Page 1

PROLOGUE

EIGHT YEARS AGO

H unter

I lean against the cold concrete, the chill seeping through my jacket, grounding me in the present. My mind races, replaying the events of the evening, trying to make sense of the chaos.

Then, I hear it.

Footsteps.

My body tenses, as I push off the wall, instinctively moving into the shadows, my senses heightened. The sound grows louder, closer.

“Fuck.”

No one has access to this part of the rooftop except from Noah and me. If anyone comes up here, it’s because they’re looking for trouble.

I bend down and seize the knife in my ankle pocket. Then, I spin around with the knife in my hand, ready to slit their fucking throat.

“Hunter?” Noah says nervously.

“I could’ve fucking killed you!” I snap. Then I let out a deep breath, and tilt my head back, thinking about what could’ve happened just a few seconds ago to Noah. The man I think of as the son I never had. My right-hand man.

“I thought you weren’t in?” I ask, trying to dial down the tension.

He lights a cigarette with his hands trembling. Smoking is a habit I wish I’d never introduced him to. One of my many regrets in life. Now it’s our ritual.

Smoke, case talk, silence.

Repeat.

I slip the knife back into the ankle pocket and pull my pant leg over it.

“Jesus, Noah. Are you trying to get killed?” I mutter, since he’s still ignoring my question. I drag a hand down my face, thankful that he’d called out my name, because if he hadn’t then he would be a dead man.

“Gee. What’s got you so twitchy?” he asks, flicking the lighter closed.

I ignore him and glance at my phone. Dead. Just like this goddamn case.

Noah exhales a slow breath, smoke curling into the cold rooftop air above Manhattan like a ghost leaving the body. "You’re agitated."

“No shit,” I mutter.

He doesn’t push, which I appreciate. Noah knows when to shut up. He knows how to read between the lines.

We both stare out at the skyline—Manhattan feels quiet from up here, where we ’re gods watching down on them all. Then again, maybe we’re just ghosts, pretending we don’t exist.

“Have I ever told you about the first time I saw a body?” I ask.

Noah lifts a brow. “Yours or someone else’s?”

I almost laugh at his attempt at a joke.

“Eighteen years old,” I say instead. “This girl was dumped in the alley as if she was a piece of trash after being gang raped on campus. They even took out her damn teeth and mutilated her face, so she wouldn't be recognizable.”

Noah doesn’t respond, his own past could be added to a fucking book of predators. His dad died behind the wheel of a truck, so his mom sold Noah’s body to cover the cost of her grief, amongst keeping up with her lavish lifestyle.

That’s why we’re here and do what we do.

Noah’s the only person who has been through every sick, twisted case during the last five years. Every hotel room is a stakeout. Every half-eaten meal between corpses and courtrooms. Yet, there’s something I need to tell him, something which could break the bond we have together and every time the words want to escape my mouth, there’s always something holding me back.

Fear?

Maybe. I’m worried that the only person I can trust on this planet with my life, will turn his back on me.

Dunno.

He wouldn’t be the first and certainly not the last, but it isn’t a risk I’m willing to take and in my line of work there are so many fucking risks. Too many. We’re the modern-day equivalent of Robin Hood. Noah tracks the money—where it comes from and where it ends up—and we take it from both ends: first from the predators, then from anyone they pay to fuck kids. It’s the only way we can fund our operation, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to get Noah the high-tech gear he needs—hell, I wouldn’t even be able to hire a team.

“Unfortunately, Dr. Ken isn't the only dirty therapist in the clinic,” Frank says.

What the fuck is going on tonight? How the fuck did he get up here?

Frank is part of the team too, but unlike Noah, he doesn’t work on every operation with me. Sometimes, Noah and I can handle things ourselves, but if not then we call on Frank and occasionally Ben.

Ben served with Frank and he’s ex-military, and a certified psychopath. The kind who looks at blood as if it’s a piece of art. PTSD clings to him like a second skin. He’s not in this line of work to clean up the world—he’s in it to feed the monster inside him, and I’m not interested in watching him drag us into a bloodbath each and every time so he can get a hard-on.

Frank, though—Frank’s different. He’s always in a suit, and crisp as his voice. Calm like he’s done a deal with the devil and walked away with the upper hand.

I offer him a cigarette. He declines, like he always does. Unlike Noah and me, Frank’s a health freak. The only time he lets loose is at the bar where we go to celebrate once a month. It’s a ritual we have, because if we can’t get wasted at the expense of a monster, then what’s the damn point?

I inhale deeply, allowing the smoke to bite my lungs.

“The whole clinic’s dirty, I’m not sure why I should be surprised. It’s always the case,” I mutter.

“No,” Noah says quietly, almost to himself.

“Usually one therapist is the bad apple in a clinic, otherwise if there’s too much suspicious behavior then they will come on the FBI’s radar.”

Noah’s my compass. The one who sees things clearly when I’m spiraling. The reason I haven’t completely lost my grip in this world soaked with trauma and ash.

He’s the quiet one. The light, and I’ve lived too long in the dark to take him for granted.

“I can’t stay long,” Frank says. “I just came to warn you—Dr. Sinclair, you need to keep eyes on her.”

He pauses.

“Actually, you need help with this case, maybe you should get—”

“Yeah. We’ll handle it,” I cut him off before he can say his name.

The one name Noah doesn’t know about and I’m not ready to tell him.

Not yet.

“You could’ve just sent a message. You know, with one of those burner phones you love so much,” I say.

“Yeah. But then I wouldn’t get to see your pretty face,” he says as he winks.

“And then he couldn’t have scared the shit out of you, Hunter!” Noah snorts.

At least one of us is finding this amusing.

I’m not laughing. I’m just relieved I stopped Frank from saying more than he could’ve done. Noah can’t know.

Not now. Maybe not ever.

He’s the only piece of good I’ve got left in this world. If he looks at me differently...

No. I won’t risk it.

“Why Dr. Sinclair?” I ask.

“Because she’s the only one with an influx of funds going into her husband’s account with the number of clients she has, it just doesn’t equate. Also, the mayor of New York has been paying her visits at the clinic and she’s not his therapist.”

“Jesus!” I snap. How the fuck did we miss all of this?” I reply to Frank’s confirmation of why we need eyes on the bad doctor.

This is why I love working with Frank.While I’m already planning how to take down the next predator, he’s catching the one hiding in plain sight. The one we almost missed.

Her.

Dr. Sinclair.

The one we thought was clean.

Too clean.

Now I know better.

“We’ll finish up here,” I mutter, flicking the ash into the wind. “Then we’ll get to work.”

I turn to say something else—but Frank’s gone. Just vanished. Like smoke.

“I hate when he does that,” Noah mutters. “It’s going to be a long night.”

He’s right on both counts.

But nights like this? They don’t end. They bleed into weeks. Months. Sometimes years.

And I remember now—why we thought Dr. Rachel was safe. No paper trail. No loose threads. Everything about her was spotless, but I know looks can be deceiving.

People lie.

Predators are fucking ugly on the inside, and I intend to rip her apart from the inside out.