“No, it isn’t.” A glow began to glimmer deep in his dark irises. “I’ve done everything I can to convince people not to use drugs, from preaching on Sunday to antidrug campaigns to community outreach. I built a rehab center where addicts can come free of charge to learn to live without drugs.”

“But . . . you sell drugs.” Hard as he tried, Zeke couldn’t make sense of this.

“For legitimate reasons. If people choose to use, they should be part of the solution.” He leaned forward, his eyes alight with a chilling fervor. “All of the large, anonymous donations that help keep the center running are from my drug profits. The users who wreak havoc on our society are helping fund my efforts to bring order to our neighborhoods, banish drugs. That’s only fitting.”

The convoluted logic boggled Zeke’s mind.

But telling that to Wilson could shut down the conversation.

“What about all the money you took to fund your retirement in a cushy tropical setting?”

The man’s features hardened. “After what they did to my wife and son, the users owed me. But”—he lifted his hands, palms up—“I’m not a greedy man. The operation was never about getting rich, and my retirement was going to be comfortable, not cushy. The business was created to offer a second chance—to me, and to those who’d repented. It was about atonement and restitution. The logic is clear.”

Only to a twisted mind.

“What about the people who got hurt? Who died? Like Stephanie Laurent and her boyfriend?”

A spasm of pain contorted Wilson’s features. “I never wanted anyone innocent to get hurt. That wasn’t part of my plan.”

“But they did.”

“Yes.”

“Did you kill Stephanie?”

“No.”

“You know who did, though.”

“Yes.”

“Did you order the kill?”

“No—but Razor recognized the risk when the girl and her boyfriend stumbled onto a pickup and he . . . he did what he had to do.”

So the man sitting in the interview room down the hall was the killer after all.

“What happened to the two of them?”

“I don’t know. I never asked him.”

But the DEA—or the County PD—would ask that question . . . and many more.

Zeke stood. “We’re done for tonight. In the morning—”

“Wait.” Wilson looked up at him, anxiety tightening his features. “There’s something else. I left two students from Ivy Hill in a cistern last night. Someone has to get them out. I was going to alert the authorities before I got on the plane.”

At least part of the man’s conscience was in working order.

“That won’t be necessary.” Zeke twisted toward the video camera and motioned.

Wilson’s forehead puckered. “You don’t understand. I only left enough supplies for one girl for a few hours. If they stay there too long, they—”

The lock on the door clicked, and a moment later Cate walked in.