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Rio looks at me, his eyes dark, his jaw set.

“You said we trust facts,” he reminds me. “Right now, the facts say Morales drugged her, then took blood. When she woke up she freaked out and ran.”

He nods toward the screen, where Lana’s frozen image still lunges toward freedom.

“We’re giving her tonight,” he says. “Tomorrow, we’ll fix it. Tomorrow, we’ll bring her back.”

I let my gaze track over Lana’s paused body one more time. Her calves tense. Her fingers splay. Her spine curves forward. Every inch of her shouts flight.

“You texted her?” I ask, though I know he already has.

“I did.” He lifts the cell. On the screen, his message glows. ‘Lana. Take tonight off. Breathe. We’ll talk tomorrow. We need you for Alessio’s hospital release. Rio.’

“She’ll see it,” he says, sounding sure. “She’ll calm down. She’ll remember who we are to her.”

I tilt my head slightly. “Who are we to her, Rio?”

He looks at me then, really looks, and for a fraction of a second the rage drains out of his face. What’s left behind is raw and unguarded.

“Everything,” he answers.

“Very well.” I say at last. “But tomorrow we’ll bring her back. One way or another.”

He nods once, a hard dip of his chin. “Tomorrow.”

I force myself to look away from the screen, from Lana’s ghost in pixels, and instead back to the control panel. I rewind the footage one more time, then save a copy to a protected drive.

I turn back to the screens and watch the alley again, over and over, Lana’s body bursting through that door, running.

Something’s wrong. Still, for tonight, I let Rio’s version stand.

CHAPTER 4

LANA

The ceiling moves.

Not much. Just enough for the gray slab above me to roll sideways, then glide back, slow and smooth. I stare up at the ceiling while it does its lazy little slide. Concrete. A hairline crack runs across it, dead straight, a thin vein in a dead thing.

I laugh.

The sound bounces off the walls, bright and wrong in this tiny box. It comes back to me twice, echo on echo, until it sounds like someone else is laughing in here as well.

“Good sign,” I tell the ceiling. “Always a good sign when the room moves first.”

My tongue feels thick. I roll it across my teeth, taste metal, chalk and sour alcohol. My lips tingle. My fingers do, too.

I lift my hands to check them.

Heavy cuffs bite into my wrists, chain clinking when I move. Steel rings connect to a bolt in the wall. I can lift my hands a little, just enough to touch my own face, but not more. Ankles strapped down as well, wide bands of leather digging into my skin, attached to another bolt halfway along the floor.

Spread out, pinned. Like a specimen.

I giggle again. “You always wanted me pinned, didn’t you, Doc?”

I let my head roll sideways. The walls sit close, concrete poured rough and ugly. One drain hole in the floor, old rust halo around the grate. A bucket in the corner. A metal shelf under my spine, just wide enough for my body, no mattress, no pillow.

My skin hums. Tiny things crawl under it. Ants. Excited little legs running through my veins. Familiar. Horrible. Hot. So good.