Another sob shook Tucker, and his face screwed up into a terrified mask. Before Shaw could raise the club, though, he nodded and whispered, “Yes.”

“That sounds pretty awful, doesn’t it?”

Tuck was crying again.

“That was a question.”

“Y-y-yes.”

“I really think I’m going out of my head. But it’s hard to know, Tuck. I’ve had a bad night. A bad couple of nights. I had my heart ripped out of my chest. Twice, kind of. And suddenly, nothing really seems to matter very much. You, specifically, don’t matter to me. You’re not a human being to me, Tuck. The way you’ve treated North, that makes you a roach. And I will feel absolutely nothing about crushing a roach. Do you understand?”

Tuck nodded. He was wiping the lacquer of blood and snot on his cheeks.

“Words, Tuck.”

“Yes.”

“You’re probably thinking that you’re going to call the cops when I leave. Maybe you’re thinking about calling North. I want to tell you why that’s not going to happen. You’re not going to call the police because right now, do you know where I am? I’m in a hospital, Tuck. I’ve got doctors and nurses and a real live detective from the Metropolitan Police checking on me to make sure I’m ok. I bet you’re thinking something really stupid right now, Tuck. I bet you’re thinking that they’ll have security cameras, that there will be people who notice I’m missing, that they’ll be able to piece together a timeline. But I track people down for a living. I know all the mistakes they make. So if there’s anyone who can get away with it, it’s me. Am I right, Tuck?”

“Yes, God. Yes. I can’t move my arm, Shaw, I think it might be worse than just my collar bone; I need to get to—”

“In a minute. First, you’re going to tell me why you’ll never say a word about this to North.”

Through the mask of blood and snot and spit and tears, Tucker glared up at Shaw.

“Go on. I won’t ask again.”

“He’d never believe me.”

“Keep going. You can say whatever you want now; I promise, no retribution.”

For a moment, it seemed like Tuck might not have anything else to say. Then he gestured with his good hand, an all-encompassing sweep, and words spilled out. “He’d never, ever believe me. That Shaw-fucking-Aldrich, who walks on water and is basically Jesus Christ in every other way, that you could come into my house and beat the shit out of me, he’d just laugh. He’d think I was on drugs. He’d—” An inarticulate squawk choked Tucker for a moment. Then he swept his hand out again, as though trying to point to something just out of sight. “You’re fucking psycho, all right? You know that. I know that. The way you watch him. The way you’ve stalked him. Christ, he could tell you to kneel by the table and wait for scraps and you’d fucking do it, and even then, he wouldn’t see the real you. He’s never been able to see that, never been able to see how fucking insane you are. But I see it. I saw it all the way back in freshman year. I know—”