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The news reported that he was killed by the Iron Serpents in a feud between the two criminal organizations, but I know better.

I'm standing right next to his killer.

There's a woman wearing a black dress and an oversized hat, dabbing at her nose with a tissue. Beside her is another woman who looks similar enough to be her sister. She rubs her back in a soothing gesture. There's a couple standing across from him, the woman also looking strikingly similar to the other two. Are they all sisters?

Other than us, these are the only people here to mourn the man Sam killed.

Sam told me his uncle was a bad person, and the lack of attendance at his funeral makes me believe him. But still, seeing the woman crying sends daggers into my chest.

She's grieving and probably doesn't even know what really happened. But I do. And I'm not telling anyone. I could go to the police and give her closure. But then what would happen? Sam made it clear that he's keeping me until he believes he can trust me. Going to the police would be an obvious sign that he can't trust me.

"Let's get this over with." Sam's words are harsh as he looks at the priest.

My eyes are fully focused on the crying woman while the priest does his thing. Damien is already closed in the tomb. There are no flowers to be dropped on his grave. We pray and watch his wife cry. And then it's over quickly.

I stand frozen as the mourners begin to disperse. The woman — Damien's wife — walks past me, her tear-stained face hidden beneath her wide-brimmed hat. For a moment, our eyes meet,and I feel like I'm drowning in her grief. Does she see something in my expression? Can she tell I know more than I should?

But I also know that her husband is the reason Sam spent months in Orleans Parish Prison for a murder hedidn'tcommit.

Confusion twists in my gut.

Right and wrong are starting to swirl together, and I'm not sure which is which any more.

Sam's hand presses against the small of my back, guiding me away from the tomb. "Time to go."

My legs move mechanically as we walk back through the cemetery. The sun beats down on us, making the black dress stick to my skin. I feel like I'm suffocating.

"Why did you bring me here?" I finally ask when we're far enough away from the others.

Sam's jaw tightens. "I wanted to see what you would do."

"What I would do… Was this a test? You wanted me to watch a grieving woman, all so you could test me?" I nearly shout, and Sam presses his palm to my lower back, pushing me forward to the car. Opening the door, he urges me inside.

I slide in, grateful for the blast of cold air conditioning. As he settles in beside me, I turn to face him.

"Did you feel anything back there? Watching his wife cry?"

Sam stares straight ahead, his profile hard as stone. "What I feel doesn't matter."

"It does to me." The words surprise even me.

He turns then, his dark eyes meeting mine. Something flickers there — pain, regret, I'm not sure which.

"You think I'm a monster." It's not a question.

I should say yes. I should hate him for what he's done, for keeping me prisoner, for making me complicit in his world. But the truth is more complicated.

"I think you're a man who's convinced himself he has no choice. But there's always a choice. You're not God. You don't get to choose who lives and who dies."

Sam's expression shifts, and he looks away from me for a long moment.

"Donnie, take us to Lana's." He returns his gaze to me. "I think there's someone you should meet."

TWENTY-FIVE

Olivia

The car stops in front of a quaint gray house in the French Quarter with white trim and bright blue detailing sitting behind a wrought-iron gate. Greenery grows along the siding, and there's a floral reef hanging in front of the stained-glass window on the door.