Marcus walked in.

He was wearing a heavy wool coat, his face red from the cold.

His gray hair was slicked back, wet with mist.

Behind him, two men I didn’t recognize stood in the hallway.

They were large, wearing work jackets from the furniture factory.

One of them was holding Thomas by the arm.

Thomas’s face was bruised.

His lip was split, a dark line of dried blood running down his chin.

His jacket was torn, and he was breathing heavily, his head hanging low.

“Thomas,” I cried, starting to stand up.

Miller placed a heavy hand on my shoulder and shoved me back into the chair.

“Stay put,” Miller said.

Marcus walked past me, ignoring me entirely.

He stood in front of Vance’s desk.

“Do you have it?” Marcus asked the sheriff.

Vance nodded toward my lap.

“She has it.”

Marcus turned his cold, blue eyes on me.

“Give it to me, Kiera,” he said.

“And Thomas goes free?” I asked, my voice shaking.

“We go home?”

Marcus let out a short, dry laugh.

“You don’t go home,” Marcus said.

“Not yet.”