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And sitting around doing nothing is going to drive him insane.

Looping his backpack over his shoulder, he follows me sullenly out the door. “Go where?”

I stop once we’re outside, facing him. “My father hung me out to dry when I was arrested. I was fucked by him and the system. No one had my back, and I know we’re not from the same crew, but you’re a good kid, Eugene, and I don’t want to see anyone go down for something they didn’t do.” I start walking again, this time toward the parking lot. “If Knight is going to have tunnel vision, then the only thing that’ll shift him away is to give him an alternative.”

Ballsy’s footsteps sound out behind me. “You mean another suspect.”

“Exactly.”

The drive is spent in subdued silence, and I don’t even argue when Ballsack reaches over to flick on the radio.

The DJ’s low, smooth voice rings out. “Let’s call that song a little tribute to a fallen brother. He paid the price of capturing a wicked heart. But who among us, right? Who among us…” His laugh is quiet and uncomfortably sinister.

I roll my eyes. “Jesus, my bird loves this fucking asshat.”

Ballsy chuckles. “So do some of the cutsluts. Something about his voice, I guess.”

“Well, it’s definitely not his message. It’s all Lit Major gibberish.”

Proving my point, the DJ goes on, “But if not for the savagery of brittle lips and ruby blood, what would rattle the tin can of a Royal’s hollow soul?” There’s a long, hissing inhale, and then, “It’s two-o-clock. Do you know where your brothers are?”

Ballsy glances over at me. “This guy smokes way too much weed.”

I snort, turning off the Avenue toward North Side. “Seriously,” I say. Then, after a beat, my gaze drifts to the glove compartment. “I’ve got a pen in there.”

Ballsy deflates, saying, “Thank fucking god,” and immediately pops it open to find the vape. He and I trade it back and forth for the rest of the drive—past East End, around the Barons’ territory, through North Side, and over the river.

I know I’m good and stoned when the DJ starts making sense.

“These are the dark days, my friends,” he’s drawling, “because they have to be. The smallest slant of light would show us that we shift around in our little crews, pretending we’re not part of the same rotting corpse, but we are. Limbs and corrupted organs. Hair follicles and fractured bones. Irises and perforated muscles. Our women keep getting plucked away like trophy molars because you’ve all forgotten. Your crowns are made of clay and straw and dead things.” Another one of those chilling chuckles. “Remember that you will die. Wake up, Forsyth. Wake up and smell that sweet decay?—”

The sound cuts with a flick of Ballsack’s finger. “What’s the over-under on Agent Knight questioning that fucker?”

I glare at the radio, thinking it might be time to find out who this Sorrin dude is. “He sounds deranged enough to pique my interest.”

When we arrive, I lead Ballsy to the front of the SUV, giving him a pointed glance as I check my clip.

“Are we where I think we are?” he asks, voice grim as he checks his own pistol.

I start walking. “Yep.”

The forest here is thick and full of bramble patches. There’s no path to walk, no treads in the mushy undergrowth, just limbs and thorns. Ballsack and I force our way through it, and I don’t know this Arianette chick, but if she was running through this shit, she must be tough as nails. By the time we reach the riverbank, Ballsy and I are panting and soaked with sweat.

“This is where they found her?” he asks, bracing his hands on his knees.

There’s a scrap of muddy police tape on the bank. “Looks like it.” I take a second to assess the scene, noting the steep cliff face on the opposite bank of the river. “There’s not much online about the girl they found. She’s Dean Hexley’s niece, nineteen years old, but I can’t find any enrollment history at either Forsyth High or Preston Prep.

Ballsack hacks a breathless cough. “Maybe she was home-schooled.”

I hum. “Maybe.”

Picking through the overgrowth, I try to find a clue about any direction she might have come from, but it’s too dense to say for sure.

“Who has access to this area?” he asks, inspecting a low-hanging branch.

I crouch down to pick up a smooth pebble. “Historically, it’s kind of a no-man's land. Access to the river has always been public property—an easement owned by the city. The river cuts straight through town. If she was dumped upstream, it could have been the Counts. Sex trafficking was always their brand.”

Ballsack doesn’t seem convinced. “My intel says the Counts are still too disorganized for anything like that. They’re barely able to keep up with the Scratch trade, let alone extracurriculars.”