I frown, remembering what Logan said about burning us alive. I’m certain that even if Aarya is responsible for Logan tracking us, I share in the blame because I antagonized him with that fire. “Do you think it’s possible that Logan told Jag?” I ask, and Ash and Aarya look at me. “Ash, you said Logan was a skilled tracker, right? What if he followed us through the Market? He could have easily waited outside that shop, listening to us. I mean, you two had an argument about trust.” But the moment I say it, a wave of anxiety hits me. Layla was supposed to follow us. What if Logan found her? I look at our restraints. We’re still here, shackled to a wall with Layla nowhere in sight. What if he hurt her? What if he killed her? Ash didn’t even know she was here; he has no idea anything is wrong.

“Possible,” Ash concedes. “In fact, likely. Logan is exactly the type to pass along that information. But it’s why Jag used it that worries me.”

Ash’s agreement only sinks me further into my anxiety.

“You think there’s a reason besides Jag wanting to kill us and win?” Aarya says.

“I do,” Ash says. “I think Jag’s playing a more complex game than we thought and I want to know what it is.”

“Well, lucky for you, you’ll probably find out before you die,” Aarya says, but no one is in the mood for her morbid sense of humor. I’m barely even listening, my fear for Layla and my dad eclipsing everything else.

I glance at Ash, feeling torn over telling him about Layla—if I panic him I could throw him off focus and take away any chance, however slight, of him getting out of here alive. But is this secret really one I can keep to myself?

“Ash?” I start, but when he looks at me I change my mind. “What do we need to do to pick these locks?” I say instead.

He shakes his head. “I haven’t been able to figure that out. They stripped us of everything that could potentially be useful.”

I examine my zippers and the metal accents on my boots, but none of them would work. I scan the communal cell, taking a proper look for the first time. The floors are filthy with grime. There are a couple of crude beds made of hay, and a variety of unpleasant restraints. Plus, there is a pot in the corner that I hope like hell I won’t have to use. But nothing that even resembles metal for lock picking, not that we could reach it if there were.

I look again at my jeans and my hoodie and frown. My coat’s gone and so are my weapons, even the ones stashed in my boots.