“You know,” the brunette murmured, “you ruined a perfectly good cage. I’m going to have to make you pay for it, one way or the other. And I’ll be choosing something other than cash, of course—”

“You won’t hurt me.”

“I beg your pardon.”

Mae lifted her head. Lifted her torso. Tried to lift her whole body, but settled for sitting up against the wall where the cage had been.

Even though her eyes were still focusing intermittently, she trained them in the direction of the brunette.

Taking a deep breath, she said, “You. Aren’t. Going. To. Hurt. Me.”

Those glossy red lips flattened and that voice got nasty. “You keep thinking that, then. We’ll see how long the bullshit lasts.”

With a sudden rush, an invisible force levitated Mae up off the floor and pinned her against the wall. Bone-crushing pressure covered her entire body, a blanket that weighed as much as a car, and as she struggled to draw breath, she tried to fight the squeeze, but there was nothing to fight against.

The brunette walked up and struck a pose, one hip curving out, the opposite hand poised on her waist. Yet her face was drawn in harsh, ugly lines.

“I’m going to do anything I want to you.” Her eyes raked down Mae—and then surprise registered. “Well, well, well. Looks like that big male hasn’t gotten into you yet. A virgin? Really? What a prize you are.” Now she smiled again. “Just what every guy wants, fumbling hands and awkward winces of pain. How sexy—”

“You can’t hurt me,” Mae grunted, “because you need the Book.”

The brunette went silent and closed her mouth. Then she turned on one stiletto and walked over to the display of boxy, two-handled purses with little locks on them. There were easily a dozen of them, in a rainbow’s worth of colors and with just as many different textures.

“You know,” the brunette said, “I’ve used a lot of male virgins over the years. And tsk, tsk, tsk, not like you’re thinking. They were necessary for a private, non-sexual purpose—which sadly is no longer applicable—”

“You need me alive.” Mae coughed. “Because I summoned the Book. You need me to get the Book.”

The brunette looked over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing. “I wouldn’t be so cocky, honey. I have other sources for that.”

“Then kill me. Right here and now—”

Mae let out a scream as the pressure became unbearable, the bones in her face threatening to collapse flat, her ribs squeezing her heart and lungs, her pelvis nearly cracking. And just as she began to black out, at the moment she felt herself slipping away, she was able to drag some air down her throat.

As her eyes started to clear a little, the brunette was right in front her again. No longer angry, but pensive.

“Tell me how you did it,” she said.

“Hmm?” Mae wheezed.

“Look at you. You’re not bad-looking, but you’re hardly worth crossing the street for. You have no style, no personality, nothing to recommend you, and no experience in bed. And yet . . . that male. He’s so fucking into you. I don’t get it.”

As the brunette went silent, Mae put some strength in her voice. “That’s what you want the Book for. Isn’t it.”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

The brunette’s glare was a promise of misery. Infinite misery. “And you can kiss my fucking ass.”

All at once, the pain and suffocation returned, and Mae knew she’d overplayed her hand.

It was the last conscious thought she had.

Out on a rural property that had a lot of junk on its grounds, Erika ducked her head as she entered a dilapidated trailer. Inside, there was mess everywhere on everything, pizza boxes, crumpled cigarette packs, and empty booze bottles choking out the details of the galley kitchen, the floor underfoot, the ragged furniture. Unsurprisingly, there was also a collection of bongs, syringes, plastic baggies, and bricks wrapped in supermarket bags.

The body was over on a couch that was so stained it looked like it had started its life a muck brown. Victim was a male, somewhere in his twenties, and he was sprawled back against the worn cushions, his face frozen in a stare-ahead, the single execution-style bullet wound nearly dead center in his forehead.

As her eyes went down to the front of his chest, as opposed to the red wash on the wall behind his skull, she heard her sergeant from back late in the afternoon.

You need a night off, Saunders. You’ve been going too hard for too long—

We’re short-staffed after Pam went on maternity leave and Sharanya moved. What else can we do—

—and that’s how mistakes are made.

I haven’t made any. And I won’t—

This is not a request, Erika. I can’t remember when your last break was, and neither can you.

“The father called it in,” one of the uniforms—the younger of the two—reported. Because the older one was on the phone. “Poor man. Nobody wants to see their son like this.”

Erika leaned down and checked out the bullet wound in the forehead. No gunpowder residue, so it hadn’t been a point-blank kind of thing. The shooter had been back some distance.

“Professional shot,” she murmured.

The uniform continued, “The victim’s name is David Eckler and he’s got a record. Mostly selling stolen property, but he has a number of drug charges, two of which were just dropped on technicalities. Detective de la Cruz took the father down to the station to talk.”

Outing her penlight, she looked around at the mess on the floor. “Here’s a shell.”

She bent down to put a marker on it, and before she straightened back up, she found herself going eye level with an off-kilter coffee table that had had one of its legs replaced by a milk carton. In the midst of its clutter? A leather box about a foot long and five inches wide. Unlike everything else in the trailer, the thing was of fine construction and without dust or scratches.

“Surprise, surprise,” she murmured as she peered through its glass top.

The lineup of watches inside were big names even someone middle class like her would know: Rolex. Piaget. Okay, fine, she’d never heard of Hublot.

“How’d you even say that,” she said. “‘Whoo-blot’?”

“Huh?”

And that was when she saw it. A little wink in the far corner off to the side of the couch: A lens that had caught her flashlight beam.

“We have security,” she announced.

“You mean a dog chained in the yard? I didn’t see one—”

“No, as in a camera.”

She leaned in and carefully inspected the recording unit. Then she followed the wires around the back of the sofa—avoiding the victim—to a cupboard. Inside? A laptop that was shiny new and plugged into a surge protector. The thing was running.

“Thank you, baby Jesus,” she muttered.

“Aren’t you supposed to be off?”

Erika straightened and looked at the uniform properly for the first time. “Dick?”

“Rick.” The fresh-faced guy pointed to his badge. “Donaldson. I’m still on the beat, but I hope to transfer to homicide soon.”

“I’m Detective—”