Her brother, her own goddamn, son-of-a-shit-face, quisling-ass brother had cut her out and let her drown. She should have seen it, him being so goddamn nice last night, pulling out a deck of cards like when they were kids, trying to pretend that they even knew how to just be siblings, and that Clare, for everything else she’d taught them, hadn’t failed to teach them how to be a family. He had known what was coming—no, had planned what was coming—and had roped in an accomplice to handle the dirty work, and that bullshit hurt worse than if he’d just been his usual asshole self.

Holden pulled the chair out from the tiny side table, spun the seat away from the bed, straddled it, draped his forearms across the high back, and studied her.

She couldn’t stomach looking at him.

She turned to the window, said, “Where is he?”

“Wherever it is he wanted to be, I’d guess.”

“You guess?”

“I’m not working with him, Julia. Not siding with him against you, either.”

She glanced at him, went back to staring at the window, and summoned enough water for a few tears to leak visibly down her face.

He said, “Not that it likely matters from your perspective, but I hate doing this just as much as you hate it being done.”

“You’re not the one duct-taped and zip-tied to a bed.”

“That was for my protection,” he said. “I like being alive.”

The subtle admission within admission almost made her smile, reminded her of why she liked him—God—no—stupid, stupid, what the stupid—had—reminded her why she had liked him enough not to kill him when killing him was all that mattered.

What a fucking mistake that’d been.

She summoned another round of leaky eye faucet.

He said, “Couldn’t afford to have you swinging at me as soon as you opened your eyes. I’m cutting you free. Just need you to hear me out first.”

She refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, any reaction.

He reached round to the back of his waistband, pulled out a SIG, set it on the desk. “Show of good faith,” he said. “That’ll be there waiting when you’re loose.”

She had nothing to lose by calling his bluff. “Show me,” she said.

He picked up the weapon, released the magazine, turned it round-count forward for inspection. Eased back the slide, showed her the chambered round, let the slide go, snapped the magazine back into place, and set the SIG back on the desk. She watched his hands, big hands, capable hands in strong, smooth, fluid movement, and caught herself.

No, that was not where her head needed to be.