Desirae sprung up from the floor, whipping out her gun and aiming it our way. I didn't need to turn my head to see whose fingers tore through my hair. Crisp aftershave. Expensive wool-cashmere suit.

"Armed with a Glock instead of a stick of charcoal?"

Hollow voice.

"I'm impressed, Desirae."

Landon yanked me closer to his body, using me as a shield like a fucking coward. I tried to wriggle free from his hold, ready to claw his eyes out when cold metal pressed to the side of my temple. I drew in a sharp breath and stopped struggling.

Across from us, Desirae's gun didn't waver in her hands. "Drop the gun, Landon."

"You don't have a shot," he sneered. "From where I'm standing, it appears the two of you are trespassing with the intention of stealing art. My curator is obviously in danger. I have every right to pull this trigger."

"You have every right to shut the fuck up," Desirae snapped. "Anything you say can and will most definitely be used against you. Now, drop the fucking gun."

His laugh shook my body. "What, am I under arrest?"

"She's FBI, dipshit." The tremble of my voice rattled my body, but as it echoed into the dark warehouse, Landon's fingers loosened around my hair. The cold muzzle slipped away from my head.

Before I could try to pull away, the door behind us ripped open with a bang. A flood of armored cops with the big guns fanned out around us, yelling commands.

Releasing his grip, Landon shoved me away and I stumbled to Desirae's side. She caught my waist with one arm, all while keeping her gun still sighted on Landon. Slowly, he squatted to lower his gun to the floor, but a swift kick from behind knocked him flat. Greg emerged from the sea of officers, all suited up in an FBI tactical vest, taking it upon himself to make the official arrest. Landon's head twisted up from the floor. A calm anger sharpened his green eyes, dead set on me.

"This isn't over," he snarled as the cops brought him up to his feet. Dust and debris marred his pressed navy suit. His once perfect hair now heaped off to the side in an unkempt mess. "Watch your back, Kirby."

His threat sent a chill through me. The officers quickly turned him away and led him back to the stairwell, not caring to be gentle. Desirae didn't lower her gun until Landon was out of sight. My head went dizzy as I finally let out my breath against her.

"Are you okay?" she whispered, tucking my hair around my ear. The softness of her fingertips was a stark contrast to just having been yanked around by Landon.

I wanted nothing more than to melt into her, but I kept my composure. "I don't really know."

I glanced around at the cops as they swarmed the open studio. Their voices felt like television background noise. My eyes followed a path of trampled roses up to the wooden model platform where just an ornate chair sat draped with linen. Petals were strewn everywhere. We had definitely interrupted him. He'd barely begun the set up. Where the caustic vapors of resin had been present with the other tableaus, there were none in the air here. Maybe just old traces of oil paint.

"I'm just trying to make sense of it," I murmured. "To make sense of Landon. It doesn't really feel..."

"Real?"

I tried to picture Landon in his dumb expensive suit posing what would have been Cora's dead body on the model stand, excoriating her, taking the time to get all the flowers right, sewing them into her, then slathering resin all over her body to keep it preserved.

I shook my head. "It doesn't feel right."

Desirae's hand rubbed against my bare shoulder blades. "More information will come out in the next couple hours as they question him." She glimpsed behind us. "And Cora. Thanks to you, she's alive and can hopefully tell us what happened."

"I think you can thank her tolerance for K," I mumbled, following Desirae's gaze. I should have been relieved I guess to see Cora upright and talking to one of the other FBI agents, but I only felt more heartsick for not being able to save Miles. Guilty, even. The whole reason Miles even got sucked back into Artemisia's world was because of me.

"She was into ketamine?"

"Hmm? Oh, Cora. Yeah, she nearly killed me at a rave in Ibiza by not telling me she mixed it into her coke."

Desirae's eyes shifted between me and Cora.

"For what it's worth, I was never really into any of that party shit. Unlike what Greg told you."

Her head bobbed softly with a nod, attention still fixed to the agent questioning Cora. "Noted."

"Landon asked me to meet him at the studio," Cora explained to him. Her words were coherent now, though she still looked sketched out of her mind. Her fingers scratched at her elbow as she hugged her arm to her stomach. It was the same tick she'd get during critiques in art school. "We store larger pieces of artwork here for the museum. I didn't think anything of it. Especially since it was his late wife's work. And then I blacked out."

Looking past her, my eyes fell to the canvases propped against the wall. Eden leaned in front of Sunday Morning. Or Mourning. Whichever it was. I didn't know what to think anymore.

"No, no, I'll be fine," Cora insisted when the medic started examining her. I think he was trying to convince her to go to the hospital. She briefly looked my way, but the medic tilted her head back, flashing a light around her face.

"How'd you get here before us?" Greg's voice came from behind.

"What do you mean?" Desirae asked. "My text never went through?"

"Pino called in the tip. To my guy."

My face scrunched with doubt. "Why would he incriminate himself with his warehouse of horrors downstairs?"

"Well, after your ex killed herself, her body-trading company became Landon's, technically. Pino just rents him the space. I have a feeling we won't find much to tie him to it directly. Unless you know something we don't."

Again, my head shook, trying to make sense of it. "Artemisia was running it before she died? That's not..." I wasn't sure if it was just the stress of everything or if the fumes from earlier had melted my brain, but I was more confused than ever. Pino had told me it was Artemisia's death that inspired his new business venture. Had they been running it under his nose the whole time?

Greg eyed me up suspiciously before turning to Desirae. He cupped her arm, rubbing it gently. "I'll make sure they go through every body part down there."

"He's not in there."

"Get the medics over here," an agent called out from the back corner of the studio.

The medic jogged past us and I found my own feet moving with his. Desirae and Greg followed. Beams of light flashed through the dark, landing on the old freight elevator. The caged wooden door had been propped open. A man's Italian leather shoe stuck out.

My heart dropped.

"Raf!"

His dark curls hid his sallow skin. No rise or fall of his chest. No movement at all as the medic rubbed at his sternum. He just laid there slumped on the floor, bringing back to life the nightmare I'd been trying to escape the last six months.

As I lunged towards the elevator, Desirae grabbed my elbow. "Let them work, Kirby."

I watched on, helpless, as another medic slipped past us. They quickly bagged him, squeezing air into his lungs. My own felt useless. My breaths grew ragged and forced. Blood pooled in my lip as I chewed the cut open again. The longer I stared at him, the more I saw his sister. The more I remembered his sister. I had to turn away.

"Let's get some air." Desirae began pulling me away when I heard his voice.

"Mi lu mittisti a modu di littani..."

"He's back," one of the medics announced.

I restrained myself from rushing to his side, forcing myself to breathe again instead while the medics checked his vitals. His eyes remained closed, but he continued to sing.

"Stannu scavannu fossi e sipurturi, cercanu crozzi e mali cristiani..."

"What's he singing?" Desirae asked.

"Pi darimi li spini 'ncanciu di ciuri..."

I was still trying to catch my breath. My eyes closed to better hear the lyrics. "It's an old Sicilian folk song."

"Minchia," Rafael groaned. His eyes widened, but I could barely see the blues of his irises, just darkened pupils aimed in my direction. "Bajascia!" He began to get combative and the medic had to hold his arms back. "Buttana!"

He was obviously still pissed at me.

The medic looked towards us. "Does this elevator work?"

My head started to nod, but Cora answered for me from behind. "It does." She pushed past us and knelt down at Rafael's side.

"I'll go with them," Greg said, slipping into the elevator car. He helped restrain Rafael as Cora closed the wooden door. With a screech, the car disappeared down the dark shaft.

"Maybe we should meet them at the hospital," I said, turning back towards the front of the lit studio. My head was still spinning, trying to catch up with everything.

"I think we should give them some time to question Rafael," Desirae replied, gently. "He seemed a little agitated when he saw you."

My teeth grazed the cut on my lip again. "You picked up on that, huh?"

"It's been a long twenty-four hours, Kirby. You need rest."

I nodded in agreement, but the thought of going to sleep after everything I'd seen today felt impossible. Memories of both recent and old flashed through my head, blurring the lines. I exhaled a heavy breath. "I need a shower. Or a long soak in a tub."

"No tub on the yacht, huh?" Desirae's hand slid along the small of my back. "I think I can help with that."