Page 61 of Gunnar

Through it all, the blood, bruises, and begging, we ask him about Devyn. We ask about the website. We press for information on the photos and the notes. Pushing him hard to the brink, he denies it all.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sobs, his face swollen and voice barely intelligible through the blood and tears. “I swear to God, I don’t know anything about a website. I’m not stalking her. I just… I saw her at an event. I thought she was beautiful. Our agent set us up for the Oscars. I asked her out once⁠—”

“Liar,” I snarl, pressing the barrel of my gun into his knee. “You’ve been following her, taking photos⁠—”

“I didn’t!” he screams, his voice cracking. “I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t me! Please, please, you have to believe me!”

The evidence is clear and the connection too strong. Everything Mattis found leads back to Colton. It has to be him. We keep working him, the three of us taking turns, our repulsion fueling our endurance. He confesses to other things—the women in New York, settlements, and the threats he made to keep them quiet. He admits to being a user, a manipulator, and a man who takes what he wants and damn the consequences. But he never confesses to Devyn.

Slowly—and horribly—doubt begins to creep in.

Hawk pulls me aside while Jagger keeps watch. “He’s not breaking.” Hawk keeps his voice low. “He’s confessed to everything else. Things that would ruin him. Things that could put him in prison. But he won’t admit to Devyn, even when he thinks we’re going to kill him.”

“Because he’s lying,” I insist, though my certainty is fading. “Because he knows that’s the one thing we won’t forgive.”

“Or, because he’s telling the truth,” Hawk counters, his eyes dark with worry. “Gunnar… What if Mattis was wrong? What if the encryption key was a plant? What if⁠—”

“No,” I cut him off, refusing to consider it. “It’s him. It has to be him.”

But when we return to Colton, when I look at his face—swollen beyond recognition, blood streaming from a dozen wounds with his consciousness flickering—I see something that looks like truth in his broken eyes. On the bridge of unconsciousness, his head lolling against Hawk’s grip, he manages one final plea. His voice is barely a whisper, but the words are clear. “I’ll confess… I’ll admit everything,” he slurs, blood bubbling at his lips. “I like it fucking rough… and my dates don’t always appreciate what that means after the fact. But I’m not stalking her. Fuck… I don’t even know how to build a fucking website. I can barely work my email…”

He passes out then, his body limp in Hawk’s hands. The three of us stand in the silence of the bedroom, our breaths coming hard, our hands covered in blood that isn’t ours.

I stare at Colton, at the monster we thought we were killing, and I feel a horrible unease in my gut.

What if we’ve got the wrong man?

What if the real monster is still out there, still watching Devyn, while we waste our time and energy on a different breed of predator entirely?

The doubt is poison in my veins, cold and spreading. I look at Hawk and Jagger, seeing the same uncertainty in their eyes.

If not Colton, then who?

And how long do we have before he strikes again?

The guys left hours ago, slipping out into the night, like shadows departing before dusk. The sun has barely crested over the horizon, painting the sky in watercolor washes of pink and gold that stream through the kitchen windows. I’ve been pacing since they left—through the living room, up the stairs, and down again—walking until my legs ached and my mind spun with worst-case scenarios I couldn’t control.

Finally, I surrender to routine. Hoping normalcy will calm my nerves, fooling myself with the pretense that this is just another morning. Standing in the kitchen, I prepare coffee. The beans grind with a satisfying crunch, the water heats and trickles over them, causing the nutty aroma to fill the space.

My phone rings, the sound sharp and unexpected in the quiet house, and I nearly spill the still-open container of coffee grounds across the counter. I grab for it, my heart pounding with the irrational fear that it’s the hospital, the police, or someone calling to tell me that Gunnar isn’t coming back. But instead, the screen shows a comforting name.

“Hey, Dev,” Jake greets when I answer, his voice carrying the familiar warmth and professional cheerfulness that has helped guide my career through its highest highs and lowest lows. “I’m in the neighborhood. Just swung by that little coffee shop you like.”

“The one with the almond croissants?” I ask, unable to stop the smile that tugs at my lips despite everything.

“That’s the one,” he confirms, and I can hear the smile in his voice, too. “And I may have picked up a couple for my favorite client. It okay if I swing by?”

Gunnar said to stay inside and stay safe. But this is Jake, my agent, who’s been to this house a hundred times. Jake, who has a key for emergencies. The friend who watered my plants when I was on location for weeks on end.

“Of course,” I answer, the words out before I can second-guess them. “I’d love to see you.”

“Be there in ten,” he promises before hanging up.

I glance toward the window, spotting Damon in the driveway, returning from a patrol of the perimeter. Pulling open the door, I call to him. “Hey! My agent, Jake, is stopping by in a few minutes. He’s bringing coffee and pastries. Can you buzz him through?”

Damon looks at me hesitantly. “I don’t know whether that’s a good idea this morning.”

“It’s Jake.” I sigh. “He’s only dropping off coffee and pastries.”