“Why do you say that?”

I think back to the old man’s bedroom, the day when the Duchess stabbed me in the stomach. There was the blister pack of drugs on the nightstand. What were they called again? The brand name of the drug comes back to me, small black letters printed on silver foil. “Degarelix. What’s Degarelix used for?”

Sloane’s eyebrows shoot up. “Usually prostate cancer. Depends, though.”

That makes a whole lot of sense. Prostate cancer. I mull that over for a moment in silence. A minute longer and then Newan’s hurrying out of the main doors of St. Peter’s, hair flying everywhere in the brisk wind that’s tearing through the city. “That was too quick,” I say. “She can’t have done a proper sweep. Something’s up.”

Something definitely is up. Newan’s a couple of feet out of the doors before they slide open again and a guy dressed in scrubs hurries out.

“Oh no,” Sloane hisses. “Oliver.”

I have a thing for faces—I remember them very clearly, and this guy has a face I fucking recognize. He was there the day I came to tell Sloane I was leaving to find her sister. He came out of the change rooms hot on Sloane’s heels and looking flustered. I didn’t like him then, and I sure as shit don’t like him now. “What the hell does he want?”

Across the parking lot, this Oliver asshole is grabbing hold of Newan’s arm and pointing back at the hospital. Newan’s shaking her head, and then the Oliver guy is folding his arms across his chest. Newan’s shoulders slump and that’s when I know she’s going to bring him over to us.

“We have to go.” I start the car engine, but Sloane blows out a frustrated breath, placing a hand on my arm.

“Just—just see what he wants.”

“Bad idea, angry girl.” But I can’t say no to the look on her face. It’s like my IQ is dropping daily when I’m around this girl; I keep finding myself doing the stupidest shit.

Just as I predicted, Newan leads the guy straight to us. He takes one look at me sitting in the driver’s seat of the car and he turns to stone. Pissed-off, rough-hewn stone that wants to come crashing down on me in an unstoppable landslide. Bring it, motherfucker.

Sloane buzzes down her window and Newan is already apologizing before my girl can get a word out. “He saw me, okay? It wasn’t my fault.”

Sloane pinches the bridge of her nose. “What do you want, Olly?”

“You’re fucking crazy coming here.” He says this to Sloane, but his eyes are still focused on me. Oh, this one hates me already, I can tell. It’s rolling off him in a territorial stink that can be smelled a mile away.

“We’re just looking for our friend, Ol. She’s in trouble. That’s the only reason we came.”

Newan winces, wrapping her arms around herself against the cold. “Yeah, Lacey’s not here I’m afraid. Seems that woman, the one in the coma, was moved this morning.”

“Moved?” Sloane swivels in her seat to face me, panic written all over her face. “They moved her. That means—that means they could be anywhere.”

Oliver nods, arms still crossed, veins popping in his forearms. The guy’s ripped and he’s tensing every muscle in his body, trying to make sure I know it. “She was taken to hospice somewhere. The woman had no insurance or recorded next of kin, and her discharge papers have conveniently gone missing. I saw the guys who wheeled her out of here, though, Sloane, and trust me…they were not health care professionals.” They were scum. They were like the guy you’re sitting next to right now, not a motherfucking saint like me. I want to punch this guy in the face, but his evil looks and bad attitude are the least of my concerns right now.

“So she’s gone,” I say under my breath. “Lacey’s really gone.”

“He wouldn’t have taken her back to his place?” Sloane asks.

I shake my head, no. “He knows I’d come there looking for her. He has a thousand places across the city he could have taken the Duchess to die. We’ll never find either of them unless he comes to us.” Fucking typical. The desperation is back again, threefold now. I slam the car into gear, ready to burn out of the place—these two can’t help us now.

“Wait!” Oliver slams his palm down on the hood of the car. He’s fucking lucky this isn’t the Camaro or I’d be out and laying into him before he could blink. “Wait. Sloane, I know you don’t wanna hear this but that DEA woman was by here yesterday. She said she wasn’t interested in you or him. She just wants to know about your sister and the guy she’s with. If you tell her what you know, she says she’ll clear the slate. For—for both of you.” His eyes are on me again; it was hard for him to spit that last part out. Sloane’s jaw muscles tighten. She’s listening to him. “You could come back to work,” he continues. “Nothing will have changed.” He pulls a white rectangle of card from the pocket of his scrubs and passes it to her through the window. I see the DEA symbol on there and know it’s Lowell’s direct line. “Just think about it,” Oliver says.

Sloane palms the card into the pocket of her jeans and nods. “No promises.”

This doesn’t appear to be enough for Oliver. He opens his mouth again, but I’ve had fucking enough. Lacey’s not inside so there’s no point us being here. Newan’s done her bit and this Oliver guy is just begging me to lay some hurt on him. I gun the engine, spin the steering wheel, and then we’re screaming out of the parking lot. Oliver and Newan are tiny, stunned Lego characters who shrink and fade in the rearview as I stretch the blacktop out between us.