Which I’ll soon need to find a more secure location. As I’ve learned from my time in this town, nothing is safely hidden for long.

“Dr. St. James,” Agent Rana addresses me, turning her full, probing attention my way. She nods briefly to Agent Hernandez in acknowledgment before meeting my gaze with scrutiny. “I appreciate you being here for the questioning.”

She says this like Hernandez and I were not the ones to provide the tip on Tabitha in the first place. I fold my arms across my chest, mindful of the stitches on my forearm. “I’m glad to be of help,” I say.

From my periphery, I see both detectives of the HRPD advance our way. Riddick is wearing civilian clothing, as is Emmons, though Emmons sports his ever-present, wide-brim police hat.

“Is there something we’re waiting for?” I pose the question to the gathered officials.

It’s Riddick who responds. “This is an interrogation tactic,” he says, moving closer to my side. “Puts the suspect on edge, wondering what we’re discussing, why we’re taking so long.”

I glance at the waitress through the glass. She’s not showing any signs of distress. She’s calm and collected and disinterested, like she’s been every time I’ve encountered her at the diner where she works.

“To be frank, detective, Tabitha is the epitome of not on edge.”

Agent Hernandez sends me an apprehensive look that states the locals are behind the times on tactics.

Instead of offering a response, Riddick regards my attire, his gaze lingering with too much interest on my skirt. “How are you doing, Halen?”

Anxious, I curl my fingers into my palm and take a step back to put distance between us. “To be honest, I’m a little under caffeinated,” I say, forcing sarcasm.

He touches my shoulder, his expression conveying my attempt at deflection doesn’t repel him. “I’m serious. What you’ve gone through… Difficult is an understatement. I want you to know that I’m here, that the whole department is here for you,” he quickly adds. “Everyone’s just in shock right now.”

“Thank you. But I promise, I’m fine,” I assure him, adjusting my bag strap so his hand falls away. “I’m actually more concerned for Devyn out there right now, potentially alone.”

His features draw together curiously. “I would think that after what she did to you, concern would be the last thing you’d feel for her.”

“Seeing justice served isn’t part of my job,” I say. “Trying to understand what she’s going through and why is.”

A stab of hypocrisy penetrates my resolve. Six months ago, in a darkened university lecture hall, I wasn’t interested in understanding Wellington or his reasons before I served him a dose of justice.

“Then why do you think Devyn has done this—” Riddick shakes his head, muttering a curse. He rubs the back of his neck with a hard exhale. “I can’t even say what she’s done, it’s so far beyond comprehension.”

I gauge his response, looking for any hint that he’s closer to Devyn than simply a coworker or friend. “Is it because she’s a woman?” I ask honestly. “If it were a man, would it be easier to accept?”

“No.” He appears genuinely affronted. “Dev has been like family to me, to us all,” he says, but leaves the past tense reference to Devyn unamended. “This just doesn’t make sense.”

Emmons bows his head to hide the brief wash of shame that flits across his strained features. “She still is family,” he says tersely, and I can hear the raw ache in his voice.

This has to be particularly hard for him, possibly harder than any other person in this town. Emmons didn’t just lose his brother during this case. As far as the detective knows, Devyn did more than betray him; she took Jake Emmons away from him for years, then forced the detective to identify his brother’s decapitated remains amid one of her ritual scenes.

I offer him a useless, sympathetic smile, but don’t try to downplay his anger or placate his emotions. I’m simply impressed he’s here, and sober at that. He’s still favoring his injured leg after taking a serious fall down the ravine.

“How are the others handling the news?” I ask Emmons.

“Once the shock wears off, they’ll accept it.” He touches the rim of his hat, his flat gaze as detached as his monotone voice. “Then they’ll do what they have to do.”

I feel as if his words are directed more inward, maybe trying to convince himself. I reflect on his statement, suffering a stab to my conscience. Shock does eventually wear off. And then, ultimately, we all accept what we have to do.

Agent Rana straightens her suit jacket as she steps in my direction. “I’ve provided you with a copy of the interrogation questions.” She nods to the table that holds a stack of manila folders. “During the questioning, jot down any notes you have. Then I’ll reevaluate later if needed.”

I brush my overgrown bangs from my eyes, giving my hand an occupation to hide the tremor. I’m not intimidated, although being in such close quarters with this many law officials can make anyone nervous. My anxiety stems from indecision, the helplessness I feel where Devyn is concerned.

The FBI want Devyn for Agent Alister’s murder.

During my debriefing, I noticed the case has become less about locating the remaining missing locals, and more of a manhunt for the person suspected of killing an FBI agent.

The woven thread that bound Alister’s arms at the scene is a specific detail that points officials to Devyn as the accomplice.

I haven’t yet figured out how to exonerate Devyn of the crime while also protecting Kallum. He wasn’t a murderer until I brought him here. The weight of both their fates rests heavy on my shoulders.

“And if I have a question or recommendation during the questioning?” I say to Agent Rana.

Her dark, discerning gaze assesses me sharply. Her in her professional suit, me in my skirt and blouse. Regardless of my seemingly professional attire today, we’re a paragon of opposites.

“Make a note,” she reiterates sternly. “Do not interrupt the questioning.”

An inky coil of irritation wraps my spine. The tolerance I usually harbor for my superiors is wearing thin, resulting in a stiff nod.

Trying to diffuse the unsettling feeling, I glance again at Tabitha. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap. She’s sporting the same headband she appears to always wear. Like the hair tie Devyn gave me at the ravine, Tabitha’s band boasts a similar knit pattern.

At the hollow pang in my chest, I turn away. “How are the recovered victims acclimating?” I ask Rana, steering the conversation onto the residents who fled the mine during Devyn’s ritual.

During my debriefing, I was unable to recount for certain how many of the missing locals were there. I had assumed all thirty-three—but as I was drugged at the time, and under duress, I can’t trust my memory. As of now, twenty-three of the missing locals have been recovered.

Rana’s expressive eyes betray her distress, but she quickly masks her features. “They’re brainwashed and have no tongues. Makes communication difficult.”

Her glib response feels forced, and in direct conflict with the worry I see creased in her expression. She’s holding something back.

“I really would like the opportunity to try to interview⁠—”

“That’s not why I brought you in,” she says, cutting me off. Her ability to avoid relinquishing information is unmatched. From the moment I met her at the crime scene, I’ve had a difficult time getting a read on her.

“Along with Professor Locke’s insight into the esoteric angle—” her words cut short as the door opens “—your expertise in criminal behavior will provide a logical counter for the interview, which we can now start.”

I feel him before he even enters the room, his intense energy a force that draws my gaze like a live wire seeking a connection.

Charles Crosby enters first, Kallum emerging right behind his lawyer, and my breath shallows. The pace of my heartbeat quickens to a frantic staccato pulse in my veins as an electric current heats my blood to a frenzy. The strong familiarity hits me in a whole new way as I try to reconcile my past and recent memories of him.