“What made you call it in?” Irina asked gently.

Bunker looked at his mother. “My mom. She found me passed out drunk and talked sense into my head. So I called the cops and reported the video. It got taken down right after.”

A harrumph came from the ground next to the front porch. Karl stood there, arms crossed. “I wondered why it was so easy to have it taken down. I thought my attorney had developed the voice of God or something.”

Rafe studied Bunker carefully. Now that he wasn’t crazy with anger, he could see that the kid appeared sincere. “Why were you so scared?” he asked, his own tone softer.

Bunker visibly relaxed. “Because I saw the guy coming out of Miss Romero’s apartment. He looked . . . like, crazy happy. Emphasis on crazy. He scared the shit out of me.”

Erin cleared her throat. “Mr. Bunker positively ID’d Ephraim Burton from a photo array.” Her gaze rose to meet André’s. “And, according to Agent Hunter, he ID’d the roommate of Mercy’s ex-boyfriend.”

Bunker whipped around to stare at her. “The roommate?”

Erin nodded. “When you asked about Mercy, he figured he might make a dollar or two from the video he’d copied from Stan Prescott, the video that was surrendered as part of Prescott’s plea bargain.”

“And Prescott was not Mercy’s ex,” André growled. “Prescott is a slimy scumbag who roofied her at a party. She’d never seen him before or after.”

Bunker closed his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

André appeared unmoved. “You should have. You should have cross-checked.”

Bunker looked even more devastated. “That’s why I went to see Miss Romero. To cross-check.”

André started to speak, but Irina hooked her arm through his, patting him. “You cross-check before you publish,” she said, her tone severe but controlled. “I hope this is a mistake you will never make again.”

“No, ma’am,” Bunker whispered. “I won’t.”

Rafe frowned. “So the guy who made the video, who assaulted Mercy, did not sell it to Bunker?”

Erin shook her head. “Nope. Prescott has been in Europe for the past three weeks. He might have had contact with Mr. Bunker, but it doesn’t appear so.”

“All my conversations were one-on-one, in person,” Bunker said, looking disgusted with himself. “Dammit. I believed him. And it wasn’t a dollar or two. I gave him fifteen hundred.”

André whistled. “Where’d you get fifteen bills, kid?”

“From my editor. He wired it to me. And when I held the video back, I guess he decided to take matters in his own hands. I’m sure he figured since he’d paid for it, he was going to use it.”

“Do you still work for this . . . online trash magazine?” Irina asked, her description of the gossip blog dripping with contempt.

“No, ma’am. I quit. I . . . I just wanted to tell the story. I thought other survivors might get inspiration. But I fu—messed it all up.”

“Yeah, you did,” Rafe said with a sigh. “Why are you here now, though?”