“Dangerous, sure, but I had to help you. I even had my copy of your book signed the next day, but I didn’t let you distract me. I still wanted Paige and I got her. But a week later, you showed up with Lakshmi, looking for my Angel. I’d been careful, and so much time had gone by, but there you were, picking up long-forgotten threads. I kept tabs on your progress, in case you got close. I saw you take chances, walking campus by yourself, drinking to excess, smoking your brilliant mind to mush, fucking the detective in the park—each action an unanswered cry for help that no one but me seemed to hear. Then, Paige complicated things by forcing my hand, ruining everything I’d built.”

He spread his hands. “Well, the sky may have poured rain, but I found a moment of sunshine. You’d exposed the Bro-duce boys and Paige was dead. Since the police would never find my Angel in the Bro-duce farmland, I muddied the waters with my Barbie. That chain of events led us here. Tell me I haven’t taken the tide at the flood.”

Caitlin forced herself to meet his eyes. “So why me? Why keep me safe?”

“Oh Caitlin. Only you can understand what I’ve become.” He picked up the dishes and walked them to the metal drop box behind her. “And let’s face it, between your panic attacks, drug use, and reckless sex life, how much longer can you survive on your own?”

She knew not to interrupt him, but after all his genius-intelligence bravado, Branford was just a clueless dickhead who couldn’t handle an independent woman.

He came up behind her and leaned his head against her shoulder. “No matter how this ends, I’m glad it was you.”

His grip loosened. The air moved, the door closed, the locks turned.

Caitlin pushed against her straps. “So what? I’m just gonna sit in this chair?”

A loud metal clang behind her answered. He’d taken the dishes from the wall drop box. The soft whir of the overhead fan followed.

In seconds, Caitlin found herself Thanksgiving-meal tired. By one minute, she couldn’t fight the weight of her eyelids.

Chapter 69

CHAPTER

69

“WHY DID YOU drug me again? I feel like I’m missing ten points off my IQ.”

“Walk, Caitlin.”

Ten steps so far, bagged and cuffed, dressed in pink pajamas once again. She felt him tug, continued walking backward.

“And it’s gotta be morning, right? As in twelve or so hours after our last talk?”

No answer. At fourteen steps, she heard the jingle of keys.

“Seriously.” Her s words slurred like a drunk’s. “I get that you’re a genius—”

“Stop.”

She took step seventeen, passed him.

“—but a legitimate doctor gave Michael Jackson propofol, and we all know how that turned out.”

“Caitlin.”

She ignored the alarm in his voice, counted steps nineteen, twenty. “What, where?”