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She logs into her bank. The app loads slowly, showing a spinning wheel. She holds it so I can see every digit as it appears.

I tell her the amount. It’s not everything, but close to it.

Enough that when she looks at the remaining balance, she makes a wounded sound. “You can’t do this. This is way more than the four-thousand or whatever!”

“And it’s probably nowhere near the total amount of what you’ve taken from him over the years, so either accept it, or sell some fucking organs.”

“But—but, that’s my money.”

The hypocrisy is breathtaking. “Say that again.”

She closes her mouth.

The money moves into an account I set up under Kamden’s name.

I’ll deal with the rest later. Cleanly and legally enough that, when the time comes, it’ll belong to him, with Sherry’s fingers nowhere near it.

She sits there staring at the screen. “You fucking psycho,” she mutters. “What did I ever do to you?”

I laugh out loud—a short, ugly bark of air—not because it’s funny but because I genuinely cannot believe she asked me that question in this kitchen with my gun still sitting between us. “To me?”

Her lips tremble. “I don’t even know you.”

“No, you don’t. And honestly, Sherry, you haven’t done jack shit to me.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. The leather of my jacket creaks. “But that’s not why I’m doing this, and you know it.”

Her eyes drop to the gun.

I let the silence stretch, thick and heavy as the mold smell coming from the hallway, then I say, “I need one more thing from you today, Sherry, then I’ll leave. Steven.”

Every bit of color leaves her face, obviously understanding where I’m going with this. Still, like the absolute idiot she is, she pretends she doesn’t know who I’m talking about. “Steven who? You expect me to know every bastard who’s come in here?”

I nod. “Kamden said the same thing.”

Like mother, like son.

Except Kamden lies because he’s scared of what I’ll do.

Sherry lies because she’s scared of what I’ll find.

“Try again,” I tell her.

She stays quiet, picking at a fleck of who-knows-what on the table. The moment I pick up my gun, that ends, and she quickly blurts, “I don’t know where he is.”

“That’s fine. What’s his last name?”

“Mercer.” The name comes out choked.

“Steven Mercer.”

“Yes.” Barely a whisper.

“Date of birth?”

“I don’t know. I think in November?” Her hands twist in her lap now.

“Phone number?”

“Not anymore.” She’s shaking her head like a metronome, back and forth, back and forth.