No, you’re not, Sebastian thought, and wondered if Faye had read the note. The envelope hadn’t been sealed. He’d check the cameras upstairs, on the computer.

Faye got mugs from a cabinet. “Everything okay?”

Stop asking me that. “Nothing we can’t handle,” he replied, his voice soft.

She looked at him, silently analyzing his words.

“The reason I got into this thing,” Sebastian said, picking up a mug from the counter. “At some point the government is going to get involved, take over the blood business. Regulate it. They have to. Cat’s out of the bag, people are being snatched, people are dying. The real money is going to be in real estate. In a decade, maybe even sooner, you’re going to see carriers living together in special neighborhoods, with their own schools and grocery stores and doctors. And they’ll be living behind these great big walls to keep the noncarriers out.”

“That’s why you picked real estate as your cover.”

Sebastian nodded. She was smart—and quick. Like Ava.

He picked up the bottle of Scotch and poured some into her mug. “They’re going to be living in these properties. I’m going to build a world where people like you are safe. Where you’re not hunted.”

He poured some Scotch into his mug—just a little, just a taste—and raised it to her and said, “To the future.”

“The future.”

The mugs clinked together.

Sebastian brought his mug to his lips. He tilted it back, about to drink a healthy amount, the booze hitting his lips when his mouth simply clamped shut. Some of the Scotch was in his mouth, and he wouldn’t swallow it. He didn’t know what was happening, but his brain provided an answer in the form of a picture—the one of Grace that Paul had sent him. Grace needed the best version of her father right now. She didn’t need a drunk who was afraid to see what was waiting for him in an email. She needed a man, not a frightened little boy.

Sebastian covertly spit the booze back into the mug. He put it down on the counter and said, “Help yourself to whatever. I’ll be right back.” He headed upstairs, to his home office, and sat in front of his Mac laptop.

He found the email easily. The subject line read, “Maya.”

Not a picture this time, a video.

She’s not dead, Sebastian told himself. God had brought him this far. He wouldn’t let him down now. He wouldn’t. He double-clicked the file.

Maya Dawson was tied down to a dining room chair, her mouth gagged. She was in her home—her living room. Sebastian recognized the couch in the background.

Maya was sobbing, her eyes pinched shut and her head turned away from whoever was holding the phone, recording whatever was about to happen. It didn’t take Sebastian long to figure it out. Someone moved behind her chair, and he saw a blue-gloved hand grab Maya by the hair and yank it back, exposing her throat. Sebastian looked away when he saw Paul’s tactical knife.