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Ian is pacing.

There isn’t much room for it. Four steps toward the window, turn, four steps back, one hand repeatedly dragging through his hair. He keeps talking, but none of it seems intended for me. Fragments about Casey, his father, how long ago it was, how none of this was supposed to matter anymore. His words come too quickly, tripping over one another until he abruptly stops and looks at me as if I’ve interrupted him.

My wrists burn where the ties bite into them, and every beat of my heart sends another pulse of pain through the back of my skull. My stomach rolls whenever I move my head too quickly. I want to pull against the restraints. I want to scream. I want to do several things that would accomplish nothing except force Ian to confront the problem he hasn't figured out how to solve yet.

Me.

So I stay where I am.

I force my breathing into something slower despite the adrenaline trying to pull it in the opposite direction. Pressing him now would be stupid. He’s standing, unrestrained, and between me and the only obvious exit. I am concussed, bound, and considerably more frightened than I intend to let him know.

But I can ask questions.

People reveal things when they believe they’re explaining themselves. Give them silence and enough room to fill it, and they frequently provide considerably more information than intended.

“What happened to Casey?”

He stops. “I didn’t murder her.” The answer comes too quickly. “It was an accident.”

I say nothing.

“We were kids, Serena. We were fucking stupid.” He resumes pacing, faster now.

“Tell me how it happened.”

Ian presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. For several seconds, I think he might refuse. Instead, when he drops them, he looks exhausted. “Casey wouldn't leave it alone.”

The phrasing makes something cold move through me. “Leave what alone?”

“The burglaries. Scofield. Every fucking thing.”

His attention drifts toward the window, toward the river beyond it. “He'd been drinking. It wasn't the first time. My dad had dealt with it before, but Casey saw him that night and decided she was going to make it into something it wasn't.”

“He almost hit someone, Ian.”

“He didn't hit her,” he snaps, loud enough that I flinch. He sees it, and his expression changes immediately. His voice is softer when he continues. “That's the point. Nobody got hurt. My dad got him home. It should've ended there.”

Except he did it again after—probably multiple times after—and Casey filmed it. “You're the third person on the tape.”

His mouth pulls into something that isn't quite a smile.

“You were protecting him,” I say.

Ian’s jaw tightens. “He was a good man.”

“He was driving drunk,” I remind him.

“He had a problem.”

I hold his gaze. “Those statements aren't mutually exclusive.”

He turns away from me, fingers disappearing into his hair again. “This is exactly what you do. Everything has to fit into one of your little categories. Right or wrong. Evidence or bullshit. That's not how people work. That’s not how life works.”

“No. It isn't.”

He looks almost surprised that I agree.

“People are considerably more complicated,” I continue. “They're capable of loving someone and still allowing them to face the consequences of their behavior, for instance.”