Cullen yanks at his bow tie and stares at his hands covered in grime. He holds out his cuff, which is speckled in red. “I have blood on me. Someone’s blood,” he says like it’s my fault. “I know a lot of screwed-up people. But you’re more screwed up than all of them.” He shakes his hands like he’s ridding himself of the night and stomps up the staircase, leaving me alone.

I yank off my coat and pull out the burner phone, scanning the room for the best place to prop it. The bookcases, the wet bar, the windowsill. My movements are spastic as I finally head toward the mantel. I set it between the iridescent vases, behind a heavy candle pillar so the camera lens peeks out. Stepping back, I survey the fireplace. The phone is concealed. I grab my other cell, call up the site where I’m streaming live. For several seconds, I watch myself in the low-back cocktail dress, standing in the mayor’s living room staring at my cell. It’s like I’m watching someone else, someone older, someone who hasn’t lost everything.

I think of Ryan’s lips on mine. Less than a week ago. The twinge in my chest threatens to infuse my entire body, incapacitating me. It should’ve been me. He was stronger. He could’ve taken down the mayor with everything he knew.

The lock on the front door jiggles.

My head snaps toward it. I tuck my cell into my purse and throw everything onto the couch.

Richard steps through the door looking disheveled. The second he sees me, he lets out a deep breath. His shoulders slump. He presses his palm against his chest. “Thank God. I came as soon as I found out. Where’s Cullen?”

I freeze, thrown by his tone. His expression. “Upstairs.”

“Are either of you hurt?”

“No,” I whisper.

Richard crosses the room. He rubs the back of his neck and passes the TV, where paramedics hoist Ryan’s white-sheet-covered body into the ambulance. Something about seeing it on the screen confirms it happened. It was real. Not a hallucination. The image sears me like a brand, leaving behind a fresh, new scar.

Ryan’s hand grazes my shoulder. It slides down the bare skin of my arm. His lips brush the top of my ear as he says my name. “Lia.” His voice is rough and coarse and close, like he’s standing right behind me. And I wilt. It’d be so easy to give up, collapse on the couch, let the pain take over. I squeeze my eyes shut, pushing away the temptation, burying it deep, deep, deep inside.

“We’re all so thankful Cullen was there to save you.”

I ground myself in Richard’s nasal words. There’s something to the way he says it, like it’s forced.