I run to the desk. I open the drawer.
The Glock.
I grab it. It’s heavy, cold. Just like the Sig Sauer Silas made me hold yesterday.
Squeeze, don't pull.
I check the chamber. Loaded.
I crouch behind the massive wooden desk, clutching the gun with both hands, pointing it at the door.
My heart is thundering in my ears.150 bpm. 160.
Silas, please. Please look at your phone. Please see my heart trying to escape my chest.
I hear the footsteps in the hallway. They are getting closer. They are checking the doors.
Kick. Crash.(Dining room).Kick. Crash.(Library).
They are methodically clearing the floor.
They stop outside the office.
The doorknob rattles.
Locked.
"This one," the voice says. "Kick it."
I brace myself. I widen my stance, just like he taught me. I aim at the center of the door.
I am not the deer,I tell myself.I am the wolf’s wife.
CRACK.
The wood splinters around the lock.
CRACK.
The door flies open.
A silhouette fills the frame. Massive. Holding an assault rifle.
I don't hesitate.
I squeeze.
CHAPTER 18
THE BUTCHER OF LONG ISLAND
POV: SILAS
I am sitting across from a ghost.
Marcus Ross looks nothing like the man who used to grace the society pages of theNew York Times. He is zip-tied to a metal chair in an abandoned warehouse near the docks of Montauk, smelling of stale urine and cheap bourbon. His face is a roadmap of bad decisions—broken capillaries, a split lip, eyes darting around the room like a trapped rat.
"Silas," he wheezes, spitting a glob of blood onto the concrete floor. "Please. I didn't know. I swear to God, I didn't know he would go after her."
