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“That doesn’t mean anything, and you know it, Red.”

“She’s hiding something. She might not be the Strangler, but I don’t fully trust her. How did she escape when no one else had?”

How did she do it? How did she? How the fuck did she?

As dawn slowly filtered in, I was running on coffee and sheer stubbornness. And anger. Of course.

“You can’t live on coffee alone,” Ryden said with a sigh, pressing a kiss to my head.

“Watch me.”

“I’ll make you something to eat.”

“I don’t want to.”

“If you die of starvation, you’re no use to Irene.” He glared at me. “You have to live to save her.”

“You’re bossy,” I grunted, typing Trish’s name over and over again. I had done this once before, and found nothing much. Nothing suspicious.

I still found nothing.

Without her last name, I couldn’t do it.

“Ryden…”

“What?”

“Can you find me Trish’s last name?”

He nodded.

“First, I’m going to buy you something to eat,” he said, slamming the refrigerator door shut. “There’s nothing in the refrigerator. Once I’m done feeding you, I’ll find everything else you want.”

“Hey,” I called.

“Yes?” He looked up.

“I love you.”

His laughter was soft when he left.

“I love you too.”

36

BURDEN OF PROOF

RYDEN

With enough groceries to last us the week piled in my cart, I called Reah.

“It’s morning. Sinclair, are you lost? You never call me in the morning.”

“Find me something about Trish. She’s one of the artists at Art and Apostles. That is all I have.”

There was a pause, then a series of taps and grunts.

“Trish Adams. She was an orphan. Never adopted.” Rhea hummed. “Oh, she’s originally from Detroit, and listen, didn’t you once ask me to look up someone from that orphanage? The sunflower one? She grew up there.”