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But then something clicks into place, an alarm blaring in the back of my mind. I meet his gaze, my pulse quickening. “Wait. How did you know Arnold’s lawyer called off Homicide?”

Kane doesn’t miss a beat, shrugging with a practiced casualness. “I have friends there, Alex. You know that.”

That’s true, but it seems unlikely that Homicide would randomly discuss this with Kane unless prompted. And even if they did, why would he ask his friends there instead of me?

I take a careful step back, gripping my cracked phone tightly. “Why did you come here?” I ask.

His face falls, something like concern clouding his features. “Are you okay? You look really pale.”

The knot in my stomach tightens, a creeping certainty that something is very, very wrong. “I think you should go,” I say, my voice firmer now.

“Alex,” Kane says, holding up a hand, his tone calm, steadying. “Seriously, I just came to check on you.”

But then his gaze flickers—just for a second—to the phone in my hand.

Shit.

I act on instinct, swiping open the screen and tapping Rowan’s number. The phone begins to ring, a faint buzz against my palm, but before I can raise it to my ear, Kane steps into my space.

He has more muscle and height on me and when I try to sidestep him, his arm snakes around my middle, locking me in place.

“Kane, what the—”

The phone slips from my grasp, clattering to the floor. Rowan’s name flashes on the cracked screen as it rings. Kane doesn’t hesitate. He stamps down hard, the phone shattering beneath his boot.

“What are you doing?” I gasp, clawing at his arm, panic bubbling in my chest. His grip tightens, cutting off my air.

“Don’t fight me,” he growls through gritted teeth.

I don’t listen to him. Instead, I twist and struggle, but he’s too strong. My eyes dart around the kitchen, landing on the glass I left on the table. I lurch toward it, forcing Kane to stumble with me. The glass tumbles, shattering on the floor, and the faint splash of water touches my face.

Before I can make another move, I feel the sharp sting of a needle in my neck. My vision blurs instantly, the world tilting as my body goes slack.

I hit the floor hard, the back of my head knocking on the tiles. Through the haze, I see Kane looming over me, his face tight with regret.

“I’m sorry, Alex,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I had no choice.”

And then everything fades to black.

***

It’s cold.

That’s the first thing I think when I come to. I haven’t been this cold in years.

My eyes blink open, and I’m met by dim light coming from a single globe attached to a ceiling swathed in dots of black mould. They creep down onto the wallpaper in menacing black tendrils. Below me, the red carpeted floor is marred with holes made from burnt cigarette butts. The stale air reeks of mildew and ash.

Then the headache hits—splitting and relentless, hammering against my skull with every beat of my heart. I groan, shifting slightly. My arms tug uselessly at the restraints behind me, the coarse rope biting into raw, exposed skin.

The room is sparse, the walls bare, grimy grey curtains covering the windows, though light filters weakly through the fabric. Outside, distant city sounds filter in, cars honking, an ambulance wailing, voices carried on the wind. I’m in some kind of apartment building then, maybe a complex near the river.

What the hell happened?

Think, Alex. Focus.

An arm around my neck. A syringe.

Kane.