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“Tough luck for the kid. Except…” He sits up suddenly, flipping through the files again. “Ah, yes, the coroner’s report. Looks like the cause of death wasn’t drowning but blunt force trauma to the back of the head.”

He looks up again.

“His head was smashed in with a brick.”

McAdams slides a picture across the table, and in my periphery, I see splotches of red and white flesh.

I keep my eyes locked on the detective.

His mouth quirks to the side for a brief moment before it falls, and he reclines in his chair.

“Let’s cut the shit. Your guy was good, but I’m sure he didn’t expect there to be cameras that got your Porsche at the location where the last ping from Samuels’ phone dropped. He didn’t account for the lacerations on Samuels’ head matching the brick at the scene of his last known location.”

The silence in the room is thick, suffocating. Still, I clench my jaw and pull out the most bored look I can muster.

McAdams is the one to break the silence. “Listen, this guy…he was not a good guy. It took some untangling, but there’s a long list of rapes reported that name him as the perp, but then the victims recanted. His daddy is some big wig,” he says, a sneer coming to his face. “You probably know all about that, right?”

I blink, slowly. Bored.

“Butthisis the interesting thing.” He slides another picture in front of me, and this time I do look down.

My blood turns to frost in my veins. It’s a CCTV capture from outside Velour. The jackass who took Shae has his arms around her waist as he guides her into the passenger seat of his car.

Don’t give anything away.

“Shae Rivers. A classmate of yours, yeah? A pretty little thing.”

At that, I lose the battle, and my eyes snap back up to the detective’s. I try—Itry—to keep my face neutral, but I know I fail.

“Ah, so you do know her? She doesn’t look like the type to lure a man to his death, but I’ve been surprised before.”

He shrugs as if he’s talking about the price of bread. I need to get out of here—get with Riale, my father.

Fuck. This is so fucked.

The agent’s face turns a deep red, and all pretense of camaraderie departs his demeanor. “Here’s how this is going to go. We know your father is embezzling more than a billion dollars year after year through a number of his ventures. I know he’s tied up with Benjamin Brigham. I know you killed Jaxon Samuels. I know your little girlfriend was in on it. I have all the evidence to put you in jail for the rest of your natural life.”

His nostrils flare, and I keep myself still.

“Her, too. Sure, she probably would have ended up as one of his next victims, but would you look at that—it’s so simple to find, oh, let’s say a few hundred thousand dollars she stole from him. Hmm, capital murder carries a sixty-year minimum. Luckily, there’s a moratorium on the death penalty in Illinois.”

That chilled panic courses down my arms again, making my fingers twitch.

“Or,” he says, a bright smile flashing on his face, “you can be an informant for me. There’s more information we need—a smoking gun so clear that even the great Chuck Sandoval can’t get out of a conviction. So you’re going to get me what I need: A confession.”

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

“What will it be, Sandoval?” That maniacal smile broadens, and I spin through all the scenarios. As common sense edges in, I know he doesn’t really have any evidence of the murder—no smoking gun, at least. If he did, I’d be in custody for real, not sitting here in an FBI field office. Plus, if he really had anything, I’d be facing CPD, not the Feds.

With my legal team and a few well-placed favors, I know I’ll get out of this relatively unscathed.

But will Shae?

I look down at the photos on the table between us, the side of Shae’s face visible in the grainy image.

No, Shae can’t go up against all of this and survive it.

So what does that mean I’ll have to sacrifice?