He shook his head again. “I’m not coming inside, Gin.”

“Why not? Is it because of what I plan to do to Tobias Dawson?”

Donovan ran his hands through his black hair. “That’s part of it. I still can’t believe I’m going along with that.”

“And the other part?”

He blew out a breath. “Do you remember that night in your apartment, before we went to the rock quarry to rescue Finn and Roslyn Phillips? Do you remember what I said to you about my partner, Cliff Ingles?”

“I remember. You wanted to kill me for assassinating him.”

He nodded. “Mainly, though, I wanted to know why you killed him. And since you wouldn’t tell me, I did some digging on my own.”

I tensed. Damn and double damn the detective and his tenacity.

“A lot more people were willing to do me favors after the Alexis James incident,” Donovan continued. He stared out the windshield at the rain instead of looking at me. “One guy who worked vice was particularly helpful. He told me that I should talk to a hooker, one of Roslyn Phillips’s girls, strangely enough.”

Roslyn Phillips was the vampire madam who ran Northern Aggression, a trendy, upscale nightclub that catered to the rich folks of Ashland and serviced their every need and twisted desire. She was also one of Finn’s friends with benefits. I’d killed Roslyn’s abusive brother-in-law several months ago, after he’d almost beaten her sister and young niece to death. Roslyn, in turn, had told one of her girls about my services. Loose lips get people dead, and Roslyn’s furtive whispers had eventually led to Fletcher Lane’s murder. Something I wasn’t going to let the vampire forget—ever.

But if Caine had talked to the hooker I had in mind, he knew exactly why I’d killed his partner—and what the bastard had done to the woman’s thirteen-year-old daughter.

“I know Cliff raped and beat that girl,” Donovan said, confirming my suspicion. “I know that’s why you killed him, so he’d never do that to another girl.”

No use denying it now. “Yes. That’s why I killed him. Because of the girl. When did you find out?”

“Two weeks ago.”

Pain deepened the grooves on Donovan’s face. The detective reminded me of a mythological character out of one of my literature books, of Atlas, bearing the heavy, heavy burden of others’ evil, perverted actions upon his lean shoulders.

“All that time you let me blame you for Cliff ’s death,” Donovan said. “All that time you let me think you were a monster. And you weren’t.”

I shrugged. “That’s debatable. I still killed him. And slicing off a guy’s balls isn’t exactly the action of a normal person.”