I stand and rush toward her. She turns for the door, but I am faster. My hand closes around her throat, and I slam her against the wall.
“And what about Rourke?” I say. “Did your lover feed you this theory so you’d come after me instead?”
“He has nothing to do with this,” she gasps as my grip tightens.
I growl. “You never wonder why he’s always first at the crime scene?” I chuckle. “You never think it might be him while he fucks you and asks for details about the victims?”
I laugh in her face. Blood still stains my teeth.
“Maybe he even imagines their faces while he’s inside you.”
She tries to punch me in the gut. The blow lands against my abs, but I don’t flinch.
“Where is he?” I ask through my teeth. “Tell me where he is, and I’ll let you go.”
“You’ll never find out,” she says, gasping for breath.
I reach behind her and pull the gun from the back of her belt, and I press it to her neck.
“We’ll see about that,” I say.
The thought of Dr. Emily Beckett with my brother twists my stomach. Not the image of them together, but what he would do to her. What he had already done to others before her. He knows she is my weakness. He knows hurting her would reach me. I will do whatever it takes to get her back, even if it means pretending to be sane again.
I knock twice on the door.
The guard opens it after seeing the detective’s face with a gun pressed under her throat.
He reaches for his radio.
“Hey,” I shout, pushing the gun harder against her neck, my other hand pinning her arms behind her back. “You say one word, and I’ll blow her face.”
The guard freezes, staring at me.
“Walk in front of us,” I say.
He does.
I move forward with the detective, her gun still locked under her throat. Heads spun as we passed by, eyes followed.
No one dares to raise a weapon. I shove her forward, then grab her under the arm and press the gun into her back.
“Move,” I tell the guard.
The moment he steps ahead, I drag her outside. The alarm starts screaming as we cross into the parking lot down the stairs.
“Which one’s your car?” I ask.
She nods toward a gray sedan, third on the right. I jab the gun harder into her back and force her forward.
“Get in.”
She slides into the driver’s seat, and I open the passenger door and sit beside her. The gun presses against her temple now.
“Drive.”
“Where?” she asks.
“Rourke’s address,” I say. Then louder. “Now.”
