“Oliver, I’m sorry that—”

He interrupts me. “You used to call me ‘Ollie.’ I like that much better than Oliver.”

I swallow uncomfortably.

“Everybody called you that,” I say.

“But it sounded so beautiful when you said it . . .”

He’s pulling me closer against his body. I try to keep the space between us, but it’s like swimming against the tide. He’s so much stronger than me.

He pulls me right up against his chest so I have to crane my neck to look up at him.

“Say it,” he orders. “Call me Ollie.”

“Okay . . . Ollie . . .” I say.

“Perfect,” he sighs.

He bends down his head to kiss me.

His lips feel thick and rubbery against mine. They’re too wet, and that metallic note is in his saliva as well.

I can’t do it. I can’t kiss him.

I shove him away from me, wiping my mouth on the back of my arm atavistically.

Oliver folds his arms over his broad chest, frowning.

“Why do you always have to be so difficult?” he says. “I know you’re miserable with the Griffins. I took you away from that. I brought you here instead, to the most beautiful place in the state. Look at that view!”

He gestures out the window to the pale, moonlit sand, and the dark water beyond.

“You won’t kiss me, but you kiss him, don’t you?” he says, eyes narrowed. “You’ve probably fucked him, too. Haven’t you? HAVEN’T YOU?”

I know it’s only going to make him angrier, but there’s no point lying about it.

“We’re married,” I remind him.

“But you don’t love him,” Oliver says, eyes gleaming. “Say you don’t love him.”

I should just go along with it. The hammer is still laying on the counter, only a couple of feet away. Oliver could snatch it up again any moment. He could bring it down on my skull with the same fury he applied to the ring.

I should say whatever he wants. Do whatever he wants. I never told Callum I loved him. It shouldn’t be hard to say that I don’t.

I open my mouth. But nothing comes out.

“No,” Oliver says, shaking his head slowly. “No, that’s not true. You don’t love him. You only married him because you had to. You don’t care about him, not really.”

I press my lips together hard.

I’m thinking about Callum pushing me back against the leather seats and putting his face between my thighs in the back of the town car. I’m thinking about how he wrapped his arms around me and jumped down in that pipe without hesitation when the Butcher’s men had their guns pointed at us. I’m thinking how he said we should work together every day. And how he took my hand at dinner last night.

“Actually . . .” I say slowly. “I do. I do love him.”

“NO, YOU DON’T!” Oliver roars.

He backhands me across the face, knocking me to the floor. It’s like being swiped by a bear paw. There’s so much force behind it that my whole body goes limp, and I barely catch myself before I hit the floor.

I can taste iron in my mouth. My ears are ringing.

I spit a little blood out on the floor.

“Just take me home,” I mutter. “You’re not going to get what you want.”

“You’re not going home,” he says flatly. “You’re all the same. You, my father, fucking Callum Griffin . . . you think you can just give somebody something and let them have it and use it and believe it’s theirs forever. Then you rip it out of their hands again, just because you feel like it. Well, that’s not happening.”

Oliver goes back to his tool bag and pulls out a coiled rope.

I don’t think that’s a tool bag, not really. Because why the fuck does he have rope in it?

I think Oliver’s been planning much more than a home repair for quite a while now.

I try to run, but I can barely stand. It’s easy for Oliver to truss me up like a chicken, and stuff a rag in my mouth.

He crouches down in front of me, his face inches from mine.

“Here’s what you have to understand, Aida,” he says, his voice low and crooning. “I can’t make you be mine. But I can stop you from belonging to anyone else.”

I mutter something around the gag.

“What?” Oliver says.

I say it again, no louder than before.

Oliver leans in even closer.

I rear my head back and smash my forehead into his nose, as hard as I can.

“Oww, FUCK!” Oliver howls, cupping his hand over his nose as blood pours through his fingers. “Fuck, Aida, you BITCH!”

Oliver hits me again. This time when I topple over, I sink right through the floor into thick, quiet, darkness.

28

Callum

I don’t have the exact address for the Castles’ cabin, but I know it’s outside of Chesterton, and I know its rough position to the lake. So, I’m thinking I’ll be able to spot it, based off the color and general location.

Unfortunately, there are a fuck ton of little blue beach houses along this stretch of the lake. Plus, it’s getting dark and there aren’t that many streetlights along this route. I can barely tell which houses are blue, and which are gray or green.

I’m looking for Oliver’s Maserati, but I can’t count on that since he might have been driving something else.

I can at least bypass the places that are lit up with noise and laughter and partygoers—wherever Aida is, the house will quiet and relatively secluded, I’m sure of it.

I roll down the window to try to get a better look at some of the cabins that are set back from the road, half-hidden in trees.

Some of the driveways are so faint I can barely see them. In fact, I almost pass one by, failing to see the faint tracks through the grass. Until I smell a hint of smoke.

It’s so mild that I hardly know what scent I caught. Then I feel the automatic reaction—the hair on the back of my neck standing up and my heart starting to race. It’s a primal, terrifying smell. A warning of danger.

I slam on the brakes, whipping the wheel to the left. I follow the long, winding path toward a double stand of trees. Between those trees sits a small blue beach house that I’ve seen once before in a battered photograph.

Sure enough, Oliver’s silver Maserati is parked alongside the house. The trunk stands open.

I fucking knew it.

I stop my car, hoping Oliver hasn’t already heard the engine or seen me driving up the road. I slip out of the driver’s side and crouch down behind the car, trying to peer around at the house.

I send a quick text to Aida’s brothers. I’m an hour outside Chicago. They won’t be getting here anytime soon.

I can smell smoke for certain now. In fact, over the sound of the wind in the trees, I think I hear the crackling wood burning. All the lights are off, but an alarming orange glow emanates from the back of the house.

Fuck it, I can’t wait. If Aida’s in there, I have to get her out now.

I run toward the house, trying to stay low. I’ve got my Beretta with me and I draw it. I’m leery of actually using it in the dark, without knowing where Aida is. Even a stray bullet through a wall could accidentally hit her.