“The thing I can’t figure out,” Margaret continued as if he hadn’t said a word, “was why you didn’t just blackmail Powell.”

Wolff didn’t say anything.

“I’m a very bright woman, Mr. Wolff, I have a PhD in zoology. But I confess I don’t have your genius when it comes to evil. Educate me.”

Wolff laughed, amused by her effrontery.

“I’m serious—you’ve clearly outwitted not just me but this whole city. I don’t know where you went to school or if you have much of an intellect, to be perfectly candid. I mean, I get that out here a deep tan, charisma, and a certain look—not to mention your ability to act the part—can go a long way. But I gotta admit, you’re pretty brilliant with this stuff.”

“You have to remember,” Wolff said, “not everyone can be blackmailed. Some people care more about other things than about their careers or reputations, so blackmail doesn’t work.”

“And Powell loved Lola more than his career or reputation?” Margaret asked. “Or maybe he was just disgusted that you used her as a whore when she was a child.”

“Who knows what motivated him,” Wolff said with all the nonchalance of someone wondering if it might rain. “Just an actor. A speck of dust.”

Margaret reached the end of the lighting rig, grabbed one of the chains, and jumped to the last remaining piece of scaffolding, causing the beam to sway wildly away from her. She clung to the chain as Fontaine, below, tried to grab her. He almost fell after attempting to lunge but caught himself and swung back onto the metal ledge, deploying his Special Forces training and Eighth Army Ranger expertise to help neutralize a mom trying to stop a child-sex-slave ring.

“I don’t know where you think you’re going,” Fontaine said.

The water grew warmer o’er the span of a lifetime

Now it’s boiling, you’re roiling, you look to your friend

But that pal you saw dancing, advancing, romancing

Wants your soul, that’s his goal, and this is the end

Margaret steadied herself, then inched along the swinging beam to the ladder. She was almost there when Fontaine jumped onto her scaffold. Margaret lost her balance; her flailing right arm hit the ladder, and she grasped a rung. Fontaine slid forward on his stomach, grabbed her by her hair, and yanked her toward him. She was still holding on to the ladder, which pulled away from the wall.

Margaret tried to hit him, claw him, scratch him, anything, with her free hand. She was holding on to the ladder with all of her strength, but she knew she couldn’t do it for much longer. Part of her just wanted to give up.