Fabric shifts and a woman says something unintelligible in the background. I imagine Caron sliding from his bed or rising from a lounge chair, his matcha latte forgotten as he comes to realize something’s not quite right.

A smile warms me from my very core.

“Ruh-roh, Raggy. Did you forget to give your Praetorian guard dogs their Scooby Snacks?” More movement crackles across the line before it goes completely silent. “Are you on mute, my Little Bo-Peep? I was really hoping to hear the sound of your epiphany.”

Another long pause.

“You—”

“They’re all gone, Caron. And they snuck a bunch of your devoted flock out with them. Everyone has a price, you see, even Koffi N’Doli, and sometimes it’s not the dollars you have that gets the job done.”

I can almost hear Caron’s thoughts stacking up like blocks, one realization teetering on the next until they all come tumbling down.

Samuel has done it. He’s found a way to pull Caron’s security. No one is there to protect him. And we stole his lambs from under his watch.

There’s no greater sound than Caron’s quick and quiet breathing between us, and I relish every moment, ready to store it among my trophies. “What do you want,” he finally demands.

“To meet. In person. Alone. And no, I don’t want to kill you. I would have done it already. If you do not agree to meet, or if you show up with anyone, Praetorian will be instructed to release all of their information on you to the FBI.”

Another muted pause. I imagine him having a little tantrum in the background, like a chastised child.

“Where,” he grits out.

“52 Fuller Place. Midnight,” I say, checking my watch. It should give him just enough time to make it from his Vellera compound, if he leaves now.

I hang up the phone.

My heart bangs an excited song on the walls of my chest as I lean against the Jeep. I’m one step closer. I toss the burner into the ditch and drive away.

I head to the abandoned gas station where we gathered for the Autumn Adder, parking where I have a view of the edge of the city beyond the rolling foothills. It’s quiet here. There’s no wind when I exit the Jeep. I limp toward the spot where Eli fought Wilson and look down at the drops of blood still clinging to the cracked asphalt in a dark stain. The broken tooth is there on the ground. I balance on my good leg and bend to pick it up, rolling the jagged edges across my palm.

I wonder what Eli felt in that moment when he pinned Wilson down and pummeled him with blows. I wonder if he feels guilt now in the aftermath when he looks back on what he did. I know what I would have felt. Excitement. Enjoyment. A deep sense of satisfaction, that my physical self and my darkest desires were aligned. Definitely not guilt. Not for something like that.

I tilt my hand, letting the tooth roll off my palm to drop onto the pavement with a quiet tick. I’m staring down at it when I realize I feel something I’ve never felt before.

Regret. Guilt.

For hurting Eli.

I should have told him everything sooner. He could have made up his mind about us before he’d put so much of his heart into it. He’s the one person I wanted to protect, and I failed.

I know I’ll never get back what I’ve lost. Not with him. Not with anyone. There’s no one like Eli. What he said about love was true, all of it. I know I can’t be the person he deserves. I can’t become someone else. The best version of myself will never fit in his world, with his rules. But there is one way I can make it right for him.

With a heavy sigh, I hobble back to the Jeep and bring up my iPad, checking the cameras at Fuller Place as dusk settles around me. Fatigue descends with it, draping over my shoulders like a cloak. I take off my watch and put an alarm on both it and the iPad. I use my teeth to help secure a zip tie to bind my wrists together, then lean back into the driver’s seat and close my eyes.

It feels like I’ve only blinked when my alarms go off. The pain is blaring in my leg and arm. My head pounds in solidarity with the rest of my body. I didn’t bring anything stronger than Ibuprofen, so I take two pills and start the Jeep, heading for Fuller Place.

52 Fuller Place is a former cannery on the outskirts of the industrial area of town. Surrounded by overgrown fields, it lies abandoned, yet in solid shape, the bricks and windows still in good repair, the structure bordered by a high, chain-link fence. I park a distance away behind a power utility shed set back from the road and check the cameras one last time, then I exit the vehicle with my plastic bag of limited equipment and start the slow process of hobbling to the cannery.

After picking the lock of the gate with the snap gun, I shuffle down the cracked driveway to the unlit building. The moon is bright enough to light my way but I still stumble a few times. A low rumble of nausea swirls in my stomach. I’m not sure if it’s the anticipation, or the drugs I’ve taken over the last day, or if it’s the inception of an infection. Whatever it is, I’m starting to feel pretty rough.

“Doesn’t matter,” I tell myself as I make it to the door and pick the lock. With my wrists still bound together, I turn and throw the snap gun into the grass, then enter the darkness of the factory, the creaking metal door closing behind me with a reverberant thud.

I turn on my flashlight, retrieving a handful of glow sticks from my back to break the first one and toss it on the floor, leaving a little trail of breadcrumbs for Caron to follow. Pigeons flutter overhead with my intrusion. Other than their rustling wings and their quiet calls of alarm, the building is silent as I limp ahead into the open space.

Cracking more glow sticks as I go, I fumble my way up the stairs where the loft stretches toward tall windows that face the moon. Since I left my watch in the Jeep, I can’t be sure what time it is, but I estimate I have thirty minutes before Caron shows up.

I take an overturned wooden chair and drag it toward the wall where a camera is bolted beyond my reach. With my bound hands pressed to the rough bricks of the wall, I take as much weight as I can off my injured left leg and step up onto the seat of the chair with my right.

“Sorry old man,” I say, though Samuel won’t be able to hear me, if he’s even watching. “I don’t want you to see.”

I’m yanking on the camera when a pain so bright it’s blinding crashes into my right leg and I fall backward from the wall, hitting the floor with a deafening smack.

My eyes peel open as water tainted by the scent of rust splashes across my face.

“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey,” Caron says, his voice swimming behind me. A throbbing pulse echoes in my head. Ten times that pain radiates from my lower leg. “I said, wakey, wakey.”

Caron nudges my leg and I scream. My vision collapses into a narrow black tunnel. More water splashes over my face.

“Hey now, little wolf. Stay with me.”

Footsteps and a deep, echoing thud circle around me until Caron is standing in my field of vision. The head of a sledgehammer rests next to his boot. He grips the handle in one fist, a rusted metal container clasped in the other.

“So sorry,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “I don’t think this water is up to the purity standards of Lamb Health.” Caron spits in the container before splashing the rest of the water onto my face.

“No worse than the rest of your shitty products,” I grumble past a cough. Caron grins as he squats down to get a closer look at my face where I lie in a patch of moonlight, then prods my leg with the metal pot. I cry out in agony and rage.

“I don’t think my supplements are going to help that.”

“You don’t say.” I drag my head across the floor to look down at my leg. Blood pools across the dust and debris, shattered bone jutting through my torn yoga pants. “I thought you were supposed to be some kind of gentle shepherd, caring for your flock. Blah blah.”