“She won’t be,” Orion says firmly. “She thinks she’s untouchable. That’s when people like her make mistakes. And when she does, we’ll be there to catch her.”

I want to believe him. I want to trust that this will end the way it’s supposed to. But Aubrey’s been outsmarting people for years—decades, even. What if tomorrow isn’t the clean resolution we’re hoping for? What if we can’t get her to confess?

I look at the map on the table, at the way the cemetery is neatly marked with red and blue dots. Valkyrie’s soft snoring fills the room, and for a moment, I let myself focus on that sound instead of the buzzing tension around me.

“And you think it’s safe to go tomorrow?” I ask finally.

Orion’s gaze softens, and for a second, I see a flicker of concern in his eyes. “I don’t see why it wouldn’t be. Just don’t accept food or a drink from her, every person she’s killed so far has been killed by poison. The chance of her pulling a knife or a gun on you is slim to none.”

I glance at Valkyrie, at the peaceful rise and fall of her chest. “If you’re sure then I trust you,” I say quietly.

Because no matter how tangled this web gets, I can’t let Aubrey walk away from this. Not after everything she’s done.

The tension inside the house is suffocating, so I grab a mug from the kitchen—one of my favorites that says “not today, satan” on it—and fill it with water. I need air, and space to think. Without saying anything to the FBI agents or Orion, I slip out the back door onto the covered porch.

The cold air hits me immediately, a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat of too many bodies in a small space. I grip the mug in both hands, staring out into the dark. Somewhere in the distance, the town is quiet, oblivious to the fact that tomorrow, everything could change.

Away from the noise and planning, the suffocating heat of too many bodies in my space. Out here, it’s easier to breathe.

I settle into the double rocking chair, tucking my knees up, the mug of water in my hands as I let my gaze wander to the small, fenced yard. Valkyrie’s toys are scattered across it—chewed-up tennis balls, a tug rope, and, of course, the random shiny things she’s dragged home from who-knows-where. My little magpie in Doberman form.