I came to in the parking lot of Ciar's garage. The silence of my car gave no hint as to how long I'd sat there. Beside me in the passenger's seat, my wallet, keys, and phone had scattered.

I rubbed my face. What had Tilda done this time?

Tilda.

I froze. She was alive.

I snatched my phone. The sun had set in the time between Clarissa's confession and my arrival, and it was past nine. Ciar had told me to get out only a few hours ago; I doubted he wanted to see me back.

Even if it meant Tilda was alive?

I didn't know, so I dialed Mark's number out of habit. Listened to the four hollow rings. Kept waiting for an answer, even after the line had gone dead.

"Fucker!" I burst out. "My dead sister is alive and you won't even pick up the fucking phone!"

I fought the knot in my throat, trying to remember that this changed nothing. Tilda being alive didn't erase my time at Laurel Valley or the things Mark had seen me do. It didn't take away his reasons for leaving.

But God, it seemed like it should.

My hand was already on the key, ready to twist it into the ignition and get away before Ciar saw me, when I caught the outline of a man watching from the garage's doorway.

Too late.

The shadow unfolded its arms and turned away, disappearing back inside. I stared after him for a moment, then yanked my keys back out of the ignition and hopped out.

You idiot. He doesn't want to see you.

Would he change his mind when he heard that Tilda was alive?

I broke into a jog, gravel scattering under my feet. He was waiting for me, leaning against the Porsche, which sat in the center of the garage looking ready to drive right off the lot.

"I thought I told you to leave," he said.

I meant to apologize. I meant to ask if he was okay. But what came out of my mouth was, "Tilda's alive."

His head fell forward, a slow, despondent roll, and he stared at the ground for several seconds with a wry smile. "You can't stop twisting the knife, can you?"

The knife. For the first time, I really contemplated what Tilda's survival meant: that she had killed Nero, that she was a coldblooded murderer, that she had dumped his body in the very same river she'd supposedly died in.

When I didn't offer a defense, Ciar turned away, flicking his eyes toward the ceiling. "Go home, Maisye."

I stared at his broad shoulders, remembering how they had shaken with the echo of her death. He should be happy, right? He had loved her enough to fall to pieces in front of me at the mention of that night, and if he'd loved her enough to cry like that, he should want her to be alive more than anything.

"I'm not messing around," I said, lurching after him as he walked toward the car's rear. "I looked it up. People have survived falls into water from over twice that height. And it would explain who's been following me around, who killed Nero—"

"Maisye," he snapped, spinning back around. His eyes sparked, but not with any hint of hope, nor of the despair I'd seen earlier. "She's dead. Let it go."

My mouth fell open. How could he just dismiss the possibility so easily? "You loved her."

"Yeah, and I also went with Donovan to identify her body," he said, so cold and impersonal that I took a step back. "It was her. She's dead."

Of course. Of course they wouldn't have declared her dead without a body. Why didn't I think of that? Probably because I had no experience in matters of the law, and as such shouldn't be trying to investigate anything. That was Clarissa's job. But Clarissa didn't want anything to do with me anymore.

My plan seemed laughable now. Exonerate myself? Interrogate someone for the truth? All I'd managed to do was confirm my guilt and expose myself to Donovan.

My legs folded under me as I sat down right there in the middle of the garage, slapping a hand over my mouth to contain the sob that tried to escape. Ciar knelt beside me in a second, the sharp angles of his face turning fuzzy as tears obscured my vision.

"No," I whispered. "No. If she's dead, then I really did kill Nero." My hands found my hair, tugging at the roots. "I really did it. I—"

"Maisye," he said loudly. "You were with me that night."

"All of it?" I asked. "Were you with me on the Tobin Bridge, too?"

He froze halfway through reaching for me. "What?"

"They have a photo of me on that godforsaken bridge." I hiccupped, trying to bring myself back under control and failing miserably. "Traffic cam. I wasn't with you the whole night, Ciar. I did you and ran, admit it."

He just blinked.

"I highly doubt you lasted until morning," I added.

He didn't stoop to my childish level, choosing to focus on more important things. "Do the cops have this photo?"

As if in answer, sirens rose into the night, their wails just barely reaching us. Neither of us moved; it was such a common occurrence in the city that it never even crossed my mind to worry.

"Are you on the run, Maisye?" he asked. "Why did you come here? Why aren't you in jail right now?"

"Because I'm working with the FBI."

I bit down hard on both of my lips the second the words escaped. I shouldn't have said that.

But Donovan already knew, so what was the point in keeping it a secret any longer?

Ciar's eye twitched. "The FBI?"

I nodded, swallowing past a sudden pressure in my chest.

He rolled onto his heels, leaning away from me like a wild horse getting ready to run. "About the chop shop?"

I sighed. "The FBI doesn't care about what your boss does off the books, Ciar, it's Donovan."

His blank stare told me that I'd been wrong all along. He didn't know anything.

"Donovan?" he echoed, his voice hoarse. "What for?"

"Stealing and selling government secrets." I bit my lip, unable to mention the women again when it would just remind him of Tilda's death. His sobs haunted my memory like desolate echoes of her.

He read my mind anyway. "Is that where you got the information on those missing women? That was FBI evidence? You weren't really asking me, were you? Just looking for confirmation."

I bowed my head. "I didn't mean to make you relive that night," I whispered. "I really thought he might have killed her."

The silence weighed down on my shoulders, but I didn't look up. I let him mourn. It wasn't my place to step into his life, his family. He'd been right the first time I'd come to his garage in Tilda's clothes.

You know exactly what you're doing, he'd said.

What I was doing, maybe. But not what I was getting myself into.

"I still don't know why she jumped," he finally said. "But I'm not saying he wasn't one of the reasons. What you said at the lake was true. She changed the longer she was with him, and not for the better."

I risked meeting his eyes and let my shoulders relax a hair when I found no animosity there. "What are you saying?"

"That I want to know about those women, too." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "I remember the girl he dated the summer after she died, because it felt like spitting on Tillie's memory every time I saw them together. I remember the girl who never picked up her car, but I figured she just didn't want to pay for it. And—"

He stopped, biting his tongue, his eyes dancing over my face.

"And you do look like her," he finished, so quietly that I had to strain to hear.

I couldn't turn away. You look like her, so I want to protect you? Or you look like her, so of course I'll do what you ask?

I was afraid to ask which he meant. Part of me didn't care, and part of me wished for neither.

My phone broke the moment, startling us both with a shrill ring. As I fished it out of my pocket, I realized I hadn't heard that sound in over a week. No one had called me. Not Clarissa, not Mark, not Ciar.

I held it face-up between Ciar and me, Donovan's name clear on the caller ID. Answer it, or let it go? I waited for him to move—a nod, a tiny tug of his lips downward—any hint at the right choice.

He just watched, letting me decide.

Slowly, with a finger to my lips, I slid my thumb across the screen and hit the speaker button. "Hello?"

I tried to sound confident, but the waver in my voice betrayed me. Ciar's mouth twitched, and I winced. I could only hope it didn't translate over the phone.

I heard a long, whistling inhale, and my hand tightened around the phone. If I could tear my gaze away from Ciar, I knew my knuckles would be white.

And then he finally spoke, just four words: "Is this your choice?"

I whirled around, suddenly feeling exposed with my back to the open door. Was he out there somewhere, watching? Ciar's hands closed around my shoulders, too tightly to be anything but instinct. He pulled me toward him, pressing my back against his chest as if he could protect me.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, praying that Ciar would keep quiet behind me.

"Okay."

There was so much in that one word. Too much, reaching for me with fingers crooked like claws, ready to grab me and pull me back into the house where Tilda had lost herself.

I shrank back into Ciar.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Maisye," Donovan said, and with a click, he was gone.

Ciar stepped away from me, spinning me back around. "What choice?"

"He knows." I stared at my phone for an extra second, almost expecting it to light back up with Donovan's name. There was no way he'd let go that easily. "He knows I'm working with the FBI."

Ciar's eyes widened. "You didn't think you should lead with that?"

"It's fine. I mean, it was. He told me I could flip and he'd make it worth my while, stay with him..."

"How does he know you're here?"

"I..." I shook my head helplessly, goosebumps raising the hairs along the back of my neck. "I don't know."

"Call them."

"What?"

He pointed at the phone. "Call the FBI. Tell them they need to send someone. You're not safe. You never fucking were, and they have to know that."

"They do." Clarissa had told me so many times to stay on my toes, and I'd blown her off.

"Then call them." He grabbed the phone and then slapped it back down in my hand for emphasis.

How did I explain that I was off the case for a murder that gathering evidence suggested I'd actually committed? Would Clarissa even pick up the phone? She'd promised to protect me, and she'd seemed genuine back then, but would she still mean it?

I dialed the number and counted the rings. One. Two. Three. Four.

Nothing.

As I shook my head at Ciar, headlights flashed as a car pulled into the lot. We both turned toward it, momentarily blinded as it drove a half-circle and stopped.

Then it backfired, erupting like a gunshot. I jumped out of my skin, but before I could scream, Ciar had his hands around my arms, throwing me toward the Porsche.

"Get in the car!" he shouted, already lunging for the driver's door.

I stumbled around the hood and then stood, wide-eyed.

Ciar yanked his door open and then stared at me, eyes wild. "Get in!"

I ducked in as the car hummed to life, and he punched the accelerator before I even had a chance to buckle up. As we veered around the other car, the Porsche's headlights threw it into relief against the night: a ghostly white Fiat, with a mess of blond barely visible in the front seat.

"Get down." He reached across and shoved me forward, bending me at the waist until my ears were between my knees. As I stared at the unnaturally clean floor mat, another muted pop sounded from outside, and I clutched at my calves.

It hadn't sounded like a gunshot. It was a gunshot.