“I know,” I say. “But it worked. I got in. I saw his setup. I even got close enough to shake his hand, look him in the eyes.”
That gets her attention. She twists in her seat, black hair brushing her cheek. “And?”
I keep it clinical. No mention of the fridge humming with plastic tubs. No mention of the blender. “He’s exactly what you said. Polished predator. Smiles like a saint, talks like a prophet, stinks of rot underneath. The people there? They worship him. Blindly. And he stares. At the younger women. And touches, though he tries to make it seem innocent.”
Her jaw clenches. “I’ve been trying to get close to him for years. He knows me, though. And he’s so damn careful.”
I risk a glance. Her profile is cut against the neon glow of Vegas on the horizon, eyes burning, but not at me—at him. At Phoenix. “This one’s personal, isn’t it?”
She looks out the window, deliberately not looking at me for a moment. She sniffs, wipes at her nose, and takes in a steadying breath.
“My best friend, Jules, found out she had colon cancer a few years ago. What twenty-five-year-old gets colon cancer?” Her words are rough, and I hear the pain in them. “The doctors didn’t give her much hope. It was bad. It was moving fast.She got desperate, and then she came across some of Phoenix’s videos online.”
Fuck.
My grip on the steering wheel tightens.
“He sold her on all that bullshit he preaches. That her body could heal itself. That she just needed a radical diet change. That she could starve the cancer. And what I hate most? Is that she was doing better for a while. She did everything he told her to, and for a few months, it was looking like she might beat it.”
Willow tugs at the hem of her shirt, picking at a loose thread. Her jaw is set hard, anger radiating out of her pores. “But then she started looking like death. She was wasting away. I begged her to go get checked out, to go back to the oncologist. But she said she had more work to do with Phoenix. He’d been promising something that would rid her body of the cancer once and for all.” Her words go rock hard, cold as ice, as she stares out the windshield at the dark desert. “Sexual healing. Release. With him.”
My jaw is clenched so tight my teeth might crack.
Dammit. Why? Why do so many bastards have to do this shit?
“Jules didn’t know what she was walking into. But he sold her. He manipulated her. He made her believe. In him. Always in him. He took advantage of her. Got her in his bed. And did it heal her? Of course it fucking didn’t.” The rage in Willow’s voice makes her words shake. “She came back with tears in her eyes, with humiliation saturating her entire body. And guess what? By that point, the cancer waseverywhere. It was too late for her to try any other treatments. She was gone three months later.”
A curse slips out of my lips, and I strangle the steering wheel.
“So, yeah,” Willow whispers. “It’s personal with Phoenix.”
“You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” I promise her. “Phoenix Marrow will pay for what he’s doing. And I’m going to help you.”
That lands. I feel it. The way her breath hitches, the way her shoulders dip. Conflict rages in her—fury that I’d dare step into her territory, gratitude that I did.
She finally says, “Tell me everything.”
So, I do. I talk through the clinic’s layout, where the guards stand, how the rooms are arranged. I tell her about the calm menace in Phoenix’s handshake, the way his eyes slid over me like I was already catalogued, labeled, stored away. I don’t mention the blender. That detail is mine to take to the grave.
When I finish, Willow sits back, arms crossed. “Did you see any ways for me to get to him?”
I barely contain a groan from escaping my throat. I feel like a failure, because the truth is—no. “It won’t be at his clinic,” I admit with defeat. “There’s too many people. Guards. Employees. Worshipers.”
“And you have to pay to even get in the door,” she says, frustrated as ever. She sighs, and I can practically hear the gears turning in her head. She stares out the window for several long moments before I feel her eyes return to me. “Thank you. For doing what you did. It means everything.”
“Of course,” I say, my brows furrowing as I look at her for a moment. Relief loosens something in my chest as I feel this come to a close. She hasn’t thrown me out of the car. She hasn’t told me to mind my own damn business.
The Strip’s glow grows brighter ahead, like a curtain about to rise. I should take Willow home. But this night in no way feels over. “Want to come over for a bit?” I ask, glancing in her direction.
“Yeah,” she says without even looking over.
When we get to the penthouse, I toss the keys to Willow’s truck on the counter. The sound echoes too loud, too sharp. Willow walks past me, straight to the windows, her silhouette haloed by the neon wash of the Strip. Out there, it’s chaos—sirens, dice rolls, fake Elvises. In here, it’s just us and the truth.
I kill the overheads, leaving the room in shadow. The city lights do the rest, painting Willow in pinks and blues, a creature cut from the same chaos she’s spent years bending to her will.
The time has come. I’ve felt it was inevitable since the moment I didn’t run when I watched her kill Travis Bell. I want her to know. Ineedher to know. After everything, after tonight and what we just did, I need to do it now.
I round the couch that waits behind Willow and come to sit. Through the dark, she turns from the window, and her eyes find mine. I just look at her for a few moments, hoping, praying that this isn’t the biggest mistake of my life. “I want you to understandwhynone of this scares me, Willow. You deserve the truth.”
