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Emile isn’tin my apartment when I slip inside to get clothes for hiking. I text Margot, and my phone rings a second later.

“I haven’t found anything of worth, Roman,” she says, sounding disappointed.

I kick off my shoes and pants before digging in the dryer to find a pair of sweats. “I fucking told you though, didn’t I?”

“It just didn’t make sense! Remy called youafterBill died. How the hell—”

“I don’t fucking know, but it’s definitely Rose’s necklace. I checked this morning before she woke up.”

“Did you even sleep?”

“No,” I reply. As if I could sleep after I’d just confirmed my suspicions. Remy might not have found Gwyn until six months ago, but Bill found him long before that. Now, I have proof.

“You said you picked him up on a traffic light the night Bill died, right?”

“Yes, but he was, like, twenty miles away from the accident when it happened,” she says.

I toss a t-shirt on and grab a hoodie. I’m thinking as I’m lacing my shoes, and Margot sighs.

“I hate to say it, but—”

“But I was fucking right?” I blurt, angry that my best friend wasn’t fully on my side until now.

“You were fucking right,” she agrees, and I don’t say anything until she continues. “I’m sorry. I should have listened to you. You need to get into that storage unit.” She sighs. “The house line only ever received calls from burner phones. I’m still working on finding out where they were purchased, but it’s a long shot.”

“See if you can catch him on any cameras that week leading up to Bill’s death. I know you couldn’t find him again after that night, but we didn’t try backtracking. Maybe we can figure out how Bill found him.”

I hang up and pace my living room. Gwyn is waiting outside in her car, and I only have a few moments to get my shit together. Maybe I’ve been asking her the wrong questions. It’s possible she saw Remy and doesn’t know it. He never went anywhere without Rose’s necklace, a token of his guilt and grief in one.

I force myself to consider once more that Gwyn could be involved, and I still just cannot see it. I can’t imagine her doing anything to hurt anyone. Fuck, she even asked about that bitch who fucked her ex. She volunteers at the food bank; she stops her car to help animals cross the road. Gwyn is soft and lacks the hard edges that living this lifestyle requires. I’m going to have to question her more thoroughly just to get this nagging fucking feeling out of my skull, but the only real answer is getting access to Bill’s belongings.

I wash my face and brush my teeth, things I neglected to do while Gwyn slept. She’d woken up for a moment when I put her in bed, but I compelled her to sleep longer so I’d have time. I knew Hale was a deep sleeper, so as long as I stayed quiet, I could search for anything else that had once belonged to my brother.

I shouldn’t have told her to dream of me, though. That had been a mistake, even if it proved how pliant her mind is. When I heard Hale’s alarm go off, I had laid down on the couch as I feigned sleep. But when she started her quiet moaning, I had to get up and do something else. It worked in my favor, though; the pleasant surprise on her face when she came out was enough to tell me it wasn’t often her or her conquests stuck around for breakfast. And when she’d made that goddamn noise when she took a bite of bacon, reminding me of the sounds she made when she dreamt of me, I regretted it once more.

I hear her honk the car in the parking lot as I finish up, and I prepare myself. I have got to get into that storage unit.

Today.

And then I will rid myself of Gwyneth Parsons.

* * *

She asksme if I want to drive, and I can’t turn down the opportunity. The car is perfect, in pristine condition, and I appreciate the care that went into refurbishing it. I know Bill did most of it, and I wonder how someone who helped put one of the blackest marks on my soul can take such care of something.

But then, I look at Gwyn as she hums along to the playlist she’s put on the radio, and I am only more confused. I’m breathing through my mouth, doing my best to not smell her. Being around her is different now that I’ve tasted her blood. I’m constantly on edge, and I feel like it would take very little to send me past a point of no return. Everything is exaggerated—I’ve never craved someone so completely.

“You like this?” she asks, reaching for her phone to turn it up. “I’m obsessed.”

Truly, I don’t even know what we’re listening to, I’m so wrapped up in thought. I pay attention to the low bass line and folksy warble, and I recognize it. When she says she’s obsessed, she’s not lying. This is one of her favorite songs, and she listens to it regularly.

“I find it pretentious, if I’m honest.”

She lifts her hand to her chest in affront and sits up higher in her seat. “No, no. This song is misunderstood.”

“How so?”

“He’sintentionallybeing pretentious. You must have never met a man who took a course in the classics,” she says, laughing. “He’s singing from the perspective of those guys who will talk all romantic specifically to get into someone’s pants. But, like, it’s somehow sexy when he does it.” She grins.