By the time I pull into the clubhouse lot, my hands have finally stopped shaking.
Mostly.
I’d called Locke from the car because I knew if I waited until we both got back home, if I let myself walk off the elevator carrying those glossy black shopping bags and pretending everything was fine, I might lose my nerve and decide not to tell anyone at all.
That old instinct still lives inside me somewhere, the one Knox spent years carefully cultivating.
So I called, and Locke answered on the first ring. I said his name, and he just knew.
I hadn’t even managed to explain properly before his voice changed, all warmth gone, replaced by something so calm and cold that it frightened me almost as much as Knox had.
He told me to drive straight to the clubhouse.
He told me not to stop.
He told
