North probed the cut on the inside of his lip with his thumb. When he pulled the digit from his mouth, blood had slipped under the nail, and a pinkish film of saliva covered the knuckle. Behind Shaw, out of Shaw’s line of sight, Matty met North’s gaze. He smiled a thin, hard smile that vanished an instant later.

The pressure that had driven the needle into the red suddenly shot higher—off the gauge completely—and North threw Shaw onto the bed.

Shaw hit hard; something cracked, and Shaw cried out.

“Get the fuck out,” North said to Matty. “Before I kill you.”

“No,” Shaw scrambled to his feet on the other side of the bed. He pressed one hand to his hip, and he was standing funny. The half-curtain of chestnut hair only made his pallor that much more shocking. “Just—just go in the other room, Matty. Shut the door. I’ll come get you when he’s gone.”

North crossed his arms. “Go ahead,” he said to Matty. “Try it. And when I’m done with Shaw, I’ll kick in that fucking door and I’ll kill you. That is not an exaggeration. That is not hyperbole. I will kill you. So go ahead. Stick around.”

“Matty, just give me five minutes. Just go in the living room and shut the door.”

Matty glanced at Shaw. He glanced at North. His face was set in an expression of shock and horror, but that fucking razor-wire smile that North had glimpsed kept ghosting over North’s vision like a sunspot. Then, he scurried down the hall, and from the other end of the building came the click of the door shutting.

Shaking his head, North turned to face Shaw.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Shaw said.

North checked the inside of his mouth again. His thumb came back crimson.

“North, I asked you a fucking question.” Shaw limped around the bed, still pressing one hand to his side. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I told you what’s wrong. That piece of sewer cunt—”

This time, North was ready, and Shaw’s wild punch only clipped his ear. The cartilage stung; it swelled and felt hot, inflammation already beginning. Both men settled back.

“Say that again,” Shaw managed to say. He was stuttering. “Say it, and I’ll—”

“He’s a liar, ok? His name isn’t Matty Fennmore. It’s Matthew Fennley. And he’s not the youth pastor at RiverChurch. There isn’t even a RiverChurch. He’s just some KC asshole who’s been arrested for prostitution and Christ only knows what else. Sexual misconduct, whatever the hell that means. Sticking his dick through car windows, I guess. Letting the johns see the sausage before they buy.”

Shaw shoved hair out of his face, and it fell back. He shoved at it again. “You’re wrong.”

“Your buddy Jadon Reck, the fucking detective, he’s the one who told me. And you know what, Shaw? I confirmed it. I looked at the records. I checked. No fucking RiverChurch. No Pastor Fennmore. No Matthew Fennmore. All just a bunch of fucking lies.”