Marcelline fought like hell when he stopped to tie her the first time. Shirtsleeves, jacket sleeves, cummerbund, and trouser legs were the only useful things in the garment bag. Her own purse strap eventually got her feet under control. He pushed her down, struggling, over the hump of the floorwell and threw the garment bag and blanket over her for camouflage. Round two, when he’d gotten to where he was going and had more time and privacy, was even more vicious. He moved her into the front seat. By the end, they were both bruised and bleeding.

Jonathan looked over at Marcelline. Her eyes were closed. The tears had dried in black-streaked, vividly pale tracks over her face that disappeared into the gag pulled hard through her lips. Her hands were tied, clasped in her lap, the broken nail beds still glistening with drying blood. Her left cheek was swollen and red, but going dark in the center where the first strike of the steering wheel had landed. The second blow had almost knocked her out, but the knot was hidden in her hair.

Seeing her like that, tied at the neck to the headrest and at the wrists and ankles, he felt a mixture of guilt and amazement. He hadn’t known what all he was made of. Now the creature of his own mind was splayed out for vivisection.

He’d never hurt anyone. Not really. Not directly. True, he’d never stopped any hurt either. He’d even nudged it along before.

But instinct had been honed to habit, and today, habit had succumbed to evolution.

He enabled his father to ruin. Marcelline was the first person he’d hurt with his own hands. Roy, well, Jonathan had escorted him right over the line.

And Roy smelled terrible.

Jonathan had come out here because getting rid of Roy was essentially the only thing that had worked out okay in the last few weeks. Revisiting his last success seemed to be the most hopeful thing to do. But the reek from the truck was already a bigger deterrent than he would have guessed.

He wouldn’t take the Anningers’ money now for anything. It wasn’t worth it. Owen would never forgive this chaos twice. He’d find him. The only way to be clear of it was to be all the way clear of it. The little survival compass in his guts fluttered. He had to leave. He’d find another way.

He texted Owen: The painting for Marcelline. Then we’re done. We’re where the truck is. Carly took Marcelline yesterday. She knows where it is.

The message came back: She knows where you’re talking about. She doesn’t know how to get there. She’s fourteen, dumbass.