Grant Masterson toasted a bagel and made a cup of coffee with Wesley’s space-age machine. The bagel was the only food in the fridge that hadn’t passed its ex-date. He’d eaten takeout the day before. If he stayed any longer he’d have to buy food.

Munching on the dry bagel, he opened a browser window on his laptop to the local news. He wanted to see what had happened the night before with the casino raid. Whether there was any mention of Richard Fischer or Scott King. Or Wesley’s alter ego, Blake Emerson.

As soon as the news page loaded, he nearly choked on the bagel.

“Holy shit,” he panted when he could breathe again. There on the front page was a photo of the Lady of the River with the headline: SEARCH FOR RIVER KILLER COMES UP EMPTY.

“River killer? What the actual fuck?” Grant scanned the article and was glad he hadn’t taken another bite, because the suspect was none other than Scott King, the security manager he’d gone to the casino to find.

“Casino owner Richard Fischer did not respond to requests for comments,” he read aloud. Because he’s not there, Grant thought. He’s left town. Or he’s hiding in that mausoleum he calls a mansion.

He clicked on the link to the River Killer story and sagged in his chair. Seven dismembered bodies had been brought out of the river on Saturday. He skimmed until he got to the part he was looking for.

“A fourteen-year-old boy was questioned in the death of the first body to be identified, Mr. John Brewer. But later eyewitness testimony pointed local law enforcement to search for this man—Scott King. Riverboat patrons told us that John Brewer was a frequent visitor to the casino at the Lady of the River, where Scott King manages security.”

Grant studied the sketch of King and fought a shudder. He was very glad he hadn’t met the man last night. He had a mean look to him.

Returning to the article, he read on, then frowned. The first of the identified victims, John Brewer, had last been seen Friday a week ago.

That was the same day that Wesley’s Cleveland PD partner, Tracy Simon, had seen Wes, with no word from him since. His brother had been to that same casino, participating in some kind of secret game. Dread prickled down Grant’s spine and a shudder broke free, his stomach churning. He pushed the half-eaten bagel away, his appetite suddenly gone.

Seven dismembered bodies, he thought numbly. He had his phone in his hand, ready to call the police, before he realized his intent. Did one of those bodies belong to his brother?

Wait. He put the phone down, pushing it away as he’d done the bagel. If Wes was alive, Grant would be flagging him to the cops.