Mistake two-uploading the security guard’s route to their server. And mistake three, not hiring a five-year-old to try to hack in. They’d left the door into their system wide open. It had almost been insulting. We took every precaution. Nobody saw us.

Except the girl and she was dead. He could see her face, every time he closed his eyes. Screaming, her hands sliding down the window.

Eric narrowed his eyes. The guard was inept-he should have known the girl was there. It’s not our fault. She wasn’t supposed to be there to start with.

“It’s not our fault,” he said out loud, and thought maybe if he said it another million times he might actually start to believe it. We killed her. It was the truth. The ugly truth.

But no one knows. Unless Joel tells them. Eric thought about Albert’s whispered words as he’d left the apartment. I should have hit him harder. I still can.

Eric had told him no, in no uncertain terms. But if Joel didn’t pull himself together, then what? His stomach churning, he sank into the chair next to the television.

What a mess. What a goddamned mess. All because of some stupid waterfowl.

“To hell with the birds,” he muttered, turning the television on. The anchorwoman stared into the camera and Eric bet she secretly got a charge from the excitement.

“Firefighters are in cleanup mode at this time. Damage to the condo is estimated to exceed fifty million dollars. But the true loss is in the two victims.”

Eric snapped to attention. Two? What the hell?

“Sources tell us that one of the victims was a female who was discovered on the fourth floor.” The screen switched to show the picture window where the girl had stood, screaming. A large jagged hole had been cut on the far end. “The second victim is a male in his midfifties. Police are withholding his name pending notification of his family. But our source tells us the man was shot to death.”

For a moment Eric was too stunned to do anything but stare. Shot to death? No. Albert hit him. Just hit him. None of them had guns. What the fuck was this?

He jumped when his cell phone buzzed on the table next to him. He stared at it, waiting. For what? Hell if he knew. But his heart was pounding, hard, slow and his hand moved as if through molasses. He flipped the phone open and his pounding heart stopped as his lungs froze at the text that popped up.

i know what you did.

Eric continued to stare and the phone vibrated again as a new text popped up.

need proof?

There was a link and, dread mounting, Eric clicked it. It was a video. He saw himself and the others staring up at the burning condo. Then the camera panned up to the girl in the window, her mouth open on that silent scream that still filled his mind. Then it was back on them and he was nodding at Albert as they held the struggling Joel. Albert struck Joel and they dragged him away. The video lasted only thirty seconds.

But it was enough. They’d been seen. They were fucked.

Hands shaking, Eric’s thumbs somehow hit the right keys. Who are you?

your master.

His whole body shook now, violent trembles. What do you want?

don’t worry. will tell you soon enough. will text address when im ready. be waiting. tell no one. yes or no?

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Could only stare.

A minute later another text popped up. im losing patience. you think prison will be fun? ur awful cute. dont drop the soap. yes or no?

Eric took several deep breaths, nausea mounting with each one. There was only one answer. Yes, he typed, then closed the phone. He stood, carefully placing the phone back on the table. Then he ran to the bathroom and threw up.

He sat back in his easy chair, the grin nearly splitting his face when Eric’s reply popped up. Yes. Of course he’d say yes. “Take that, rich boy. Your ass belongs to me.”

Monday, September 20, 3:30 a.m.

Austin Dent froze, one leg over his windowsill, the beam of a flashlight blinding him. His hand sliced through the air. “Stop.”

Austin climbed through the window, closing it behind him. He was in no mood for his roommate’s stupid questions, but it didn’t look like Kenny was going to let it go.

Kenny’s finger wagged, side to side. “Where were you?”

Austin climbed into bed, ignoring him, but Kenny wouldn’t leave him alone, sniffing. “What is that? Smoke? Fire?”

“Shut up.” Austin buried his face in his pillow. He could smell the smoke on his skin. The dorm staff would smell it tomorrow. They would know. Everyone would know.

It didn’t matter. Tracey was dead.

Oh God. A sob built in his chest and he fought it back, but it burst out and his shoulders shook. She’s dead. Oh God. I promised I’d take care of her and she’s dead.

The bed shifted as Kenny slid down to the floor, patting his shoulder. Austin lifted his face and stared his friend in the eye. Kenny looked scared. “What did you do?”

Austin rolled over so that his hands were free. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“Tell them what?”

“That I wasn’t here. That I came in through the window. That I smell like smoke.”

Kenny looked more scared now. “What the hell did you do?”

Austin shook his head hard. “You’re my friend. You have to help me.”

Kenny stared a minute, then pushed the window open. “Get rid of the smell.”

“They’ll smell it tomorrow.” Panic grabbed Austin ’s chest. “What do I do?”

Kenny lifted his mattress and pulled out a flattened pack of cigarettes. “Is what you did worse than getting caught smoking?”

Austin thought of Tracey, trapped. He thought of the dead guard and the man who’d shot him. Miserably, he nodded and in the darkness saw Kenny flinch.

“Smoke one,” Kenny said. “Breathe out the window or it’ll set off the sprinklers. Tomorrow morning, smoke another. They’ll think the smell comes from these. You’ll get busted for cigarettes and nobody will know.” Kenny produced the matches he’d hidden. “Give me a cigarette, I’ll light it for you. Your hands are shaking. You’ll drop the match and burn the place down.” Kenny’s brows crunched. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

No, Austin thought numbly, flinching as the flame flared. It’ll never be okay again.

Monday, September 20, 4:30 a.m.

Olivia pummeled the bag with a barrage of short jabs that left her knuckles aching, but pain was easier to deal with than the howl she’d kept restrained since walking away from Mrs. Henry Weems’s heartbreaking sobs. I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.

The grunting bodybuilder next to her paid her no attention as he did his reps, which was why she came to the gym this time of the morning. People who were here at this hour came to work out, not to be seen. There was a certain anonymity in that.

There were days she craved anonymity, especially from herself. Especially after telling another grieving family she was sorry for their loss. She’d done that a lot in the past months, walked away from a lot of sobbing parents, brothers, sisters.

We found your daughter’s remains in a bone pit. No, you can’t identify her. I’m sorry for your loss. Such inadequate bullshit. And it never ended. Your husband is dead. He was shot to death by an arsonist. I’m sorry for your loss.

Frustration surged and Olivia tore into the bag again, then collapsed against it. “I’m sorry for your goddamn loss,” she muttered, spent.

“Easy, tiger.”

Olivia shuddered at the calm voice. “What are you doing here?” she asked wearily. Paige Holden wasn’t on duty till eight. Which was precisely why Olivia had come now.

“Making sure you leave some of Jasper for everyone else,” Paige said dryly.

Olivia pushed away from the bag that took the name of Paige’s old boyfriend after each breakup. “He’s Jasper now?” Olivia had lost count of all the names Paige’s punching bags had borne in the fifteen years they’d been friends. “What did Jasper do?”