Page 126

I’m going to kill him.

The thought arrives before I’m halfway down my driveway. Joshua Ricketts sent me a photograph of my sister handcuffed to a chair with a gun against her temple.

He dies.

The message beneath it gave me an address and six words. COME ALONE. TELL JUBILEE, YOUR SISTER DIES.

So naturally, I lied to my girlfriend, kissed her forehead, told her Maisie had some bullshit problem at the café, and left Jubilee sitting on my couch decoding a message written by the last Ricketts brother I killed. Excellent day so far.

At the first red light, I tap the location-sharing shortcut Jubilee had me install after she moved in. No message. No explanation. Just my location quietly appearing on her phone if she thinks to check. Hopefully, I’m back before she does. Hopefully, Joshua has suddenly developed survival instincts. Unlikely.

The address takes me twenty-eight minutes northwest to the remains of an old apple operation outside a town barely large enough to warrant a stoplight. Rows of neglected trees stretch behind a corrugated-metal packing warehouse with several broken windows and a faded sign advertising cider from a closed orchard.

Perfect kidnapping real estate.

I park where instructed and step out into air colder than it was at home. I’m still wearing the dark Henley and jeans from the farmer’s market. Didn’t exactly stop to coordinate hostage attire.

My phone buzzes. UNKNOWN: LEAVE IT IN THE CAR.

I stare at the building. “Of course you’re watching.” I leave the phone on the driver’s seat.

Inside, the air smells like cold concrete, rust, dust, and the faint fermented sweetness of apples—probably soaked into the floor decades ago. Old conveyor equipment sits beneath layers of grime. Wind presses against the metal siding, making the entire building creak around me.

“Gage.”

Maisie. She’s near the center of the warehouse, sitting in a metal chair, her wrists cuffed behind her. Her black hair is messier than usual, scarf gone, one knee of her dark jeans streaked with dirt. Otherwise, she looks more like someone deeply inconvenienced by poor customer service rather than a hostage.

Joshua stands several feet behind her—gun in hand.

Charcoal wool coat over a blue dress shirt. Expensive shoes gathering warehouse dust. Salt-and-pepper hair still perfectly arranged—because kidnapping does not excuse poor grooming.

His gun lifts. “Hands where I can see them.”

I raise them. Maisie examines me. “You didn’t tell Frolic, did you?”

“Not now, Maise.”

“Idiot.”

Joshua’s jaw tightens. “I told you to come alone.”

“And here I am.”

His attention flicks toward the entrance as though expecting Jubilee to materialize through stubbornness alone. Not impossible.

“Move over there.”

I glance at the second chair. “Seriously?”

The gun shifts toward Maisie. My humor disappears. I cross the few steps and sit. Joshua cuffs one wrist, circles behind me, then the other. I let him…for now. Maisie watches the entire process with visible disapproval.

“You better not dock Jubilee points for this,” I tell her.

“I’ll only dock her if she doesn’t show.”

“She’ll show,” I assure my sister.

“Obviously.” Maisie sniffs. “I already docked myself for letting Discount Lex Luthor get the drop on me.”