“No more secrets,” she said in a voice I didn’t recognize, a voice hard as flint. “That stops right now. What Bram did out there was personal. An attack on me is an attack on you. Why does he want to attack you, Shana? What the hell kind of history do you have with this guy?”

It was a miracle Whiskey survived Bram’s violence, and the assault had happened because of me. I owed it to Mac to come clean. I owed her a lot more than that.

I told her then, everything I’d confessed to Tim and more. When I got to the part about my fear over what this news would do to my family, Mac was as practical as ever. All of this was Bram’s doing, she said. Hiding that fact wouldn’t make it untrue.

Keeping Bram to myself was futile and always had been. It didn’t guarantee anyone’s safety, because this game was unreliable. I knew that now—and in a way, it made everything just a little easier. No more weighing my actions against his, or tormenting myself with the misguided belief that my decisions could alter those of a madman. He didn’t want me to win. His game was designed in a way that ensured I would lose. As far as Bram was concerned, I didn’t stand a chance.

And maybe he’s right, I thought as I pulled on a dress shirt and slacks, the same outfit I’d worn for my interview with the BCI lieutenant a month ago. On my own, I was beatable. What Blake Bram didn’t understand was that by finally bringing Tim and Mac into my confidence, I was amassing an army.

THIRTY-THREE

Breakfast was two Tylenols, a cup of black instant coffee, and a few gulps of brisk November air. I got into my SUV and straight onto the highway headed south.

I drove with my window halfway down and my damp hair flowing behind me. The hilly landscape was speckled with dry snow, and the air tasted smoky. It made my throat ache. I was desperate for water but making good time, on track to be a few minutes early. I got as far as Adams before Fraser Harmison’s name popped up on the car’s dashboard screen.

“This is just a courtesy call,” the police chief said, but a call meant news. It might even mean there’d been a development in Brett’s case. “I wanted to tell you myself. We’ve taken Russell Loming into custody.”

I was usually good at multitasking, could talk coherently while flawlessly following all the rules of the road, but my concentration was immediately shot. “What happened?” I asked, focusing my eyes to the windshield. “Did he confess to killing Brett?”

“Not yet, but a witness has come forward. Does the name Ronnie Rockwell ring any bells?”

My mind was doing cartwheels, but I couldn’t land a single one. I said, “Don’t think so. Who is he?”