, and I swallow hard as I try to gather my diaphanous thoughts. “Hayes is dangerous. He’s been lying about being a federal agent. He’s been walking around campus for days with a fucking fake badge. How much farther do you think he would go to get what he wants?”

I take a long sip of my wine. Then another. I’m going to need something a lot stronger than Shiraz to get me through this evening.

Jack takes a sharp breath to surely launch into his next multi-point argument about why this is a good idea when his phone rings in his pocket. He pulls it out and frowns at the screen.

“I’m sorry. I have to take this,” he says with the slightest squeeze to my wrist before he lets go and rises. With a fleeting look of that subtle concern, he accepts the call with a formal greeting and heads for a dark hallway between the living and dining rooms.

“Jesus Christ,” I whisper before downing the rest of my Shiraz. My stitches tug at my wound as they tangle in my hair. The discomfort barely registers.

I cast a glance at my empty glass and set it down. “Fuck the wine.”

Jack’s voice is quiet down the hall and I don’t make out what he’s saying, only the cadence of his occasional statements, the tone conveying his usual pragmatic, if not intimidating, style. I don’t linger, heading instead to the kitchen to retrieve a fresh glass before I hunt through the other cupboards to find the liquor collection on my second try. There’s a half-full bottle of Bowman 25 Year Scotch. Expensive, no surprise. A few bottles of red, including two of the same Rockford Flaxman Shiraz I had at the club. And tucked behind a bottle of Vodka is a black, unopened bottle of Adictivo Extra Anejo Tequila.

“Oh thank God.” I rise on my tiptoes and slide the bottle from the shelf. “You’re such a good host, Dr. Sorensen. Thanks for the shots.”

I head to a row of drawers beneath the microwave, assuming the first one might have a sharp knife to cut the plastic that seals the lid of the bottle. But that’s not what’s inside.

On the right side of the drawer are pens and a pad of blank paper.

On the left side are a few folded letters that Jack has received.

On the top is one from the Canadian government.

My gaze darts toward the corridor where Jack’s voice still faintly reaches me past the thrumming beat of my heart.

I unfold the letter, dated seven days ago.

Dear Jack Victor Sorensen,

This is in reference to your application for permanent residence. A decision has been made regarding your request. We require your passport to finalize processing your application. Your passport must be received by Citizenship and Immigration Canada within 30 days from the date of this letter. Failure to do so could result in the refusal of your application.