The feds. A rival. Someone.
I stop walking, my heart pounding.
Could it be Sarah?
I pull out my phone and dial her number.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
“Hey, Jen,” she answers, her voice bright and cheerful.
Too cheerful.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“Home. Why?”
“I need to see you.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
There’s a pause.
“Is everything okay?”
“Just come to the estate.”
“Jenna, what’s—”
“Now, Sarah.”
I hang up.
An hour later, I’m in the interrogation room.
It’s a small, windowless space in the basement with concrete walls, a single metal table, two chairs, and a drain in the floor.
I’ve been here before. Many times.
But tonight feels different.
Tonight, I’m not looking for information.
I’m looking for blood.
Cesario brings in the first man.
Marco.
Mid-thirties. Works security on the loading docks. He’s been with us for three years. Loyal. Reliable.
Or so I thought.
He sits across from me; his hands folded on the table.
“Marco,” I say calmly.
