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It makes my eyes roll. “I hit muscle, not artery. You’ll be fine in a week or two.”

“West End…” Verity whispers, trailing off as the mouse clicks some more. “There’s so much footage of West End. Especiallyhim.” She turns, tapping at the screen. “I know this guy. Why are you watching him?”

Charlie shakes his head. “That’s not important. Go to the directory labeled—” Here, he flicks his eyes toward me, wincing. “Ashbrats.”

I sneer. “Nice.”

“I see it,” Verity announces. As she’s looking, my phone goes off inside her pocket, but I don’t trust taking my eyes off Charlie for a second. And for good reason. “The cleansing is in here,” she says, voice thick with emotion.

“Delete it.” The command comes instantly, and I wait for the sound of the keystroke before shaking my head at Charlie. “Guess shredding all your drives wasn’t quite enough.”

Now, it’s his turn to sneer. “You really think you’re the only one with back-ups?”

When I hear nothing else, I snap, “What else?”

“These are videos of me,” she adds in a low, shocked tone. “InRoyal Ink.”

Charlie laughs. “She doesn’t know, does she?” His beady eyes move over my shoulder, toward her. “He’s been watching you, sunshine.”

“Iknowhe’s been watching me,” she says, “but that doesn’t explain why you’ve got them all saved.”

I can’t help but smirk at Charlie for thinking my girl is as stupid as he is. “Whatelse?”

There’s a stretch of stunned silence, and then, “I-I don’t know. There’s a video of you at some building. Looks like… North Side?” More clicking. “This one looks like Lex, standing on a street corner. The Avenue?”

I file that away for later. “And?” When nothing greets me but tense silence, I urge, “Is there anything from April?”

I just want the face of the fucker I shot.

“Not yet…” her voice trails off.

“If you don’t want her digging through your trash, you could just tell us,” I remind him.

“I think the blood loss is making my memory worse,” he complains. “Nothing about April rings a bell.”

“There’s a video here called Mayfield,” she whispers, the words sounding trapped in her throat. “But it’s dated eleven years ago.”

Mayfield.

Wicker would have been ten.

It’s like my stomach is being yanked out by a bungee cord, my grip against the gun tightening. “Open it.”

Charlie sends me a listless grin. “Oh, brother, you don’t want to do that.” For the first time tonight, he’s right about something.

Behind me, the mouse click reverberates more sharply than my own gunfire had.

Jaw clenched, I call out, “Verity? Is it him?”

There was a time Wicker used to talk about Mayfield—the night Father sold off his virginity—with a cocky grin plastered on his face. But there was never a time I bought it. As the years went on, it stopped being something he tried to brag about and became something he wanted to bury. Which is easy when you’re talking about one of Forsyth’s darkest, most disgusting secrets.

When I get no answer, I snap, “Rosi! What’s the fucking video?”

“It’s Wicker,” she says, confirming the churn of disgust in my gut. Worse than that is the way it emerges from her lips, equal parts dread and conviction. I realize why when she adds, “Pace, this video is five hours long. I can’t—Iwon’twatch it.”

My head whips around to look at the screen, blood turning to ice. There’s only one reason that would be so long. Somehow Charlie has the whole fucking thing on video: Wicker being auctioned, Wicker being sold, and Wicker beingused.

“You sick piece of—”