IF BRETT HAD to estimate how many miles he paced along the short hallway outside Aerin’s room today, he’d have to say at least six or seven. When he wasn’t talking to her or surfing online, he walked back and forth, back and forth, trying to figure out what to do, trying to calm himself, oscillating between perverse excitement at touching Aerin and annoyance that she hated it. There was the shame and guilt he felt over the fact that he was hurting her, and the billowing pride he felt because he was totally overpowering her and had the upper hand.

Up the hallway was I like hurting Aerin. Down the hallway was I shouldn’t hurt Aerin. Up the hallway was I love Aerin. Down the hallway was I hate Aerin. Over and over and over, hour after hour after hour, flip-flop flip-flop, until it was time for him to prepare her food or answer another call from Seneca or make sure Aerin was sleeping or go inside her room and—Delight! Horror! Disgust! Ecstasy!—touch her again.

It was so freaking hot in here, so he walked to a window in his room and opened it. Then he peeked into her room. Aerin was sleeping again. Her golden hair was splayed against the pillow. She didn’t move even when the opening door squeaked. He watched her for a while, aware of his heavy breathing, and then shut it again, tamping down his desires. As much as he wanted to lie next to her, the anticipation was even more delicious than the actual act. He would lie next to her someday…and she would learn to like it. In his fantasies, that day would come when they were truly together, when she realized everything she needed to know about him, when she realized he was the one she should love.

Or that day would come when she was dead, and the only thing he’d nuzzle would be her corpse. It was quite remarkable, Brett noted, how wildly his mind could change.

His phone buzzed in his back pocket. He pulled it out and squinted at the screen, then smiled. Seneca was calling.

“Hello, darlin’,” he purred. “What’s new?”

As if he didn’t know already. He’d slowly watched the pointer icon on the GPS tracker crawl to Catskill—first to Damien’s parents’ house, then to the police station, then to the middle of the woods. So they’d found the house.

“We dug up an old book of ferry tickets in Sadie Sage’s place,” Seneca said in a clipped voice.

Brett raised an eyebrow. Impressive. “Look at you,” he said.

“The tickets are to a place called Tallyho Island, which is off of Staten Island. We’re going to head there now.”

“A ferry to where?” Brett asked.

“Tallyho Island,” Seneca repeated. “Have you heard of it?”

Brett’s gaze returned to the open window in his room. The curtains fluttered in the breeze. His heart stopped. What was he thinking? He might as well hang a neon sign over it for Aerin saying Escape Here! She’d already tried to leave once—she was going to try again.

He ran over and shut it fast. He couldn’t believe he’d almost made such a crucial mistake. The first rule of kidnapping was to make sure there was no way for your prisoner to escape. Everyone knew that.

“Tallyho Island?” he scoffed, realizing they were waiting for his response. “It sounds like a fake name. Like I’m a knight going off to battle. Tallyho!” He said it in a British accent, but no one laughed. He glowered at the closed window. He needed to get a padlock on all the windows, actually. Why hadn’t he thought of that before?

A new alert flashed on Brett’s screen, this one from the security software he’d recently installed. Warning. Someone is trying to access your location. Hang up and restart within thirty seconds or your security will be breached.

Brett gripped the phone, seeing red. Unbelievable. “You really think it’s going to be that easy?” he said in a low voice.

“Huh?” Seneca sounded caught off guard.

“You really think you’re just going to find me through your phones? If you want a clue about where I am, Seneca, you should have just asked. Because guess what? You already know where I am. You’ve been here before.”

“Wait. I’ve been there? Just me? What do you mean?”

Brett stabbed END, tossing the phone across the room. He felt so scattered, though it wasn’t really because they were trying to access his location. He would have been insulted if they hadn’t tried to do that. It was something else that was making him feel so antsy—something unexpected creeping up from his depths, laughing in his ear. The windows. Definitely the windows. How was it that he’d forgotten to secure the windows?

My, my, my, a voice inside him teased. Is there actually something to put heartless, calculating Brett Grady off his game?

Hell no, he told the voice, shaking off the feeling. He was in control and he was pleased—Seneca and the others were actually doing everything he wanted. He was still the mastermind here. And they were putty in his hands.