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“Why did you do it?”

I jam my lips together so I’m not tempted to answer him.

“Did you need the money? Or do you enjoy killing people?”

I glare at him. “I’m not a murderer,” I snap.

His eyebrow hitches, his mouth presses down, and his chin juts out. “What about the guy who wound up facedown in the ocean?”

I swallow hard. “I’m not answering any of your questions. You’re holding me here illegally. I’m going to sue youandHightower when I get out of here.”

He cocks his head to one side, and he bursts out laughing. I sit up a little straighter as he brings himself under control. “You’re a piece of work, lady. You really think you can sue me? You made the FBI’s most wanted.”

A strange, cold pressure closes around my chest. I blink, trying to process the words, but they don’t make sense. My heart lurches, then pounds so fast it feels like I can’t catch up. “That’s not true.”

He shakes his head, all mirth gone as he replies. “Yeah, it is. You’re wanted in connection with my attempted murder and the attempted terror attack. Presumed armed and dangerous.”

I knew I was in trouble, but the FBI’s list is for the worst of the worst.

“But… I… I just,” I whisper.

“Just what?” he says.

My stomach starts to roil, now-familiar nausea settling in on me and spreading like wildfire. “I… made a mistake.”

His reply is cold and cruel. “Yeah, you did. You picked the wrong guy.”

I shake my head, too out of sorts to know what I’m saying. “Ididn’tpick you.”

Before I can take it back, he pounces. “Who did?”

I dig my fingernails into my palm and try to think. But my brain refuses to obey. Whether out of tiredness, or shock, or fear, I can’t find a single way to backpedal.

He shifts closer so he’s sitting on the chair nearest me. “Who told you to start flirting with me?”

I clench my fists. “I… never met him.”

He smashes his hand on the arm of the couch, making me jump. “Quit lying to me.”

I shrink back in the chair. Fear makes my voice pitch too high. “I don’t know his name. I never met him. We communicated by phone, and he transferred the money when I left you at the apartment.”

He growls something under his breath. “Do you have his number?”

I shake my head. “We used a cutout. Everything was done through him.”

He furrows his brow. “A cutout?”

“A middleman.”

The furrow deepens as he processes the information. “The guy in the bay?”

I wince, and he takes it for acknowledgment. “That’s why you were trying to leave town?”

I let the question go unanswered.

“Was it even your apartment?”

Why he needs to know the details seems irrelevant, but I humor him with the truth. “No. I borrow it sometimes when the owner is out of town.”