Chapter 15 · The Woman in the Cage

"Rena Grey." The woman's voice was shredded. Raw. Like she'd screamed for sixteen years and never stopped. "You got tall."

Rena's gun stayed up. Pointed at Pierce's chest. But her hand—her hand wasn't steady anymore.

The woman was on her knees in the truck bed. Silver manacles around her wrists. Another around her throat, the kind that burned if you moved wrong. Her hair was streaked gray and black, matted against her skull. Prison jumpsuit two sizes too big, hanging off a frame that looked like it'd been starved down to the bones.

But her eyes.

Rena knew those eyes. The shape. The way the left one sat a fraction higher when she was scared. She'd practiced that face in mirrors her whole life, training both eyes to stay level no matter what.

"Lydia Hale." Pierce's voice cut through the night. He stood beside the truck, one hand resting on the tailgate. Casual. Like he was showing off a prize deer. "File says she died in the Coldwater massacre. Files lie sometimes."

Rena's throat closed. No air getting past it.

Cain was beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. "You kept her in a cage for sixteen years.