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The sketch artist is about twelve—okay, maybe twenty—and sitting at our kitchen island eating pie, with milk in his glass.

“Have you lost your mind?” I murmur softly to Kane, both of us still standing in the archway.

“Why don’t you find out?” Amusement lights his otherwise dark eyes, telling me he’s oh so proud of himself right now. My husband is ridiculously arrogant. I should hate that about him, but I really don’t. Sometimes it even makes me hot, but I’ll keep that to myself.

As for the kid, we will see.

A few minutes later, I’m eating Cheetos, with orange fingers that prove they were a bad choice for a Purgatory snack, and answering the questions “Joey” asks me about Ghost.

Joey is Joey Ramirez, and he’s well-spoken, bilingual, and wearing head-to-foot Gucci that screams of money. I’d ask him his story, but he’s too darn focused on his work, and his work helps my work, which is going pretty shitty right now. Like if I were the actual trashman, shit would be in the can. Shit is most definitely in the can.

I wipe off my hands and then offer Kane some Cheetos to go along with the ridiculously expensive whiskey he’s been sipping. I assume he’s silently celebrating besting his father, though I think it’s premature to assume success. We’re not on a winning streak right now, and it sucks.

Kane lifts a hand to decline, the look on his face pure disapproval. Crazy man. Cheetos and whiskey sound pretty good to me, and a great way to make it through this process. I grab his glass and sip, the bite of smoke that follows burning me all the way down.

I choke with the punishment, and Kane laughs, low and taunting. “That’s what you get for not asking first.”

There’s a definitive sexual innuendo to his words that has little ol’ Joey glancing up, and then he clears his throat. “How’s this?”

He flips his drawing around, and I’m stunned by the likeness to Ghost—chiseled cheeks, a full mouth, close-set eyes, and a sharp nose. “That’s incredible,” I say, pulling it closer. “I can’t get over this. How did you learn to do this?”

“My mom was a profiler in Texas. The FBI recruited me out of college, but the pay was shit. I decided to start contracting out my services, and now I get paid .”

“Out of college? How old are you ?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“You look—”

“Yeah, it’s not the best with the ladies, but once I draw them,” he wiggles his eyebrows, “they’re all mine.” He taps the drawing. “Any changes?”

I glance over at Kane, only to find he isn’t here anymore. Frowning, I push off the barstool and motion to the drawing. “There’s a slight dimple in his right cheek. I’ll be right back.” I grab the whiskey glass Kane has left behind and head into the living room. He’s not there, but the patio door is open, and bitter cold air lifts the curtains and washes over me, sending a shiver down my spine.

I hurry to the door to find him standing far in the distance, near the ocean, where it has to be brutally icy, and he’s not even wearing a coat. Crazy man , I think, baffled by the way he’s disappeared on me. I set the whiskey glass down on the coffee table, hurry to the front door, and slide into my coat before snagging his and the glass.

It’s a decent, biting trek to reach him, and once I’m there, I step in front of him, my back to the water, the crash of waves that follows moments later a reminder of the force of nature we cannot control. Too often, I’ve thought of Kane just that way—a force of nature I cannot control. I’m not sure I ever really want to anymore. Some part of me hungers for that part of him, even needs it.

I stare up at him, the splay of moonlight caressing his handsome features, sharply etched in some dark emotion I do not understand. If he feels the cold, it doesn’t show. His hands are at his sides, fingers curled in his fists. I drop his coat and offer him the whiskey. He reaches for the glass, his hands folding over mine, and for a moment he just stares down at me, but he doesn’t seem to be searching for anything. I think he’s in his own head, processing whatever is going on, the information I’m not privy to, at least not quite yet. But for reasons I cannot explain, I dread what is to follow.

He accepts the glass and downs the amber liquid before stepping around me and hiking the glass as far as he can throw it. I turn to watch it hit the edge of the water, and for long minutes we just stand there, questions rattling at my brain. I’m really confused right now.

“You’ve seen this version of Ghost before,” I assume.

“Yes.”

“Why does that freak you out? You said he changes up his appearance. He just showed us the same version of himself. That feels expected?”

“I told you, he always conceals his features in some way, be it a mask, facial hair and sunglasses, a change of hair color. He keeps a distance, sets meetings at night, and does so in strategic locations. I was never sure who the real him was. None of those versions of Ghost match the sketch Joey drew.”

“Okay I think I follow. You’ve seen the version of Ghost Joey created where?

“In public. I’ve randomly spotted him and the fact that it was several times sits strange to me which I’m certain was the intent. Ghost knew you’d have him sketched again. He knew I’d know I’d seen him in the past and I also know that means he’s been too close for comfort. It was a warning, and an arrogant one at that. He’s telling me he doesn’t care if I see his face. He’s untouchable, and I am not. You are not .”

“It was a message from the Society.”

“Yes. They’re telling us that we might think we have the upper hand, but we do not.”

“You mean Pocher is telling us.”

“No. Pocher is nothing more than a figurehead. He wouldn’t come at us unless the head of that snake told him to do it.”

The degree of over I am with the Society cannot even be measured. I’m done, and the determination to make them done burns inside me, fire that doesn’t need flame but rather a target. I try to step away from Kane, and he captures my arm. “Where are you going?”

“Somewhere I can kill at least one person. More would be preferable.”

“You can’t kill what you cannot see, who you do not know.”

“I might not know this person, but Pocher does. And so, I bet, does my father. I’m confident I can find a way to make them talk, and it’s way past time I stop holding back with them.”