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“Why? You are one.”

“Okay, murderer.”

I suck my lips into my mouth so I don’t laugh, and the Jester glares at 404 while he prints the picture.

As soon as it’s finished, the Jester snatches up the picture and looks at the man’s face. “I’m going to have so much fun recreating some of those images—but using barbed wire. So much fun.”

“What happens to Jensen now?” I ask.

“We tell him nothing. If he knows, he leaves, and Vesper’s enjoying using him to piss me off. Plus I like the attention.”

I nod. He can’t hold off telling him forever, but for now he can have his fun.

“Clay, if you see me come in on any of the cameras later . . .”

Clay nods. “There will be nothing to see.”

The Jester nods in return and leaves the room.

404 packs up his stuff up, telling Clay he will forward all of this to his contact. He gives his word that he won’t say where it came from, just that it exists, and he will let us know what happens.

Vesper

The Jester has been gone for two fucking days—three if you include today, not that I’m counting. The island has been unusually quiet, and it’s hard not to notice when his constant jingling stops.

It’s one of those things that is hard to explain to someone when they haven’t lived with it, but imagine living beside a train line. Eventually you stop hearing the noise, and it becomes part of the background, until one day the trains stop and suddenly the silence is louder than the trains ever were.

Not that I miss those bells—I fucking hate the bells, and the person attached to them. I roll onto my other side and stare at the clock on my nightstand: 7:12 a.m. It’s too early to be awake, considering I didn’t fall asleep until after two, but apparently my brain has decided that sleep is for losers. I force my eyes closed to get more rest, but it doesn’t work. My house is quiet, too quiet. Jensen is asleep on the sofa, or at least I assume he is. I haven’t heard him moving yet.

I should enjoy this. It’s so peaceful—just how I thought I’d like it.

No bells jingling outside at a stupid hour while he waters his plants, no one knocking on my door to see if I’m heading to the bar for my morning coffee, no stupid painted grin appearing around corners, and no one calling me the love of their life. It’s fucking wonderful . . . or it should be.

I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling, then say the words aloud. “This is wonderful.”

Ugh, who am I trying to kid? I can feel my own judgment. I throw the blankets off and get out of bed, glaring at my phone on my bedside table. I’m not that girl, so I leave it there, but I only make it three steps before I turn around and pick it up. There are two messages. One from Brawley, telling me to get my ass into the ring because my foul mood is pissing him off, and the other is a photo from my dad of him and Whit.

Nothing else.

I put my phone down harder than necessary. Not that I expected to hear from anyone else. Why the fuck would I?

The Jester disappears all the time; it’s what he does. He takes jobs off the island that I don’t ask about because I don’t care, and having a conversation with him would mean I need to bleach my brain. Last time he left for two weeks, and I enjoyed every second—well, mostly. There might have been one or two moments when I wondered if he was coming back, but that was only because everyone kept mentioning him. This time nobody has, which is probably why I’ve noticed.

I shower, get dressed, and make my coffee. By the time I’ve checked all the enclosures to make sure I have had no escapees today, it’s closer to eight. Jensen still hasn’t appeared, though since he has been sleeping better the last couple of nights, I leave him alone. His bruises are healing, and yesterday he spent three hours on the sofa with my laptop doing something that looked incredibly boring. I made the mistake of asking what it was and regretted my decision about six words into his explanation. Computer shit is one of those things where if you understand then it’s fascinating, but if you don’t, it sounds like someone reading the terms and conditions to you out loud.

I pour a second coffee and stare out the window. Still nothing, so I turn away. This is fucking ridiculous; I have a life, and it does not revolve around whether one particular psychopath is currently on the island. With a huff, I drink my coffee and check my phone.

“Fuck off,” I mutter to it.

“What did it do?”

I turn, and when I see Jensen standing there, my brain completely fucking stops and short-circuits. His hair is wet from the shower. It’s darker than usual and pushed back from his face, except for a few pieces that have fallen forward over his forehead. Water droplets cling to his shoulders and chest, and he is wrapped in a white towel, which is sitting low on his hips—very fucking low.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter.

Jensen looks down at himself. “What?”

I should look away. The bruising across his ribs has faded to a yellow with patches of green around the edges. There are still darker spots, but they’re healing. I’m just looking at his bruises . . . No, that’s a lie. I’m staring at his abs—ones I had no idea he had. Why does a computer nerd have abs? That feels unnecessary. He sits at a computer for a living, so he should be soft around the middle and have terrible posture, yet instead there are lines across his stomach.