‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, man,’ he says, and slams the door.

My upper arms are pinned to my sides, but my forearms can move. I think I could probably reach the park brake with my left hand. Useless while the car is already parked. But if we’re taking a bend at speed, I might be able to crash the car.

I barely survived the first crash, though. A second might be a bad idea.

Luxford gets in on the driver’s side. He drapes a coat over me, hiding the duct tape.

‘My friend was expecting a hot, black, lady FBI agent,’ he says. ‘He’ll be pretty disappointed when he sees you. I hope he kills you anyway. You really fucked up my life.’

It’s hard to talk around my missing tooth. ‘What does your friend do?’ I mumble.

‘He hurts people.’ Luxford zooms back onto the highway, apparently keen to put as much distance between himself and the wreck as possible. My problem about being tracked by the cops seems to have solved itself.

‘You pay him?’ I ask.

‘It’s more of a sharing economy-type deal.’

I nod. The movement sends a wrecking ball through my skull. ‘You traded videos of Abbey—and the other women—for videos of pain,’ I say. ‘Right?’

Luxford keeps his eyes on the road. He’s trying to look calm, but a vein is bulging on his temple.

‘Anything involving giants?’ I ask.

He looks confused. ‘You mean like the NFL team?’

‘I mean actual giants.’

‘Christ,’ he says. ‘You must have hit your head hard.’

‘You met this friend on the dark web, right?’ I say. ‘You ever met him in person?’

He still says nothing, but I can tell the answer is no.

‘Did your friend dump Ruthven in my yard?’ I ask. ‘Or was it you?’

His eyes narrow. ‘Who’s Ruthven?’

‘The fat guy,’ I say. ‘The most recent fat guy.’

He shrugs, apparently bored. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he says.

I can’t think of a reason for him to lie about that. And he sounds truthful.

Which means that I’ve been investigating two separate cases all this time. One involves Shannon and Fred, sharing videos of rape and torture. The other involves a wigmaker and sixteen dead men. No connection, other than the fact that Shannon knew one of the wigmaker’s victims.

‘How long before they start looking for you?’ he asks casually.

‘They were already looking for me,’ I say.

‘Nice try.’

‘It’s true. I’m wanted for murder.’

He glances over at me. I hold his gaze.

‘I cut off your boss’s head with a bread knife,’ I say. ‘The FBI just found it in my freezer. Half the police force is looking for you, the other half is looking for me.’