But he couldn’t ask. Ava had already hung up.

Sebastian gripped the steering wheel with both hands as a cold, hard, and inescapable truth drilled into his marrow: Ava was suffering because of him. Grace, too. And Paul, the psycho son of a bitch, had no intention of returning her.

His daughter was in the hands of a sadist, and Paul, Sebastian was sure, had already arranged something that would kill Ava. Or maybe he wanted her to suffer a bit longer. Maybe Paul had engineered something that would make her wish she were dead.

And I’m the only one who can stop it.

He had to find Paul—fast.

* * *

He returned home, finding it deathly silent.

Sebastian figured at least one of the two guys who had been living here around the clock would have returned by now. Sebastian knew their first names, but he didn’t have their numbers. He dealt only with Ron. Sebastian jogged up the steps, walked down the hall to his home office.

All of Ron’s equipment was gone.

Sebastian thought back to what Ron had told him last night about how he had a lot of money, more than he could spend in several lifetimes. Ron was telling him he’d had enough, and Sebastian had told him—practically begged him—to stay on. Only Ron didn’t give me an answer, Sebastian thought, dialing the number for Ron’s burner. Just stared at me from across the table.

Ron didn’t answer, and his voicemail didn’t pick up. Had he thrown out the burner?

Sebastian called the direct number for Ron’s secretary.

The number, an automated voice said, was no longer in service.

I’m going to pick them off one by one, Paul had said. Ron. His people—

“Sebastian.” Faye’s voice was calling from downstairs. Not nervous or scared or anything, just loud. “There’s something down here for you.”

He left the room on shaky legs, riding waves of anger and fear, rage and terror, trying to keep the emotions from reaching his face. If Faye saw a trace of anything, she might bail. She was smart, okay, but that didn’t mean she’d sign up for some suicide mission. If she found out Ron and his people had abandoned him, she might, too.

Faye stood in the kitchen, coffee percolating. “I was making coffee and found that,” she said, pointing to a white envelope with his name written on the front, in big, bold black marker so he couldn’t miss it. “It wasn’t there this morning—I’m sure of it.”

The envelope rested up against the bottle of Scotch Paul had brought to the house. Sebastian had left the bottle next to the coffeemaker, wanting to see it every day and give it the finger, prove how strong he was.

He didn’t feel strong now. He felt weak. Frightened.

Sebastian opened the envelope. Inside was a folded piece of paper—the nice stationery he kept on a shelf in his office down the hall. He recognized the handwriting.

Some famous writer from a long time ago said either you’re busy living or you’re busy dying, Ron had written. If you’ve checked your email, you’ll see which one I had to choose, and why. I’m sorry.