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“Eugene Warren,” the agent calls out, gaze seeking behind us. “You’re wanted for questioning in the disappearances of Stella St. James and Laura Walker. You’re going to come with us.”

“This is bullshit,” Lex starts, “you’ve got nothing on him.”

“Unfortunately, I do,” Knight hisses, getting into Lex’s face. He’s tall, similar in height to Lex, and when they’re next to each other like this, it’s clear that the agent’s broad shoulders and rigid frame are ripped with muscle. “And while I’ve been working this case, I’ve been learning a lot about this little town and its history of violence. I’ve been reading about a very similar murder spree that happened two decades ago. Ever hear of that?” He asks, then answers himself quickly. “A serial killer dubbed the ‘Forsyth Carver’. A man who slaughtered girls in much the same way. Seems a little coincidental.”

The muscle in Lex’s jaw tightens as he bites out. “The Carver is dead.”

Knight nods. “Maybe we have a copycat. Someone who has something to prove? Or maybe someone with the same genetic makeup is back at it again.”

“If you’re implying something, spit it out, Knight.”

“Just spitballing. Stranger things have happened.” The Agent glances over his shoulder and commands, “Let’s do this, boys!”

In unison, officers begin exiting their cruisers, swinging the doors open and standing.Juststanding. But the threat of force is unmistakable, and when Pace glances over his shoulder, I follow his gaze, finding Ballsack at the back of the parting crowd. He looks hunted and angry, two fists jamming into his pockets as he stalks toward the gate.

“He hasn’t done anything,” I argue, swinging my glare at the agent. “And he doesn’t know anything either.”

Knight shrugs, looking far too pleased as Pace slams his hand down on the button to open the gate. “Then he has nothing to worry about.”

“It’s fine, Verity,” Ballsack says, lifting his chin. “Maybe it’ll even help.”

The stone in my gut says otherwise, and Pace must feel the same way, because he grabs his arm and commands, “Say nothing. Not one fucking word. You have your rights.”

“Let’s go, Warren,” Knight says, and two of the cops approach him, grabbing him roughly by the collar and bicep. “Can’t wait to hear how you explain this away.”

“Pace is right,” Lex calls out, expression grim at the way Eugene is being handled. “Keep your mouth shut and your fists clean. We’ll call Perilini.”

He’s shoved in the back of a patrol car, and they’re gone as fast as they arrived, dust blowing up as their tires race off the bridge. Lex is already on the phone, storming back to the palace, but Pace reels me to him, his hand resting on top of my belly. “He’s smart,” Pace says. “He won’t say anything stupid.”

I turn into him, face pressed against his strong chest, and can’t help but worry. Eugene has been by my side ever since my first week in East End. He’s seen the good, the bad, and the ugliest of it all, and just like Stella, he’s never once wavered. These are people who have helped me claim my own power.

So why am I so powerless to help them?

10

Pace

“This is bullshit,”I say, checking my phone again. “He should be back by now.” Verity promised she’d text me the moment Ballsack was released from the station, but it’s been thirty-two hours. How long are they planning on keeping him?

In the driver’s seat, Wicker downshifts, turning onto an old, overgrown road. “He’s probably sleeping off the interrogation in West End or something.”

“The Dukes would have told her,” I point out. Wick’s caught only a brief glimpse of what Verity’s life is like in West End, but I spent the last month going back and forth, running supplies to Lex as he nursed Nick Bruin back to something resembling health. I’ve seen the way the Dukes are with her. A little too close, in my opinion, brotherly or not. But they wouldn’t leave Verity hanging.

I suppose that’s the difference between my brother and me.

I observe.

Wickerdoes.

Case in point…

I peer through the break in the trees, unable to miss the looming structure. “Huh.”

“What?” Wicker asks, opening the glove compartment and stashing his gun inside. I know he has the blade from Father’s office in his boot. He seems partial to it lately.

Shrugging, I swipe the gun before he can close the compartment, sliding it into my waistband. “I’d heard the Baron King did Royal business out of an old church, but I always thought it was an urban legend or something.”

Wicker scoffs, tossing me a look. “There’s no such thing as an urban legend in Forsyth. Every ridiculous rumor you hear is not only true, but the reality is probably even more absurd.” He stares out at the stone chapel, craning his neck to look up at the steeple, the cross missing at the top. “And that’s a lot more than just a church. It’s the House of Night. It’s probably the oldest building in Forsyth.”