Chapter 22 · The Dead Man's Recording

"He knew you'd come for me."

Emma stood in the doorway of Mark's office, holding something small and silver. A voice recorder. Her knuckles were white around it.

Mark looked up from the bullet he'd been turning over in his hand—the one Kyle had put in his shoulder sixteen hours ago. The stitches pulled when he moved. He didn't move.

"Your husband," he said.

"My husband." She stepped inside and shut the door. Locked it. "He left this in our safety deposit box. I opened it this morning."

"And you came straight here."

"Where else would I go?" Her voice was flat. Too flat. The kind of calm that came right before someone started breaking things. "The police think I'm crazy. Lyla won't return my calls. You're the only one who knows Kyle's real."

Mark set the bullet down on his desk. It rolled slightly, stopped against a coffee mug. "What's on the recording?"

Emma crossed the room. She moved like she hadn't slept. Maybe she hadn't. Her hair was pulled back too tight, and there was a bruise on her wrist he hadn't seen before. New. Fresh.

"Where'd you get that?" He nodded at her wrist.

She glanced down.