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“Facial comparison isn’t proof,” I tell him. “But Gage…”

He pushes back from the table. “Current address.”

As I predicted. “No.”

His eyes meet mine, his jaw setting. “Jubilee.”

“No. I knew this conversation was coming, which is why I am not giving you the address until we decide what we’re doing together.”

“This man may have taken my brother.”

“And I spent two weeks finding him. So congratulations, we’re both involved.”

He gets up. And walks toward the window. His hands brace against the frame. For one terrifying second, he isn’t here anymore. His eyes are open, but they’re seeing Halloween seventeen years ago.

I stand slowly. “Gage.” Nothing. I move closer—not touching yet.

“Three.” His eyelids flicker. “Fifty-nine. Seven. Eighty-three.” His shoulders move with one hard breath. Finally, he faces me. “Eleven.”

I hold out my hand. “Come back.” His fingers close around mine like I’m the only fixed point left in the room. “I’m here,” I whisper.

A notification chimes from the security panel. I glance toward it. “It’s the gate.”

Gage checks the camera feed. “Trick-or-treaters have officially arrived,” he confirms.

Ten minutes later, we’re beneath the entrance lights with enough candy, mini pastries, and cat-shaped cookies to supply a small village. Security lets families through in groups. Witch. Spider-Man. Inflatable dinosaur.

Then Batman.

Gage turns to stone.

The boy can’t be older than ten. Holding out an orange plastic pumpkin, he chants, “Trick or treat! Rawr!”

Somehow, Gage crouches, his voice steady, “Cool costume.”

The boy lights up. “My mom made part of it!”

My chest caves in. Gage puts three pieces of candy into his bucket. “Looks awesome.”

“Thanks!”

Gage finishes distributing the remaining candy and pastries, smiles for the cameras, and makes small talk with the parents. A half hour later, the last family is gone, and I’m on the porch fighting faux cobwebs while regretting every decoration that isn’t a twinkle light. They don’t attack you.

“I need a minute.” Gage kisses my forehead. “Go save the kitties from their costumes. I’m going to check on the chickens.”

Fifteen minutes later, the cats are recovering from their trauma with extra treats. And I’m sitting at the table, pretending to examine Heller’s records when suspicion begins itching under my skin. I don’t hear the chickens. If Gage was checking on them…

I shove my feet into boots and hurry outside, crossing the yard at a run. The hens grumble sleepily when I enter, feathers rustling in the dim light as the familiar smells of cedar shavings, grain, and warm poultry hit me.

The workbench seems normal except for one open drawer. I pull it farther out. Dark padded lining, molded around several very significant missing shapes. Of course. Why wouldn’t my serial-killer boyfriend keep emergency murder supplies beside the chickens?

“Goddammit, Gage.”

I hurry to the driveway. His SUV is still here. Motorcycle gone.

I call. Straight to voicemail. “Ugh!”

Then I remember the location-sharing shortcut. There he is. A blue dot moving northwest.