“So, chicken?” he asks, pulling a rice steamer out of the cupboard.

“Better than beef.”

“Fish?”

“It’s okay as long as it’s not super fishy. Some of it smells really bad,” I say, holding my nose.

“What about other seafood—shellfish and whatever?”

“Love scallops and shrimp. Not a huge fan of clams.”

“Abalone?”

“What’s abalone?”

“It’s a shellfish.”

“Never had it.”

“It’s my favorite, but you don’t see it around much. Sometimes in restaurants.” His eyes seem to lose focus for a second. “My sister and I used to dive for them with our dad when we were kids.”

“In Texas?” I ask, confused. “That sounds like something that would require an ocean.”

He focuses back on my face. “No. Here . . . or up north really, near Mendocino.” He clears his throat and turns to the sink, pouring himself a glass of ice water. “You want a beer with dinner? Or wine?”

There’s obviously more to that story, but from the way he not-so-smoothly changed the subject, it’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it. I jiggle my Coke can. “I’m good.”

“Holy macaroni,” a voice says from near the elevator. I turn and find Cooper standing there with Dr. Martin, his eyes wide. They shift to Blake. “You couldn’t have picked a whole bathing suit?”

Blake shakes his head, then stands and moves to the doctor, holding out his hand. “Thanks for coming, Doc. She seems to be doing pretty well, but see what you think.”

Dr. Martin shakes Blake’s hand then smiles at me. “Is this true, Samantha? How’s that arm?”

“It’s fine. Just a little sore here and there if I twist it or move too fast.”

He motions for me to sit on the sofa and I do, then he takes my arm and moves it. “That hurt?”

I shake my head.

“How about this?” he asks, lifting it over my head.

“No. It’s good.”

He sits on the coffee table in front of me and pulls out a penlight. He flashes it in my eyes. “Your head’s been okay? No blurred vision?”

“Nope.”

“Headaches?”

My eyes flick to Blake, who’s pulled himself up onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “Only the ones he gives me.”

Dr. Martin huffs a laugh through his nose, and fingers the Steri-Strips on my face. “Usually we just wait for these to fall off, but I can remove them if you’d like.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He moves to the kitchen and washes his hands, then sits again and gently pulls the tape off my face. “This is barely going to leave a scar. You’re lucky.”

“Not according to Jonathan,” I say.

He smiles. “Jonathan went home yesterday, in case you’re wondering. He’s doing fine.”

Thank God. “I want to see him.”

Blake tips his head in a warning. “We’ll talk about this later.”

I glare at him. “I want to talk about it now. My best friend got shot at because you put me in danger. I think the least you can do is let me see him to be sure he’s okay.”

“This isn’t forever, Jezebel,” Cooper says, giving me a pointed look, and I know he doesn’t want to say too much in front of the doctor.

“Well, it sure as hell feels like it,” I grumble.

The doctor finishes up with me, and Cooper sees him out. He’s back a few minutes later with his iPad and a folder. “We need to go back over what happened after you saw Weber in Arroyo’s office,” he says.

I cross my arms and settle back into the cushions. “After you let me see Jonathan.”

“So, you’re harboring a death wish,” Cooper says, his frown deepening.

“I just want to know he’s okay.”

“He’s fine, Sam,” Blake says, sliding off his stool.

I drop my face into my hands and feel them shake. I’ve never felt so trapped. “I’m going insane in this cage,” I mutter into my palms.

For a long time the room is silent except for the gentle clank of the lid on the simmering pot on the stove. When I lift my face, Blake and Cooper are staring each other down, as if having some silent argument.

Cooper settles onto the coffee table. “We’re not coming up with the physical evidence we need in Arroyo’s office,” he says, fixing me in his serious gaze. “Without that, all we have is your testimony, and it might not be enough. Any little thing you can think of might be important.”

I toss up my hands. “So, because you guys suck at your jobs, you’re hoping I can remember Ben pulling out a gun and shooting that guy?”

“This will all be for nothing if Arroyo walks,” Blake pushes.

Something inside me snaps at his irritated tone. “Hmm . . . let me think. What do I remember from that night . . . ?” I say, tapping my temple. “Oh yeah! I remember seeing Ben kill that guy while Special Agent Montgomery, here, was copping a feel inside my vest and grinding his hard-on against my ass.” I smile sweetly at Cooper. “Is that what you were looking for?”

Cooper hangs his head in defeat.

I hate feeling so helpless. I hate that I have no control over my life. And more than anything, I hate Blake for putting me in this position.

There’s a shallow sense of satisfaction when he blows out an agitated sigh and rolls his eyes.

It seems the only thing I can control is Blake’s frustration level, so from this moment forward, I pledge to channel all of my energy into finding creative ways to make his life miserable.

So far it’s going pretty well.

“I WANT TO go home,” I say for the thousandth time, swirling my glass of wine and staring into the vortex. I’ve been trapped here for two weeks, and I don’t know how much more I can take.

Blake turns from the stove, where he’s sautéing shrimp in butter, and gives me a sharp look. He’s been more irritable the last few days, and I hope I’m finally starting to get under his skin as bad as he’s under mine. “You know that can’t happen.”

“If you keep me here much longer, you are the one whose life will be in danger,” I say with a tip of my head at the knife block.

His jaw clenches the way it does when he’s getting frustrated. “My job is to—”

“Keep me safe,” I cut in. “I know. But I swear to God, I’m going to stab you in your sleep if I have to stay in this cage for the next six months.”

He takes the two steps across the floor to the other side of the island and leans heavily against it, his gaze fixed on me. “Jonathan is missing, Sam.”

Spots flash in my eyes as all the blood drains out of my head. “What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to tell you. But you need to understand. This is serious. As long as there’s any chance he’ll be cleared, Arroyo in jail barely slows down his network. But he knows they’ll desert like rats on a sinking ship if he’s convicted. He’ll do whatever it takes, and right now his focus seems to be on keeping you quiet. Until he’s neutralized, we have no choice but to keep you here.”

I can’t breathe. “Where is Jonathan?”

“We don’t know.”

My mind spins, trying to find a rational answer. “He plays down in L.A. a lot. He’s probably down there on a gig.”

“I’m sure it’s something like that.” He says it, but I can tell by the way his brow furrows that he doesn’t believe it.

“Have you talked to Ginger?”

His lips press into a line. “She doesn’t know where he is.”

Something kicks hard in my stomach. “I want to talk to her.”

“I’m sorry, Sam. I can’t let you do that.”

I jump off my stool and level him with a glare. “I want to talk to her.”

He just looks at me.

I spin in a circle, tugging on fistfuls of my hair as a black haze of panic settles over me and pounds in my throat like a second heart. “I have to help my friend,” I choke out on the edge of a sob.

When I look back at him, I see sympathy in his eyes, but the rest of his face is set in determined stone. He’s not budging.

I turn for my room as tears start to track down my face.

The sun is setting over the bay, crimson and purple streaks in the sky, as the lights of San Francisco begin to shimmer on the water. I sink into the armchair near my door and draw my knees to my chest, pressing my face into them. Did Ben do something to Jonathan? Is he okay?