Page 3

A drippy ceiling

One, tiny ass window not even big enough for my head to stick out.

Grooves in concrete walls that are almost recognizable as tally marks.

A strange smell of bleach and old sweat clings to the air, refusing to dissipate.

It’s been days. Maybe longer. I lost track of time after the first couple. The window is so caked with mud and dirt that it’s hard to tell if it’s daylight or a street lamp shining through. They keep the fluorescent lights on at all times, barely allowing me to sleep at all.

They come in with a meal every so often to tempt me, but usually leave only the bread when I refuse to answer their questions.

Why did you leave Victoria?

Do you know who the killer is?

Who are you protecting?

Telling them the truth—that I don’t fucking know—got me a split lip and a busted eye. So now, I just keep my mouth shut. It doesn’t stop them. They circle like vultures, leaning in closer every time I flinch, waiting for the moment I give them something.

Earlier today they came in and shackled me to a cold metal chair, my hands wrenched behind me. My shoulders are screaming from the awkward angle, but it’s nothing compared to the sharp bite of the cuffs digging into my skin. My breath fogs in the cold air of this basement. The walls are damp with condensation, or maybe blood. I try not to look too closely.

The door creaks open, and I don’t bother to look. I’ve already seen enough of their faces to know that whoever steps in won’t be any different. They’re all the same—hard eyes, clipped tones, cold professionalism with just enough sadism to make them dangerous. Whoever they are, they’ve made it clear that they aren’t with the local police.

Not even close.

Footsteps echo across the concrete floor. The chair in the corner scrapes against the ground as someone sits down, their presence filling the room like a dark cloud.

“Levi Thompson.”

I drag my eyes away from the ceiling, settling on the man in front of me. He’s different from the others. He doesn’t look like he belongs here. His suit is too clean, too tailored, and his smile…it’s the kind of smile that makes you want to punch the guy just for existing. The kind that says he knows something you don’t, and he’s going to enjoy watching you squirm while he holds it over your head.

“Finally decided to stop staring at the ceiling?” he asks, leaning forward and folding his hands on the table between us. “I was beginning to think you were more interested in the decor than what’s happening here.”

“Didn’t realize there was anything happening,”

“Oh, there’s plenty happening, Levi.”

I clench my jaw, resisting the urge to snap back. That’s what they want. They’ve been trying to break me down, trying to get a rise out of me since I got here. But I’m not giving them the satisfaction.

He pulls out a folder, placing it carefully on the table between us. The metal of his cufflinks gleams under the flickering light as he flips it open. Pictures of the crime scene, blurry photos of me. Victoria’s body. Her eyes blank, staring up at the sky, her throat cut deep enough to almost sever her head from her body.

“We know Kai’s been sniffing around,” the man says, flipping through the pages. “He’s got theories. Leads. Hell, he probably knows exactly who the killer is. And you’re telling me he hasn’t said a damn thing to you?”

The man clicks his tongue like I’m a child who just gave the wrong answer. “The Syndicate doesn’t appreciate lies, Thompson.”

“He doesn’t know.” My voice is hoarse, and I hate the weakness in it. “We don’t know.”

Another man who came in at the same time stands by the door and chuckles. “Yeah, sure. You don’t know, and your boy Kai just likes playing detective for fun. Let me tell you how this is going to go. Either you give us a name, or we assume you’re protecting someone. Maybe yourself.”

I tug at the restraints, a futile effort, but my frustration bubbles over. “If we knew, don’t you think we’d have done something by now? None of us want this shit hanging over our heads.”

I stare at the photo paperclipped to the folder. It’s an image of me, my arm slung casually around Victoria, her head leaning against my shoulder as we walk down a darkened street. The grainy quality doesn’t matter. I know it’s me. This was taken over a year ago.

When I loved her.

Now, the thought of her touching me makes my skin crawl.

Did I want her to die?

No.

But is she dead?

Yes.

“You’re not helping your case by staying quiet,” he continues, his voice almost bored. “In fact, it makes you look guilty as hell.”

“Maybe I am guilty,” I say. “What are you going to do about it?”

His smile falters for a split second, but he recovers quickly. “Is that an admission of guilt?”

I lean forward as far as the chains allow, meeting his gaze with a cold, dead stare. “It’s whatever you want it to be. If it gets me out of here, I don’t care if it’s in a body bag or walking free.”

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, just stares back at me with that same calculating gaze. I can feel him dissecting me, trying to figure out what makes me tick.

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t react, just studies me like I’m some puzzle he’s almost solved. “Let’s cut the bullshit, Levi. We both know you didn’t kill her. But you know who did.”

“If I knew, I would have handled it myself.”

He slides another photo across the table. This one isn’t of Victoria. It’s of Sable.

My stomach drops as I take in the image. She’s walking across campus, her face turned away from the camera, but there’s no mistaking it’s her. She’s mid-laugh, her hand brushing her hair back, completely oblivious that someone was following her, documenting her every move.

“You’ve got people you care about. People who the Syndicate can make go missing very quickly if you don’t help us find who did this.”

“Don’t fucking touch her.”

He smirks. “Oh, my men will do a lot more than touch her.”

I lunge forward, the cuffs biting into my wrists as I strain against them. The metal chair screeches against the floor, the sound jarring, but he doesn’t flinch. He just watches me, calm, smug, like he’s already won.

“Easy now. You don’t want to do anything you’ll regret.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Simple,” he says, folding his hands as if we’re in the middle of some polite negotiation. “I want a name. Tell us who killed Victoria.”

“And what about the other murders?” I snap. “You act like she’s the only one who matters.”

“Victoria wasn’t just another victim. She was the daughter of someone very, very important.”

“That’s bullshit.” I glare at him. “Her dad left when she was a kid. She told me that herself.”

He shrugs, unconcerned. “Not everything she told you was the truth. Regardless, she mattered. More than the others. And if you help us, we’ll make sure Sable and your other friends stay safe.”

“And if I refuse?”

His smile sharpens. “Then you’ll stay here. And who knows? Maybe we’ll see how much Sable knows. She’s smart. Maybe she’ll figure it out faster than you have.”

My jaw tightens, and I glare at him, my pulse roaring in my ears. “Kai’s been digging into this for months. He hasn’t found a damn thing. What makes you think I can magically pull a name out of thin air?”

He leans in close, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Those aren’t the magic words we’re looking for, Levi.”

Straightening, he smooths his jacket and gathers the folder. “Think about your friends. Think about Sable. Think about how long you can protect them from what’s coming.”

The door slams shut behind him and the other guy, leaving me alone in the cold, oppressive silence. My hands shake against the chains, and my heart pounds a sickening rhythm in my chest.

I don’t trust the Syndicate. My dad drilled that into me for years. Never trust them. Never work with them. But what the hell am I supposed to do now?

I stare at the photo of Sable still sitting on the table, the edges curling slightly, and a wave of nausea rolls through me.

They’re going to use her to get to me.

And I don’t know how to stop them.