“What about my interview, Doctor?” The man laughs maniacally, making my skin crawl. “You think I can’t get to you in there?”

The man’s voice grows louder, more insistent, as he continues to shout obscenities and threats. The only thing keeping him at bay is the door and me armed with a chair. Ghost won’t even look at me, his focus fully on the vent as he works methodically with the penny.

The odds are not in my favor.

Finally, Ghost pauses, turning his head to glance at me. His expression is cold enough to make me shiver. “If they get through that door, they’ll regret it.”

For the first time in my life, I’m glad to have a serial killer on my side.

The banging grows louder until the door handle falls to the ground with a loud clang. My breath catches, my heart pounding in my chest as I glance between Ghost and the door.

“You’re still handcuffed!” I whisper. “How are you going to stop him?”

Ghost turns back to the vent, his movements precise as he continues loosening the final screw. “Oh, Dr. Andrews,” he says, his tone chiding. “Handcuffs aren’t a limitation. They’re just an inconvenience. Have you forgotten my arraignment already?”

“The innocent man you killed in court? No, I haven’t.”

“Deputy Wilson wasn’t innocent.” Ghost makes a face of disgust. “He beat his wife every day. I did her a favor while proving a point to the judge. Win-win.”

I press myself against the wall, trying to make sense of the conflicting emotions roiling inside me. There’s confusion, anger, and a flicker of something disturbingly close to understanding.

The door slams open with a deafening crash that makes me cry out. A wild-eyed inmate with a stocky build stumbles inside before slamming the door shut. His face is flushed with exertion, his chest heaving, and he’s gripping a jagged piece of metal that’s been fashioned into a weapon.

His eyes land on me and it takes everything in me not to cower. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” He leers at me. “It’s been a long time since I’ve smelled pussy.”

“Ghost.” I whisper his name like a prayer, teetering on the edge of hysteria.

“Fight,” Ghost says, his voice hard, unyielding. “Fight to survive.”

I shake my head, panic spilling over. “You expect me to—”

“I expect you to stay alive until I get to you,” Ghost snaps.

The inmate laughs, a dry, rasping sound. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. This won’t take long.”

Ghost slams his fist against the glass. Hard. The inmate’s attention shifts to Ghost, the man’s grin faltering at the look on his face. It’s pure, unadulterated wrath.

“Don’t do it,” Ghost says quietly. Despite the softness of his voice, the menace underneath it is loud. “What do they call you? Lobo? Listen to me, Lobo. You won’t live long enough to bust a nut, let alone brag about it.”

“What are you going to do from over there?” The inmate rolls his eyes. “Nothing you say is going to stop me.”

Ghost narrows his gaze, but it fails to hide the fire in his eyes. “If you touch her, I’ll make sure your last breath is an apology, before I cut out your tongue.”

CHAPTER 30

That asshole doesn’t believe me. That’s his first mistake.

Lobo turns back to Geneva, his makeshift knife glinting under the harsh light. She’s trembling, clutching the back of the chair like it’s a weapon. Every part of me screams to be on her side of the glass, to be with her.

Geneva’s vulnerability wounds me, but my fury on her behalf? The fury makes me dangerous. Unhinged.

Lobo steps closer to Geneva, his blade raised. “What’re you gonna do, huh?” he asks me, trying to regain control. To be the dominant man. “You wanna watch?”

The final screw spins between my fingers, but not fast enough. My entire focus splits between the vent above me and the nightmare unfolding beside me.

Lobo takes another step toward Geneva, the smug bastard clearly enjoying the way she trembles. He thinks he’s won, that he has her cornered.

Geneva’s eyes flick to mine briefly, just enough to ground her. She exhales and her grip on the chair loosens slightly, but it’s not in surrender. It’s in preparation.

Underestimating my girl. That is Lobo’s second mistake.

He steps closer, and Geneva raises a hand. The motion is subtle, non-threatening, and calculated.

“You’ve been in a lot of fights,” she says, her voice even. “But you don’t always win, do you?”

Lobo glares at her. “You think you’re smarter than me, don’t you? Think you can talk me down?”

She gestures to his left side. “Your ribs. The way you’re guarding them. You’ve got old fractures there, don’t you? Not from sparring or practice. They’re from someone bigger and stronger. Someone who put you in your place.”

Lobo straightens. So does Geneva, matching his posture. Her expression shifts to something less fearful, and more focused. She’s studying him, dissecting him in real time.

“Your knuckles,” she continues, her voice softening but never losing its edge. “They’re scarred. Not just from fights, but from hitting walls, doors, and other things that don’t hit back. When things don’t go your way, you lash out. But it doesn’t fix anything, does it? It doesn’t stop the nightmares. The memories.”

“Shut up, bitch!”

Lobo’s shout drowns out the final screw coming loose and me ripping open the vent. Geneva is keeping him off balance. She’s fucking brilliant.

But Lobo is unpredictable. It’s in the way his jaw tightens, and how his eye twitches as her words sink in. He’s not used to being seen like this, stripped bare and analyzed. It’s unsettling him, and that makes him volatile.

“You don’t have to do this,” she says. “Hurting me won’t fix anything. It won’t make you stronger, and it won’t change what’s already happened to you.”

The inmate freezes, his hand trembling around the blade as her words hit their mark. It’s only a few seconds, but it’s better than nothing.

I grip the edge of the vent, and I pull myself up into the darkness, my blood burning with rage and purpose. She’s keeping him talking, keeping herself alive.

But that won’t last forever.

Hold on, Geneva. I’m coming.

The darkness wraps around me, the cold metal brushing against my forearms as I maneuver through the narrow space. The sounds from below filter up, keeping me informed. It’s a mix of Geneva’s steady voice, Lobo’s labored breathing, and the chaos of the riot outside.

“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” Lobo says. “You think you’re so smart, huh? Just because you’ve got a degree doesn’t mean you’ve got me figured out.”

Geneva’s response is measured, professional. She’s in her element, even under duress. “You’re right. I don’t know everything about you. But I do know that you’re better than this. You’ve survived worse, haven’t you? You don’t have to let it define you.”

In a moment of indecision, the inmate hesitates again, but it’s meaningless. Men like him are ruled by their impulses and their insecurities. It’s only a matter of time before he lashes out.

The vent creaks softly under my weight as I inch closer to the opening above Geneva’s side of the interrogation room. My hands, still cuffed, ache from the effort, but the discomfort is nothing compared to the searing determination driving me forward. She’s buying time. Precious seconds I intend to use.

The shuffle of Lobo’s boots reaches me as he shifts his weight. “This is just some shrink shit you’re using to stall.”

“Maybe,” she says. “Or maybe I’m showing you something no one else has. That you have a choice.”