For a second, I’m terrified I might crumble being face-to-face with them after all this time. After their threats and warnings. Only Elvin’s face pales at the sight of me. Marlo swallows before clearing his throat and looking anywhere else.

The panic radiating from them eases my own, and I can see all the way through them.

Weak but without the power or protection.

I glare a second longer, then my eyes shift to the others in the room, all in their black uniforms. I don’t recognize the two guys by the couch, but the blonde woman by the wall I recall. She has a familiar apology in her eyes, but I refocus on the favorites near the window.

Elvin continues avoiding, but the trained attack dog takes a step forward. Only one.

Marlo stops, his voice tight. “Remi⁠—”

“Get out.” I deliver the command evenly, determined to hide the tremble beneath the surface, the seething. “All of you. No one is approved to visit.”

Elvin casts a nervous glance at Marlo while the others shift awkwardly. I wait for an argument. A challenge.

No one says a damn word.

Even as my pulse races, I cross my arms and turn to the side, reinforcing their need to leave.

The woman relents first with a crease in her forehead, and the two guys trail behind her. She hovers outside in the hallway after they file out, but I’m watching Elvin and Marlo as they cautiously approach me.

I follow with my gaze, neither chancing eye contact. Then I remember they wanted an update, so I give one.

“You were right about what would happen if you ever saw me again, officers,” I say as they pass.

It causes a misstep from Elvin, the meaning no doubt crystal clear to him. Unsurprising since it’s his words I’m referencing. The last thing he shouted through the lake house, in case I could hear, was a reminder that someone will die if they ever see me again.

And here we are.

Their king is dead. Or at least he will be.

A layer of submission graces Marlo’s final look at me before they disappear around the corner. I want to collapse or cry or break the second they’re out of sight, emotional overload hitting hard. But the woman switches from scrutinizing them to analyzing me like she’s trying to piece together the interaction.

Then she comes toward me, reaching into her jacket.

My gaze lowers to the card she holds out. I blink at it and glance up.

“Roman Moore was a good man,” she says. “He was honest and genuine in everything he did. What everyone said happened felt so out of character for him, and … well, none of it lined up with the Roman I knew, but people relapse all the time.”