“There is just one thing, though,” Michael tells me, wincing as he sits down on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “It’s your sister.” Despite everything that’s happened, despite nearly all of this mess being her fault, my heart leaps into my throat.

“What? What is it? Is she okay?”

Michael nods. “She’s fine. However, she’s here in Seattle. And…she wants to see you.”

Lacey instantly comes to mind. I’ve considered her a sister for so long now; it’s been less than twenty-four hours since we buried her, and right now it seems as though the pain of her loss is never going to fade. I’ve lost a sister, but I still have another one who is very much alive. Should I still be angry with Alexis? Yes. Will I ever be able to forgive her for what she put me through? I don’t know. But does that mean I should cut her out of my life forever? My father knew she was alive for a long time, while Mom and I tore ourselves apart worrying about her, and then fearing her dead. But he said I don’t know Alexis’ side of the story—that she had a reason for what she did. Maybe it’s time for me to give her a chance to tell me her side. The very thought makes me angry—like there could ever be a reason good enough—but I guess, from the outside looking in, my own situation might be just as hard for my family and friends to comprehend.  I’m sure Pip would attest to that.

“Okay, fine. I’ll see her. But...but not yet. I need a little more time.” I need my heart to stop hurting. I need my world to stop feeling like it’s falling apart. Michael nods silently—the guy looks completely exhausted, like he just ran a marathon while fighting for his life. “Does anything need stitching up?” I ask him. Something always needs stitching up. But Michael just stretches and climbs off his stool, heading for the fridge. He removes three beers, twists the caps off them, and then hands one to me and one to Pippa. I’ve never seen Pippa drink beer, let alone beer from the bottle, but she accepts it with a small, “Thanks.”

“I don’t need stitches. I need to get drunk,” Michael says. “I need to get absolutely fucked up. And now that we’re free of Holsan and Perez, I think we’ve earned a night off. And…and I want to drink to our girl.”

I was going to object to getting completely trashed—the very idea seemed reckless—but as soon as Michael points out we no longer have to worry about mob bosses, as soon as he brings up drinking to Lacey, all doubt flies out the window. I lift my beer bottle, holding it out for him to cheers me.

“To Lacey,” I say.

“Lace,” Michael adds.

Pip raises her bottle and joins us, and I can’t help it—the tears begin to flow again. It’ll be a long time until I can think about the girl without falling apart. My sorrow is made even worse when I think of Zeth out there somewhere by himself, feeling ten times worse than I can possibly imagine.

Michael reads my mind. He gently touches his fingertips to my cheek, smiling sadly at me. “He’ll be okay. I promise. He’ll be okay, because he has you.”

Seven hours. Lowell and her silent giant keep me locked up for a further seven hours. She questions me endlessly about Monterello, and then asks the same questions over again three different ways. She tries and fails to make me slip up, to say something that contradicts my previous answers, and I just keep on giving her the same answers.

She questions me about my past with Charlie. She questions me about the death of her colleague back at the hospital—the one Charlie shot, not me. She questions me about an explosion outside St. Finnegan’s Church yesterday morning. She questions me about the death of one Andreas Medina, whose body was found face down on the floor of a suite in the downtown Marriott. She questions me about anything and everything that might be used to bring charges against me.

And the delightful truth is that she has nothing she can pin on me. Absolutely fucking nothing. It’s fairly obvious what she’s trying to do. Lowell knows she’s got shit, but she’s hoping I’m a complete moron. She’s hoping to put the fear of god into me with talk of these heinous crimes, so that when she gets around to asking me what she really wants to know I’ll be ready and willing to comply with her in order to save my own ass. She’s just started in on her fourth round of questions about Medina—when did you see him last? What was said between you and the victim?—when I finally lose patience with the bullshit.

I lean across the table, bridging my fingers together and glaring at the evil bitch. “You want Rebel. Why don’t we cut the shit here, Denise? Why don’t you ask me what you really want to know so you can go home to your microwave meal dinner and I can get the fuck out of here?”

Lowell goes rigid, as though I’ve ruined her game and she’s pissed about it. “All right, Zeth. You’re seriously fucking optimistic if you think you’re getting out of here after we’re done talking, but okay. For argument’s sake, let’s talk about Rebel. Do you know where he is?”

“No. I already told you I don’t.”

Fire lights up in Lowell’s eyes. I can imagine her telling the giant to turn off the camera so she can go find herself a phone book—the bent police officer’s best friend—but she doesn’t. She manages to rein in her fury long enough to ask me another question. “What can you tell me about him, then?”

“Why do you want him so bad?”

“I think you’re confusing the dynamics of our relationship, Mr. Mayfair. You don’t get to ask me questions.”