29. TWENTY-NINE

TWENTY-NINE

I guess I didn't say or do the right things.

I've been here for two nights—not that it matters. Nothing matters anymore. I'm numb to everything happening around me. All I can think about—the only thing I feel—is the excruciating pain in my chest cavity. Each breath I draw hurts. Each reminds me that I'll never breathe Luca in again, that I'll never know what it feels like to curl up beside Declan and burrow into that spot just under his chin. I could stay here forever in this cage, and it wouldn't make a difference.

What am I going to do if they let me out except mourn my loss, attend my own funeral in my head over and over again like I've been doing? That version of me who came alive over the last few weeks—the one who fell in love, the one who was better than just okay—died in a dirty, bloodstained field alone. And now, all I can do is stare at the wall while I bury myself in my own sorrow, cycling through the last couple of months over and over in my mind, trying to make sense of it all.

They got you. They never loved you. You fell for it like the fucking idiot you've always been.

It was a mistake. They'll be back for you. You'll take that vacation—you and Luca will have your secret. And you'll never be alone, just like Declan promised.

It's the ultimate con. And here you are—alone in a jail cell, ready to die. Declan's very favorite thing, next only to stabbing women until their torsos are torn to ribbons. You told him he'd never get that from you, and he said, 'Watch me.'

Luca is alive.

Luca is dead.

Brady and Rhett are definitely dead.

They'll send someone for me soon.

I'm going to rot away in here for the rest of my life.

Rinse and repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

Someone slides a tray with breakfast into my cell. That means they'll start in on me again soon. They haven't ever let me rest for this long. Even if they aren't interrogating me, they leave me there in that room, hoping it'll drive me insane.

But I've been crazy for a very long time. And now, I'm something else—I'm broken—because Declan told me we were the same, and they woke up something inside of me that had been sleeping for a long time and showed me what my life could look like if I were loved.

If I were free.

And now, I'd do anything to put it back to sleep.

The sheer agony is overwhelming. I thought I knew pain. I thought I knew it like an old friend or like the bridges of the songs I used to scream to get through my loneliest days. I never even minded it because before I knew love, it was the only thing I had to remind me I was still alive. I'd lie in bed at night and flip through the mental Rolodex of my worst memories and think, You feel that? You're human. See how it hurts?

But god, I didn't know. I didn't know how it could hurt.

They found four bodies on the property. They demanded to know what I knew about them, but I insisted that I barely knew any of these people—that I just met them, and I'd never seen them violent.

I told them met a girl named Layla briefly, but I don't remember her. I don't know anything about anyone named Heidi, and I've never seen her sister.

They tell me that River and Hazel told them everything, that they got to go home, and I could go home, too, if I'd just tell the truth like they did.

But I don't believe them. There is no version of the truth River and Hazel could tell them that would have them promising to send me home. And they'd never do it.

"All we want is the truth," they say over and over again. "Tell us what the De Rossi brothers did to those girls. Tell us who the men in the masks were."

"I don't know," I've told them repeatedly. "I don't know what happened to any of those people, I didn't know we were going to an airport until we were already there. I was never told where the plane was going. I don't know who the men in the masks were. I'd never seen them before, and they never even spoke."

How long can they just keep me here? I know there are laws about this.

I get off the bed and grab the piece of dry, white bread toast from the tray, forcing it down. I know I need to eat; I know I'm hungry, but it's almost impossible to chew and swallow food when it's taking all of my energy just to continue existing against my own will.

"Townsend, show me your hands."

Hunched over the tray on my bunk, I turn and face the female officer, holding my hands up next to my head.

"Drop it," she says.

"Um…it's toast. You gave it to me."

"Drop it anyway and walk slowly to the door with your hands out in front of you."

But I know this game already. I walk to the door and wait for her to cuff me through the bars, and then she opens it and takes me back to the interrogation room.

Except this time, there's a man in a jacket with FBI written across the front waiting for me.

"Teagan Townsend," he says. "I'm Agent Morris. And I need you to tell me what you know about the De Rossis and their association with The Order of the Red Hand."

"The fucking what?" I ask. "What's that? Another band or something?"

"She's got a filthy mouth. I should have warned you," the female cop says. "Wasn't raised right—that's for sure."

"No," he says. "It's an underground society of sorts that's been branded as a cult. They're mainly operational in Europe, but we've seen evidence of an active chapter here in the Western U.S. We think the De Rossis are involved, and we think you know they were involved."

"Involved in what, exactly?"

"Human trafficking, human sacrifice, and cannibalism."

I scoff. "No. They weren't involved in anything like that. They drank blood sometimes. Liked a little blood with sex. It was just…they were trying to create an aesthetic. They aren't fucking cannibals."

"I'm going to show you some photos, and you tell me if any of these people look familiar to you."

I shrug. "Okay."

One by one, he sets about eight photos of different men in front of me. All of them have a similar look—an air of wealth and power. But not a single one looks familiar.

"I've never seen any of these douchebags in my fucking life," I tell him honestly.

At this point, I'm just trying to bother the female officer with my language. It's the only source of amusement I have.

"What can you tell me about Layla? Why did Declan kill her?"

"He didn't."

"Then what happened to her?"

"I don't know."

"Then how do you know he didn't kill her?"

"Look—I've been through all of this with them already. I'm sure they took notes. I barely knew Layla. We interacted a couple of times; she was quiet. From what I saw, Declan really cared about her. But I barely knew them, either. I was just there for the parties."

"Is that why you carved their initials into your chest?" he asks.

"Everyone was doing it," I say. "I just wanted attention."

"Several tabloids have identified you as Luca De Rossi's girlfriend. He posted pictures of the two of you together on his social media."

I shrug. "I was sleeping with him. I was sleeping with both of them, to be honest."

Visibly frustrated, the man sighs before laying his palms down on the table. "Teagan, you don't have to protect them. In fact, you can't protect them. These men were dangerous, violent criminals who abused women. Did they hurt you, too? Did they threaten you? We can keep you safe, but only if you help us."

I wonder if he actually believes that. I haven't forgotten what Declan told me—that even he couldn't save me from the…what did this guy call them? The Red Hands? Hand? If Declan couldn't keep me safe, this guy certainly can't.

"I don't know anything," I say. "Just like I've told them about a hundred times now. I don't need protection from them—they're fucking musicians, and they were good to me." Tearing up, I point to the officer by the door. "They're the murderers! They killed my friends. Are you going to do anything about that while you're here? They shot them for no fucking reason . Brady and Rhett didn't do anything! Brady didn't even like any of it. He just wanted to go live a quiet life. He wanted to have kids and send them to fucking private school."

"Your friends killed two police officers!" the officer by the door shouts.

"Those people were not our fucking friends!"

Agent Morris leans in, his tone softening as he tries a new tactic. "I'm so sorry for your loss, Teagan. Your friends never should have had to die like that. What happened was a tragedy."

"They didn't have to!"

"And you're in pain—I can see that. I can tell you're lying about the nature of your relationship with them, too. Knowing when people are lying is my job, so let me help you. Brady Kim was manipulated by those men, just like you were. Declan De Rossi doesn't care about you; if he did, he wouldn't have risked your life only to slam that door in your face and leave you to deal with his mess. And Luca is dead."

I swallow hard. "You don't know that."

"I'm going to show you something," Agent Morris says, pulling an iPad from his bag. "This is footage from a police body cam of the event, and the man speaking is one of the world's top surgeons."

"Did the body cams pick up me getting kicked in the fucking ribs while I was on the ground?"

He reacts for a split second, looking up from the screen, before quickly collecting himself. I guess he missed that one.

He turns the iPad toward me and plays a split-screen video from CNN—one side shows a slow-motion, enhanced video of us running for the plane, and on the other sits a man in scrubs the marquee below names Dr. Reynaldo Sousa.

"That's right, Jake. There's no way Luca De Rossi survived these gunshot wounds. If you slow it down right here, you can see that he's hit at least three separate times in the lower abdomen. Although we can't see the exact angle, the first would have entered his lung while the next two likely went through his kidneys, possibly his liver."

I watch as bullets tear through Luca in slow motion, and he sinks to the ground. I'm there, too. You can't tell from the video that Declan's speaking to me—you certainly can't hear it on the video—but I can as clear as day in my head.

I'll never leave you, Teagan. Close your eyes and count to thirty.

My ribs ache like I've been pulled apart.

And then, I watch Declan drag Luca onto the plane, the door slamming closed behind them.

"Even in the best-case scenario, if he were rushed to a hospital, survival would not be likely. And while we don't know exactly where the plane went, we know it disappeared into Canadian airspace before it dropped off the grid completely. Without medical assistance, Luca died on that plane. He maybe could have lived…another fifteen minutes."

Tears stream down my face. I feel like I'm the one bleeding out—right here in this room. My guts are spilling from my chest and onto the floor, and I'm just waiting for it to be over.

"Thank you, Dr. Sousa. We can only hope that this realization helps calm the sheer chaos and violence we've seen from the Gods of Tomorrow fanbase over the past two days—"

Agent Morris stops the video. "You were more than just a fan, Teagan."

"You don't know that he's dead," I sob. "You can't know that for sure."

There's a knock on the door before another officer enters the room. "Finish up. We've got to let her go," he says. "Her lawyer called—they have a court order. They're having her extradited back to California for a 5150."

"A 5150? Really?"

"Yeah, apparently, this one is batshit crazy. You won't be able to use anything she says in here. I got the whole story on the phone. She went missing a few weeks ago; the family has been very concerned due to her mental health issues, and she's a suicide risk. Transport will be here in an hour."

Do you think they can fit two people in one of those white coats?

And then, I laugh. I laugh in a way that hurts until it gives way to tears and hysterics because why not? After all, I'm crazy, right?

And I don't give a fuck. Let them take me away. I'd much rather be in a padded room in California than a cell in wherever the fuck this is.

I bet they'll even sedate me. That sounds delicious right now.

"You can take her back now," the agent says. "But I think it's pretty clear you weren't just there for the parties, Teagan. I'm sure something will come up, and I'll know where to find you now, won't I?"

And since being crazy is apparently the only thing that will get me out of this, I decide I might as well go big. I lunge for the agent's coffee mug, throw it against the wall behind me, and scramble across the floor for the shards.

They should have cuffed the crazy girl to the table. But they didn't because she's small with a pretty face and sad eyes. And they have no idea what she's capable of.

They're both on me before I drag the sharp, porcelain tip through my wrist.