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A building’s layout.

It took him several minutes to appreciate the significance of the schematics.

The Hartford courthouse.

Including the lower levels where prisoners were held before their court appearances.

Not public areas.

Restricted access.

Ronan stared at the pages he’d spread across the kitchen counter.

A cold knot formed in his stomach.

Felicity was meticulous. Methodical. She didn’t waste time gathering information she didn’t intend to use.

And suddenly a dozen small things clicked into place.

The distance she’d kept between herself and Raegan.

The certainty that she would be leaving Clearbrook.

The way she’d spoken about Vasily.

The way she’d spoken about hell.

“No,” he muttered.

Because the idea taking shape in his head was one he desperately didn’t want to believe.

And yet he couldn’t seem to think of another explanation.

Because it was a road he’d gone down himself.

After everything he’d learned about Vasily, he’d spent time imagining all the ways the bastard could die.

In the end, he’d walked away from those thoughts. Chosen to trust the law. To let Vasily rot in a cell for the rest of his life while he kept himself out of one.

But Felicity had far more reason to hate the man than he ever would.

And then there was Raegan.

And Jack.

The family she’d spent years safeguarding from the shadows.

Ronan’s stomach dropped.

Because, for the first time, all the pieces fit together.

He knew exactly what Felicity was planning.

And he had no idea how to change her mind.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuuuck.”

He dragged an unsteady hand through his hair and paced the kitchen.