Melissa dived toward it. A force shot out of the void. Without sight, it felt like some strange reverse gravity had slammed into her chest, propelling her backward. Her foot slipped against a slick spot on the floor. Her butt slammed to the ground. Her head followed.

Its voice emerged from the blackness. “I didn’t want to hurt you. But I can’t have you running to the cops. I have a family to protect.”

Dazed, Melissa rose to one knee, cradling the back of her head.

“Don’t force me to choose,” It said.

Before she could ask what the choice was between, a bang silenced her. She stepped toward the source of the reverberations, knowing that it was too late. A dial turned. Pins snapped into place. All those bars, she thought, sealing her away in the darkness.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

OKSANA

“Half Truths” Director’s Last Scene.

Oksana clicked the website link. Her picture loaded into view line by line, a product not of a slow internet connection but of the malicious code that was probably downloading onto the library computer with every painstakingly revealed pixel. She saw the blood-splattered suede wallpaper. The bookcase backdrop. The desk in the foreground. Nate’s body took at least a minute to fully appear. His head, or what was left of it, was last of all, an unintended consequence of the angle of the shot, which the photo’s buyers had to be happy about.

Oksana admired her work for a minute. In another life, maybe she’d have been a good crime scene photographer. She hadn’t simply captured the gore, which was what most people would want to see, but also the little things that suggested what had happened. The gun was visible in Nate’s hand, its lazy positioning indicating that it had been placed in an open palm by the real killer. The uncapped whiskey bottle and glass with a sliver of amber liquid, both visible on the desk, suggested that he’d been drinking, perhaps with someone. In her opinion, definitely with someone.

She double-clicked the image, zooming in. Again, the pixels took their time appearing, no doubt pulling additional packets of malware into the machine. New details emerged. The faint ring of a glass on the desk. The black label on the whiskey bottle. The glint of a wedding ring on Nate’s finger. There was something almost beautiful about the whole image. All the rust colors and ambers against neutral furniture. If not for the gruesome subject matter, it might be modern art.

She’d been paid for it as if it were a painting. A flat fee for the original. It could be copied, of course, but that had nothing to do with her. She had her digital currency. The internet’s armchair detectives could pass it around all they wanted now. Maybe they’d also notice what she had. Maybe they’d put it together.