I don’t know what else to do, though.

Other than Henry, nothing in my life really makes me happy.

God, if only I hadn’t ruined things with Dante . . .

I thought I caught him looking at me when we walked down the hallway. I thought his eyes had that same look in them that they used to—hungry and intent.

But then I blinked, and he was just staring down the hall again, refusing to meet my eyes.

As I wait, I hear voices down at the end of the hall. I’m about to duck inside the master to warn Dante, but I can hear that the two people are moving in the opposite direction, across to the far wing of the house.

My hallway and theirs form a T-shape. As the figures cross the intersection of the two points, I see Roland Kenwood. I looked up his picture online before we came. He’s medium height, lean, with a long, tanned face, an aristocratic nose, and a shock of gray hair. In the photos for his publishing house, he’s dressed in dark suits with monochromatic dress shirts beneath. Right now, he’s wearing a lime-green shirt unbuttoned to the navel, pool shorts, and sandals. He’s accompanied by a young woman. A very young woman—maybe even a girl. She barely comes up to his shoulder, and she’s wearing a Shirley Temple dress, with her hair in two blonde plaits over her shoulders, the ends tied with bows.

I can’t see the girl’s face because she’s looking up at Kenwood as they pass. But I hear her childish giggle.

My skin crawls. They’re walking quickly—if I don’t move fast, they’ll disappear into this rabbit warren of a house.

I poke my head into the master, looking for Dante. The suite is too big and too dark for me to see much of anything.

“Dante?” I hiss.

There’s no answer.

I don’t have time to find him. I run down the hall as quietly as I can, looking to see where Kenwood went.

As I turn left at the T, I can just see the hem of the girl’s skirt disappearing into the last doorway on the right. I hurry after her, worried what Kenwood plans to do once he gets her alone.

By the time I get to the end of the hall, the door is closed. I press my ear against the wood, unable to hear anything on the other side. I know I’m not going to be able to go inside without being spotted, but I don’t have any choice. That girl could be Henry’s age.

So I grab the knob and turn it, stepping into the brightly lit room.

It’s completely empty.

I see a couple of couches, a big-screen TV, and a full bar, stocked with liquor and snacks. But nothing else. No people.

I don’t understand. This is the only door in and out of the room. I saw Kenwood go in with the little girl. And nobody came out.

Then, very quietly, so quiet I almost miss it, I hear a giggle.

It’s coming from the far wall.

I cross the carpet, to what looks like a ten-foot-tall silkscreen of Andy Warhol’s “Mao.” I listen closely. Silence. And then . . . that giggle again. Coming from behind the painting.

I grab the frame. The painting swings away from the wall on a hinge. Behind is another room.

I step over the ledge into the space behind. The painting swings back in place, closing me in.

This room is much larger. The padded walls are upholstered in red velvet, as is the ceiling. The carpet is so thick my feet sink into it. I can’t help but think that all of this is designed to block any sound escaping.

The room is so dim that the furniture seems to loom up out of nowhere, like rock formations obscured by fog. It doesn’t help that the furniture is all extraordinarily odd—even by Kenwood’s standards. In fact, I can’t tell what half of it is. I see a leather-covered bench with two wings on either side. Then something that looks like a table, with a soft padded top, and metal rings fixed all around the edges. A giant birdcage, at least six feet tall, with a perch that looks like a playground swing. Then some kind of rig that looks like exercise equipment, with several different straps and loops and . . .

I blush as I realize I’m looking at fetish equipment. All the furniture serves a sexual purpose—some obvious, now that I realize the theme, and others still a mystery to me.

I hear a low murmur from the far side of the room. This time the voice is male—Kenwood.

I hurry over, not even trying to be quiet. Now that I know I’m in a sex dungeon, I’m definitely going to grab that girl and get out of here.

Kenwood is sitting on a couch set against the opposite wall. His arms are stretched out along the cushions, and his head is thrown back, eyes closed.

The girl kneels between his spread legs, her head bobbing up and down.

Kenwood groans. He grabs the back of her head and pushes her face down on his cock.

“Stop!” I scream, rushing forward.

Kenwood sits up, startled and annoyed.

The girl turns around, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

Even in the dim light, her face startles me. I see big, innocent eyes, thickly framed with false lashes. Bright spots of blush on her cheeks. But wrinkles line the corners of her eyes and the edges of her mouth, made more obvious by her thick makeup. She’s not a child at all—just dressed like one. She’s older than me, by quite a few years.

She stands up. She must be less than five feet tall. Her expression is curious and malicious. With the bleached pigtails and the frilly dress, she looks like a demonic doll.

Kenwood is looking at me, too. Now that his surprise has passed, a little smirk turns up the corners of his mouth. Without breaking eye contact, he tucks his wet penis back into his shorts.

“Simone Solomon,” he says. “How nice of you to join us. I assume you’re not familiar with my assistant, Millie.”

“Nice to meet you,” Millie giggles.

Her voice is high-pitched and deliberately childish. It makes my stomach roll, as does the way she stands—hands clasped behind her back and head tilted to the side.

“Now, what can I do for you?” Kenwood says. “I assume you have a reason for crashing my party and snooping through my house?”

My eyes dart between Kenwood and his assistant. They’re both smirking at me, well aware of what I thought I was witnessing when I interrupted them.

“I—I . . .”

“Spit it out,” Kenwood says. Then, with a sly glance at Millie, he says, “Or swallow. I like it better that way.”

“Did you hire someone to kill my father?” I demand.

Kenwood snorts. “You think I hired that sniper?”

I did. Up until I saw the arrogant look on his face. Now I’m less sure.

“Yes . . .” I say hesitantly.

“Why is that?”

“Because the Freedom Foundation gathered all that information on your private parties. The FBI opened an investigation. You almost got arrested . . .”

Kenwood’s face darkens. He doesn’t like me mentioning any of that. It’s obviously a hated memory for him.

“I wasn’t arrested though, was I?” he hisses.

“No,” I say, refusing to drop his gaze. “But you might be soon.”

“Is that what he told you?” Kenwood jeers. “Your father?”

I’m confused. I don’t understand what he’s getting at.

“Yes,” I say. “He thinks you’re the most likely person to want him dead.”

“Why would I?” Kenwood spits. “I’ve kept up my end of the deal.”