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Then Logan shoves his softening dick back into his jeans, drags his zipper up with a sharp metallic rasp, and wipes a smear of sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist.
A bright, manic grin stretches his cheeks.
“Thanks for the show, kids.”
He turns around and walks down the row, whistling a cheerful, upbeat tune, his boots crunching on the gravel, the melody fading into the noise of the waking carnival lot.
Sloane sags against the metal wall, her forehead resting on the cool steel. She turns her head, looking at me over her shoulder. Her pale blonde hair sticks to her sweat-slicked cheek. The impenetrable ice in her eyes is completely melted, replaced by a chaotic, exhausted heat.
I pull out of her with a wet pop, then I drag my zipper up, securing my denim.
My lips stretch into a grin.
“Back to the trailer for round two?”
16
SLOANE
Aweek. Seven days since I laid my nightmares bare. Seven days of packing down the carnival and driving inland, leaving the coastal winds behind for the suffocating, pine-heavy humidity of the Bible Belt.
Back in what Cole calls the meeting trailer, Silas sits at the head of the aluminum table. The harsh blue light of his laptop screen carves sharp shadows across his cheekbones. He hits the enter key, and a high-resolution photograph projects onto the flat-screen monitor mounted on the far wall.
Raymond.
The air leaves my lungs in a violent rush.
He looks older. His gray-streaked hair boasts an expensive cut. The tailored suit fits his broad shoulders perfectly. He stands behind a mahogany podium, a microphone angled toward his mouth, offering the camera a practiced, benevolent smile. The flat, dead emptiness in his eyes remains exactly the same.
A strong, calloused hand wraps around my thigh beneath the table. Cole. His thumb caresses my thigh in soothing circles, and the contact anchors me to the metal folding chair.
“Raymond Turner,” Silas announces. The illusionist doesn’t look at the screen, his blue eyes pinned to the scrolling data on his monitor. “Currently sitting as the regional director for a network of faith-based youth outreach programs across the South. Pillar of the community. Golfs on Tuesdays. Attends a megachurch in a Nashville suburb every Sunday. Owns a six-bedroom estate behind two security gates.”
“A youth outreach program,” Jules repeats from the corner booth. She crosses her long, leather-clad legs, her dark eyes flashing with pure disgust. “They always hide in plain sight.”
“Access to vulnerable kids,” Jonah rumbles. The massive strongman crosses his arms, the fabric of his shirt straining across his biceps. “Perfect cover.”
I stare at the monitor. The edges of my vision blur.
“What about my mother?” I ask. My voice sounds detached. Clinical.
Silas stops typing. He exchanges a brief, loaded glance with Elias. The ringmaster leans on his cane, his expression carved from marble.
“Evelyn Turner passed away six years ago,” Silas answers, his voice not unkind. He taps a key and a scanned document replaces Raymond’s face. A county death certificate. “Cause of death is listed as an overdose. Prescription sleeping pills. The medical examiner ruled it a suicide.”
A cold, heavy block of ice drops straight into my stomach.
I shake my head. “No.”
Cole’s grip on my thigh tightens. “Sloane.”
“She didn’t kill herself.” I plant both hands flat on the aluminum table. “My mother was devout. Suffocatingly religious. She believed suicide was a mortal sin that guaranteed a one-way ticket to hell. She endured years of his abuse because her church told her divorce was a failure before God. She would never take her own life. It was him. He did it.”
The silence in the trailer turns lethal.
I know Raymond murdered her. He fed her those pills, arranged the scene, and walked away a grieving widower. She knew his secrets. She knew what he did to me, even if she refused to acknowledge it out loud. She became a liability, and he erased her.
Cole shifts in his seat. The chaotic, teasing energy he carries vanishes. His eyes lock onto the projected death certificate, burning with a dark, homicidal fire. Then he slides his hand from my thigh, reaching up to ghost his knuckles along the line of my jaw.
