BRETT STOOD IN the empty room and peered out a gap in the dusty wooden blinds. The cops strolled out of the condo and climbed into their vehicles, looking dejected and puzzled. Moments later, he saw his ragtag bunch of pals slip upstairs. Brett felt a smile spread across his lips. Bingo. It was good to be back on track.

Yesterday, things had almost derailed. He knew Jeff had figured him out—through tracker software, he’d found that Jeff had checked out “Gabriel’s” social media accounts thirty-two times in the past day. He’d seen Jeff’s car passing by the condo three times between early yesterday morning and noon. When he called the realty office, his boss said that “that tall kid who’s been on the news” had been in to see him. He and Jeff weren’t that close. He wasn’t visiting for friendly reasons.

So Brett had gotten to work quickly, organizing his next steps, sending that message to Seneca about the killer surprise, convincing Jeff to come to the party after all. But he’d been so caught up in his plan that he’d made a critical error: He’d left Jeff to stew in his suspicions. Jeff could have spilled the beans to Seneca—or even the cops—before the party. Thankfully, he hadn’t…but Brett was astounded at this oversight. He was usually so calculated about every last detail. This could have been a disaster.

But he’d been spared. Everything was fine. And really, he’d only made a teeny, tiny mistake—barely a blip on the radar. He’d be more careful from now on. He was ready, and he was thrilled to ratchet up the game. Bring it on, he murmured silently to the group, watching them pause in the doorway of his condo. And then he paced through the empty house across the street, opened the front door, and locked it neatly behind him with his realty-office key. That was the nice thing about working there. He had access to all sorts of places all over town. Instant hideaways, whenever he needed them.

Later, instead of heading into Command Central, he unlocked Chelsea’s room and walked in. The air smelled fragrantly of lily of the valley. So she’d been burning the candles. Spritzing perfume.

The toilet flushed noisily. The door to the bathroom opened, and she stepped out dressed in the gold empire-waist minidress he’d left hanging for her in the open closet while she slept. Their eyes met, and she froze. Her brows pinched together, and for a moment, she smiled hopefully. But something in Brett’s face must have given him away, because she suddenly seemed to understand he wasn’t her knight in shining armor. The corners of her mouth went slack.

She turned an odd shade of yellow. “Gabriel?”

“It’s nice to see you,” Brett said, taking a step toward her.

Chelsea cowered back, hands curled at her chest. “D-don’t come any closer.”

Brett pointed. “I really like that dress. The color looks great on you.”

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“And you’ve fixed your hair. It looks so nice, don’t you think?”

Chelsea’s bottom lip trembled. When Brett took her arm, she let out a pained whimper. Her forearm felt boneless. “I thought you might like to see what’s going on in the world.” He led her over to the chair closest to the TV. “Here. Sit.”

Chelsea sat slowly, cautiously, seemingly understanding that he wasn’t to be disobeyed. She was spasming with fear, her knees jumping, her fingers twitching. Brett hovered over her, breathing in the herbal scent of her shampoo. He turned on the TV. “You’re everywhere now. You’re such a star.” On CNN, her picture popped on the screen. Her parents appeared next, looking haggard, like they hadn’t slept in years. Chelsea let out a choked wail and covered her eyes.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” she whispered behind her hands. “Wh-why would you do this to me? I thought we were friends.”

Friends. That word was like a branding iron on his skin. Friends confided in each other. Friends didn’t lead each other on. Friends weren’t users.

Brett clucked his tongue. “Has it really been that bad? You’ve had food. Shelter. Makeup. I’ve noticed you admiring your new clothes in the mirror. I bet you really want to take a selfie.”

Then he slipped the phone out of his pocket. Chelsea’s eyes widened at its shiny pink case. Brett bet she was trying to figure out which phone it was—the one everyone knew about, or the one only he did. He remembered the day he’d bought the second device for her. Guys get jealous, he’d said. If Jeff finds out we’re friends, if he knows we talk so much, he won’t be happy. This’ll be our secret. Trust me on this one.

“I saved it for you,” he cooed.

“C-can I see that?” Chelsea reached for it. “Can I tell my parents I’m okay?”

He held the phone aloft. “Out of the question. But I’ll take a picture of you.” He held it to her face, super close, and on cue, she gave a small, weak smile. He looked at the screen. “Not your prettiest. Let’s try again.”

Chelsea swallowed back tears and dutifully smiled. Brett nodded—much better. Then, after a moment, she seemed to gather her courage again. Her eyes darted over his features. Slowly, she licked her trembling lips. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Anything to make you happy. I know you think I’m hot. Well, here’s your chance. We can be a couple in real life. We’ll tell everyone. Would that make you happy?”

Brett snorted. Didn’t she realize that was exactly why he’d chosen to punish her? Because she thought everyone loved her. Because she thought her beauty could afford her—and forgive her of—anything and everything. It was despicable.

He uncurled her fingers from his skin. “It’s too late for that.”

Chelsea’s face crumpled. Then something caught her attention on TV, just past him in her line of sight. Jeff Cohen’s face swam into view. Suspect dead, read the caption.

Chelsea’s mouth dropped open. “Jeff’s…dead?”

Brett turned away. He rankled at the pain in Chelsea’s voice. “Why do you still care about him?”

Something new appeared on the screen. Second Suspect in Dawson Kidnapping Case AWOL. In the photo, Brett’s hair was longer than he liked. His beard was almost unbearable to look at, almost comical. Thank God he was shedding the look today. Because now, like the newscaster said, everyone was looking for Gabriel Wilton.

Chelsea stared at the screen, then at him. Her eyes showed a mix of vindication and fear. “They’ve got you,” she said in a small voice.

Brett snorted. “No, they don’t.”

He stood. Chelsea was staring at him in confusion, her pretty mouth hung open. All of a sudden, it was as though she was made of something extremely delicate—flour, maybe, or sand—and if he touched her, if he flicked her just so, she’d collapse to nothing.

“There, there,” he soothed. “No need to worry. It will all be over soon.” And then he patted the girl on her head, turned on his heel, and left the room, locking it tight.