“What’s this?” Micah holds up my phone and flashes me the picture I took of one of Lander’s illustrations, the one that depicts the man with sharp teeth snarling down at a sleeping man. Underneath it is an anagram I’ve yet to work out. But I don’t need to know the anagram’s solution to understand the darkly aggressive energy of that drawing. I understand it because I understand the artist. Lander’s work reflects his passion, his meticulous attention to detail, his darkness, even his humor.

It’s possible that I’ve seen Lander for the last time. I may never again feel the warmth of his skin as I rest my head on his shoulder. I may never again hear his whispered compliments as he slides off my clothes.

And with that I may be robbed of the opportunity, in my quest for revenge, to rip my new lover’s life to shreds.

I may have lost everything. Failing would mean losing my mom all over again.

Micah’s still holding up the picture and I turn my eyes away. “It’s just a doodle,” I say, allowing him to think I’m the one who created it.

Micah raises his eyebrows and looks at the picture again. “Not bad. You didn’t tell me you were an artist, Sweet.”

“And you didn’t tell me you were a kidnapper.”

“Yes, well, I also failed to mention that I piss standing up, but you can assume as much,” he says with a chuckle. “Some things just come with the territory.”

“I don’t understand—” I begin, but Micah cuts me off.

“You know, I’ve been saying those three words a lot lately. I told you a long time ago that I would help you get any job you wanted. You’re a good-looking woman and smart as hell. I could have set you up at a nice art gallery where you would have waited on respectable wealthy gentlemen until one of them made you his wife. I could have gotten you modeling gigs, or if you wanted to use what God gave you, I could have made sure you were the highest-paid call girl in New York. I would have made sure that every client treated you right.”

“So you think being a personal assistant is beneath me, but serving or fucking wealthy men is not?”

Javier’s eyes slide in my direction. Javier speaks very limited English, but everybody knows the word fuck.

“It’s my experience that fucking wealthy men is something most women enjoy,” Micah notes mildly.

I straighten my posture and meet Micah’s eyes. “You told me that I could fabricate any work history I wanted.”

“I did. I did,” Micah confirms. Outside I can hear the calls of young men as they stumble out of a bar.