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The engine roars down the highway as I feed it more gas. The dot on the tracker app appears to have stopped in some remote part of the island. A wooded area with cabins that the locals like to rent out on occasion.

So much for trusting the private investigator.

I should’ve known his interests would be selfish. I asked him to contact me if anything seemed sketchy, but the gumshoe in him must’ve looked at it as an opportunity to take out one of the bad guys singlehandedly.

A few miles behind me, Makaio follows in the Bentley, struggling to keep up. My adrenaline is through the roof, and if I happen to get my hands around Boyd’s throat, I might just snap it by accident.

An ache throbs inside my skull, casting a flash of white light behind my eyes, and I shake it off, rubbing my temple with the heel of my hand.

Not now.

It’d make sense that I’d get hit with a migraine, though, because God has a morbid sense of humor, and what better time to have my vision go blurry than when I’m cruising at one-hundred-fifty miles per hour?

Through the haze and white fog, I concentrate on the solid yellow line that separates me from oncoming traffic.

Another zap of electricity strikes my skull.

One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, four one-thousand.

The throbbing ache settles deep inside my head, and I work my jaw in a desperate attempt to make it go away.

I set my thoughts on Isa. Her smile. The sound of her voice. Soft skin beneath my fingertips.

Relax.

The blur begins to sharpen at the edges, while the pain dissolves. The air thins in my lungs, and I exhale as clarity seeps back into the fringes.

The dusky orange sky gives way to the dark cover of trees, and I check my phone one more time to see the dot hasn’t moved. About a mile up the road, from the looks of it. I slow the vehicle and catch sight of the Whitman Woodlands sign off to the side. Turning into the narrow drive, I kill the lights. Gravel pops beneath my tires as I roll down the obscure path. Before reaching the cabins, I turn the Bugatti off the road and throw it in park.

A half-mile up the drive, a row of cabins sit in darkness, with one lone vehicle parked out in front. I stalk through the woods toward them, careful to stay in the shadows. Sweeping a hand over the gun tucked inside my jeans, I trudge through the brush, pausing when I feel the slight vibration of my phone against my hip. Tugging it out of my pocket, I glance down at the dot blinking on the screen and halt my approach. Using the dim light from the screen, I angle the phone downward and scan the ground. A mound of dirt ahead catches my eye, and as I get closer, I notice what appears to be fingertips sticking up from a fresh grave.

The private investigator, I’m guessing.

Tucking my phone back into my jeans, I keep on toward the cabin, careful to avoid the floodlight’s halo, and once I reach the south wall, I flatten myself against it and listen for voices inside.

Nothing.

Keeping low to avoid being seen, I peer through a window and spot Isa strapped to the bed, all four limbs tied to each of the four posts. My attention is drawn to the white gauze wrapped around her ankle, dotted in what looks like blood. Silver tape covers her mouth, and she squirms and writhes on the bed in a disastrous attempt to get loose.

Tugging the gun from my pants, I rack the chamber and let it lead the way, as I creep around the house and up the staircase to the front window. Scanning the rest of the interior shows no sign of Boyd. Only sparse furniture and an open kitchen. Carefully turning the knob on what appears to be the only door, I push it open, cringing at the chasing creak of its rusted hinges.

Isa stills on the bed, only her legs in view from around the corner, as I make my way toward the back room.

“Don’t move.” The familiar voice arrives from behind, and I halt my steps, keeping my gun held out in front of me. “Pass me the gun. Behind your back.”

“You hand her over to them, you’ll never see her again.”

“Pass me. Your fucking. Gun.” Boyd has always carried an edge of fake benevolence in his tone, and the hostility that bleeds through is strange, coming from him. “I’ve got a bullet with your name on it, Lucian. All I have to do is pull the trigger.”

From the other room, Isa’s muffled screams tell me she can hear our exchange.

The cold rush of adrenaline pulses through me as the seconds tick off before this motherfucker’ll lose his patience. “You killed Nell, didn’t you?”

“That meddling bitch just couldn’t keep her hands out of it.”

“You were afraid she’d find out the truth about Amelia. And Roark. And Isa.”

“She was out to destroy everything. She told that fucking investigator everything.” The words hiss through his teeth.