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“Yeah. Griff used his martial arts skills on this fucking tweaker. Then, Molly whacked him.” He lowers his voice. “ Now we need him to disappear. We’re just trying to get more info about who sent him.”

“Okay.”

He shifts his weight from one leg to the other and winces. “We wouldn’t call on you…lightly. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

“I know that.” From everything I’ve learned, it’s a big deal for Jigsaw to share that much with me—his ol’ lady. Especially with his brothers only a couple feet away. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

“You’re taking a risk too. It’s only fair.”

I lean up and brush a kiss against his bristly cheek. “You’re worth all the risk.”

His brow furrows, almost like my words hurt.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say.

“Planning to stay if you think you can give me a ride to Jerry’s garage to grab my bike in the morning.”

“Yeah.” A smile lifts my cheeks. “I can do that.” I widen my eyes. “Are you sure you really want to leave your bike somewhere overnight?” I tease.

His eyebrows knit into a scowl. “Griff knows I’ll kick his ass if anything happens to it.”

“Wait, so you can threaten him but…” I tilt my head toward the crematorium.

A tired smile curves his lips. “Exactly.” He touches his finger to his temple and then mine. “I love the way you just get me.”

“Oh, I get you.”

He nods slowly, almost like he’s not quite paying attention.

The door nudges open and Murphy pokes his head in. “Jiggy, you wanna…?”

He shakes his head quickly. “I’m fine.”

Wrath shoulders Murphy out of his way, pushing the door open wider. “Is this ready, Margot?”

“It should be soon.” I turn away and walk over to check out the controls.

From the corner of my eye, something rust-colored sticks out.

I freeze. Roll my shoulder forward to peer down at my arm.

A sticky red smear on my biceps. “What the…?”

“Oh shit, Margot. Sorry.” Jigsaw limps to my side.

He reaches for me, brushing at the flecks of dried blood on my arm with the back of his gloved hand—already dark with a reddish sheen.

My gaze drops to his jeans.

A dark circle blooms around his upper thigh. Black fabric, a torn T-shirt maybe, wrapped around his thigh, tied tight. Also dark and damp looking.

“Jensen! Oh my God.” My voice comes out sharp, too loud, too full of panic. “You’re bleeding?”

He grits his teeth and lies, “I’m fine.”

My stomach drops. I sway on my feet, but I don’t look away.

He’s not fine. He’s bleeding!

“I’m fine.” Jigsaw’s voice is slow and calm. “We’ll be done soon, and I’ll get cleaned up.”

“How? Who?” I stammer.

He cocks his head toward the door. “Fucker had a knife stashed in his boot. Stabbed me.” His lips twist in a wry laugh. “Lucky my reflexes are so good, he was aiming for my throat.”

Everything narrows. My breath comes fast. A high-pitched whine buzzing in my ears.

“Margot?” Jigsaw sounds a thousand miles away. “I’m okay.”

Murphy pops his head in again. “I don’t think we’re gettin’ anything else out of him.” His gaze shifts between Jigsaw and me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Jigsaw shakes his head and gestures toward his leg.

Wrath elbows Murphy out of his way and kicks the door open wide. A second later, he drags their prisoner inside—the man’s bloody fingers clawing at Wrath’s arm around his neck.

Jigsaw’s blood.

White-hot, stomach-knotting, heartbeat-screaming rage explodes through me.

“How’re we doing this?” Murphy asks. “We can’t just toss him in.”

“I’ll help you there.” I dig the scalpel out of my pocket and quickly cross the small space.

Wrath drops the guy on the floor with heavy thud and frowns at me. “What the hell are you doing?”

I kneel next to the prisoner, cradling his head in one hand. He stares up at me, eyes wide, mouth slack, shaking his head in frantic denial.

“You stabbed my boyfriend.” My voice is calm. Robotic. Detached. “Tried to hurt his friends.”

I grip the scalpel tighter.

“I drain blood from the jugular all the time,” I murmur. “Tilt the head, nick the vein, let gravity do the rest.”

The man shakes his head violently.

“This might be a little messier.”

I grip his skull in my palm, fingers digging into his scalp to hold him steady. Bodies on my table are much more compliant. This one still squirms and reeks of sweat and fear.

“Margot.” Jigsaw’s voice slices through the fog. “Don’t!”

Too late.

I drag the blade across the man’s throat, firm and smooth. The scalpel glides through flesh. A surge of blood much warmer than I’m used to bursts free.

No cannula to guide it. No drain to catch it.

It sprays across my chest and forearms—wild, chaotic, and hot.

Probably the messiest kill I’ve ever made.

Because I didn’t plan it. This was all instinct. Reaction.

His body twitches. Spasms. Then stills.

Silence floods the room.

I lift my head.

All four men stare at me with wide eyes and stunned mouths.

I hold up my hand with the scalpel; blood drips off my fingers, runs down my arm and patters against the floor.

“Can someone hand me the paper towels?” I nod to the roll hanging by the sink. “This one was messier than I’m used to.”