Daybreak over Hollow’s Row offers less clarity in the light. The town remains in an obscure shadow, its deeper truths hidden beneath a veil of murky marsh waters and masked faces.

The fire in the pit burned out after Kallum vanished into the night. I awoke to a cold and empty room, my body strangely rested and recovered after a short but intense sleep that I haven’t allowed myself to succumb to since before the accident.

The predominantly rational part of me attributes this to the drug I was dosed with—yet a truth I can no longer deny challenges that assertion. There’s another part of me that was unlocked last night with Kallum, a side where the deepest, darkest thoughts and desires were thrust into the light.

Letting go, losing myself to him…the surrender to not only trust him with my body but my mind, I’m changed. Irrevocably.

There’s not a place on my body that hasn’t suffered an injury to some degree. Bruised skin and muscles, cuts and scrapes—and most of the damage I welcomed from Kallum’s touch.

Which of his touches first set this course in motion? Was it the graze of his hand against mine in the courtroom? When his hand circled my wrist at the visitation table? Or is there another moment in time still locked away where the hellfire of his touch branded me as his.

The butterfly effect claims that one small, seemingly insignificant change can work as a catalyst for extreme outcomes. But the result is only possible if the starting conditions are sensitive enough to affect that change.

My starting conditions were more than fragile, presenting the perfect catalyst for a man of chaos to disrupt my course.

I may never unearth the full truth of the night Kallum believes we first collided. One of the questions afflicting me now is whether or not I can accept this.

As I try to peer through the stained-glass window of the library, I tuck the corner of the blanket beneath my arm, then touch the coarse threads stitched into my scar tissue, the only proof last night was real. Every article that bore any proof has disappeared, just as he did.

Kallum is the expert in his field. He’s an expert at many things, in fact. But his needlework skills for mending wounds is rather lacking.

No one person can be perfect in every area, no matter their level of perfectionism.

I continue to probe the unsightly crossed stitches on my arm, my mind following a trail of thought as I contend with a number of realities still to come.

A loud noise reverberates through the mansion announcing the arrival of federal agents before they infiltrate the library. I’m approached by one of the agents seemingly in charge, questioned on my condition, and urged to answer a barrage of questions.

By the time Agent Hernandez enters the library through a corridor behind the inlaid bookcase, I’m prepared to confront at least one of those realities.

“Dr. St. James, are you all right?” Hernandez asks, his features bracketed by deep lines, highlighting his lack of sleep and stressed state. His gaze drops to my neck, where faint red stripes from Kallum’s belt mark my skin.

Before I present an answer, Hernandez turns toward the questioning agent and says, “She’s to receive medical attention before undergoing any interviews.”

I hike an eyebrow at his authoritative tone. The other agent only nods once before he begins directing a team to sweep the library.

I draw the worn blanket higher as I watch a line of special agents emerge from the hidden corridor behind the bookcase. Apparently, there is more than one access point to the mine shaft.

“I’m all right,” I assure Hernandez. “Devyn Childs is the perpetrator.”

I say her name quickly, like tearing off a Band-Aid, or ripping out my stitches all at once.

He nods with certainty. “The task force is aware of that.”

My heart knocks heavily against my breastplate as confusion draws my features together. The bookcase pushes open farther, and more agents file into the library, weapons drawn. They’re dressed in tactical gear, and one of them speaks into an earpiece. “Five more recovered, sir.”

“What’s happening?” I demand.

Agent Hernandez ushers me to a private corner of the library, where he removes his FBI jacket and drapes it over my shoulders.

I draw the jacket around me over the blanket. “Thank you.”

“I’ll have clothes brought in for you.” He retrieves his phone and sends a text message.

“Would it be out of the realm of possibility to get a coffee?”

His mouth twitches like he might smile. “I can probably make that happen.”

“Thanks. How did you find me?” I ask.

He touches the earpiece in his ear and looks away. “Dr. St. James is recovered.” After a beat, he replies, “Yes, ma’am. I’ll bring her in.”

He drives a hand through his disheveled hair. Then, taking in my body wrapped in a blanket, he says, “When I couldn’t reach you, I had your cell phone traced. The last pinged location was right near the diner. I located it behind the HRPD building.”

A web of anxiety spools around me, and I breathe through the tightness in my chest.

He continues, “As you were missing, I had to search your device—”

“It’s fine,” I say, knowing what he’s about to reveal.

His face hardens. “The last accessed app held a partial recording of a conversation with Childs. I forwarded a small clip of that to the task force,” Hernandez says, confirming my assumption. “She was placed as a person of interest, and an APB was issued on her, as well as you. But as of an hour ago, an arrest warrant has been issued on her.”

I avert my gaze from the agent. There were things said in that conversation—personal things—that I didn’t want others to hear. Once I realized I’d been drugged, however, I did have the foresight and capacity to start recording Devyn, in the event I didn’t make it back.

Hernandez touches my shoulder, drawing my attention to the concern etched on his face. “Halen, what happened to you out there?”

“She didn’t hurt me,” I say, trying to school my facial expressions.

“You have stitches,” he says, tone pitched low. “You’re obviously hurt. I see the injuries—”

“She released me. She let me go.” The lie falls easily from my lips.

You lie so pretty.

By the deep groove notched between his brows, I can see he’s not entirely convinced, but the urgency of the situation around us allows the conversation to end here. Agents are bagging everything in sight, turning over the library in search of hidden access points and Devyn.

“All right. Okay,” Hernandez concedes. “But they are going to want answers, Halen.”

They. Alister, he means. My stomach roils at the thought of being interrogated by him. “Right. I know. I can handle it.”

An EMT arrives with clothes in-hand, and I accept the clean jogging pants and sweatshirt gratefully. She insists on looking my injuries over, refusing to allow me to get dressed in the bathroom alone until I’ve done so. I’m treated with a disinfectant cream for the stitches.

“Did you do this yourself?” the EMT asks me, eyebrows winged up as she applies the cream to the black thread.

I glance at the wound. “Doesn’t it look like it?”

She smirks, graciously dismissing my glib tone. I’ve learned a lot from my time spent with Kallum, like how to answer questions without actually answering them.

“You need to get this treated and sutured properly,” she instructs me.

When I return to the library, I hand the jacket to Hernandez and am rewarded with a thermal of coffee.

“Bless you,” I tell him, uncapping the mug.

“It’s black.”

“It’s salvation right now.” I drink a few sips, my system welcoming the caffeine. Then, as I recap the thermal, I brace myself for another hard truth. “Why was the priority upgraded on Devyn?”

His brown eyes meet mine with a measure of caution. “One of the victims was recovered in downtown a little over an hour ago,” he says. “He was found wandering Main Street, naked, apparently in shock or under the influence of some substance. After he was taken in, a unit used hounds to track his scent to the mine.” He nods toward the bookcase, releasing a breath. “I’ve never seen anything like what’s down there. There’s a whole underground habitat or some shit.”