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“You good, Princess?”

“Yep.” I give him a thumbs up without turning around. “I’m learning a lot.”

Despite everything, I hear Gage exhale a dangerous laugh. Heller does not appreciate this. “You two are fucking sick.”

“This one said that, too.” Another photograph. “Calvin Reese.”

I glance over my shoulder. Heller’s eyes move from the photographs to the blood on his arm, the sickle, then Gage. The equation is starting to make sense. These aren’t random dead men. They’re men like him. And Gage is still standing.

“You still think I need you breathing?” Gage asks.

Heller wets his lips. “You kill me, you never find him.”

That’s my cue. I turn around and fold my arms. “Oh, he’s not joking. He’s going to kill you.” I shrug one shoulder. “It’s just a matter of how slow and painful you want it to be.”

Heller swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Gage’s expression doesn’t change at all. That somehow makes this a thousand times more alarming.

“You think these men were brave at the end?” Gage asks. His voice stays conversational. That’s the unsettling part. No screaming. No theatrical rage. “They begged. They offered money. Names. Property. Religion became very popular.” He leans closer. “They all thought they were different. None of them were.”

There. Heller’s face changes. Fear. Real fear.

A small breath escapes me, and Gage hears it. “Predators really hate finding out they’re prey,” I remark.

Heller’s lip curls. “Shut the fuck up.”

I release a feminine snarl. “He was nine, you sick piece of future fungus shit.”

That silences him. The humor drains out of me. The mattress sits at the edge of my vision no matter where I look. Nine years old. Asthma. Waiting for his brother. My eyes burn. No. Not doing that. I can spiral into the horror of a child dying here seventeen years ago, or I can review Heller’s tool-storage methodology.

Tool storage wins. “Personally,” I comment to the jar of washers, “I would’ve put these closer to the bolts.”

“Jules.”

“I’m coping.”

“I know.”

His breath shifts. “Where is my brother?”

Nothing.

Gage straightens. He sets the envelope on the workbench, and his hand shifts on the sickle. The movement makes my instincts flare. Not fear. Recognition. The shallow cuts were a conversation. Whatever comes next isn’t. Oh. We’re graduating from the part I’m willing to stay for.

I grab my tote. Gage notices immediately. “Where are you going?”

“Outside.” His face changes, and I shake my head. “I’m not leaving. I’m being a lookout before I discover a new phobia.” His shoulders loosen a fraction. “I love you. I support you. I have a reasonably impressive tolerance for blood. But I’m not particularly interested in discovering the exact upper limit of that tolerance tonight.”

“Princess—”

“I’ll watch the property.” I head for the door, then stop. “Oh. And I brought your truck.”

His brow creases. “My truck? Why?”

I lift my chin. “Two shovels.” Gage goes still. I push on before I lose my nerve. “Gloves. Couple other things. Your plants were already in the back.” His eyes lock onto mine. “And…a couple of dead squirrels. Apparently there was a raccoon shortage on the highway. I’ll have to file a formal complaint with their HR department.”

Heller makes a strangled sound. I point toward him without looking. “See? Even he appreciates the callback.”

Gage just stares at me. Then his hand comes up, cupping my shoulder. His thumb presses once.