After a while her breathing eased, and he knew she slept beside him. But he didn’t sleep because he didn’t want to see her die again in his nightmares. So he held her in the darkness and wondered how a woman who fought killers could love one.
The next morning, Max walked with Samantha down the long, winding hallway. The clank of metal bars sounded behind them. He knew that sound well. For years, it had haunted his dreams. The sound of freedom being ripped away.
But this time, it wasn’t his freedom. It was his stepbrother’s.
Samantha’s delicate fingers tightened around his. He was limping a bit, thanks to the bullet wound Quinlan had put in his thigh.
Then Monica Davenport was there, stepping forward with Ramirez by her side. They motioned toward the small conference room they’d been given. An empty table waited.
“You understand what’s happening here today?” Monica murmured.
He rolled his shoulder and felt the pull of stitches. Last night, he hadn’t even given a thought to his injuries. Sex and Samantha had made him forget. “Yeah, Quinlan’s about to lie his ass off to try and cut down his prison term.” Or to make me look guilty. Samantha had already told him about Quinlan’s accusations.
Monica’s gaze was assessing. “I’ve asked the DA to wait outside a bit. I want you to have the chance to talk to your brother first.”
His brows climbed. “What good will that do?”
“I think you can make him confess. To everything.” She offered a small, brittle smile. Ramirez watched them with guarded eyes.
“You’re kidding me, right?” Max asked. Samantha’s hand held tight to his.
“No, I’m not.”
“The guy wants me dead. He’s not gonna want to confess!”
“Your brother always wanted his father’s attention, didn’t he?” Monica mused. “The only son, at least for a long time, the one who never quite measured up.”
Piss-poor excuse for a son… Frank’s voice echoed in his mind. Max swallowed.
“The killings weren’t about money. We looked at it all wrong. The money—that’s just the surface,” Monica said, with a wave of her hand. “He took the golden boys—the rich boys with doting dads—and he made the fathers prove how much they loved their sons.”
Max shook his head. “That’s f**ked up.”
“That’s Quinlan.” Finally Ramirez spoke. “He could have taken the money and run after the first two snatches, but instead he got to where the money couldn’t compete with the pleasure he took from slicing open his victims.”
“And himself.” Monica reached for a file on the table. “I’ve got doctors’ records—”
“Aren’t those supposed to be confidential?” Max demanded. Beside him, Samantha leaned forward and peered at the files.
“About as confidential as your manslaughter conviction,” Ramirez murmured, locking his gaze on Max.
“Screw off.” Max wasn’t in the mood for any agent bullshit.
“What do the records say?” Samantha wanted to know.
“That at age fourteen, Quinlan Malone was admitted to St. John’s Hospital because he had lacerations on his upper chest.” Monica raised a black brow. “He said he fell onto a fence, but the attending physician suspected otherwise and referred Frank Malone to a psychiatrist.” Monica closed the folder and her gaze returned to Max. “Seems your stepbrother liked to injure himself.”
Sliced off his own finger.
“Self-injuries like that can be triggered by depression, anxiety, an emotional stressor, or—”
“Frank met my mom when Quinlan was fourteen,” Max gritted out from between clenched teeth.
Monica nodded. “Do you know why Nathan Donnelley was employed by your father?”
“He was my dad’s doctor.”
“Actually,” now Monica’s gaze turned to Samantha, “he wasn’t.”
Max glanced back at Samantha.
A little shrug lifted Samantha’s shoulders. “I hacked into his computer and found some old files. When Donnelly started working with Malone, he was there to take care of Quinlan.” She paused, then said, “Frank was tired of the doctors at St. John’s asking questions.”
Max swallowed and felt the punch in his gut. “He’s sick. Quinlan needs help.” And it twisted his heart that he hadn’t seen it sooner. Could I have stopped this? Stopped him? Saved those—
“If you believe that,” Monica interjected smoothly, “if you really think he needs help, then we need you to help us. Get a confession out of him, and we’ll make sure he gets psych treatments during his incarceration.”
“For how long?” His temples pounded. “How long’s he gonna be locked up?”
She didn’t answer, but he already knew. Forever.
Ramirez glanced down at his watch. “They’ll be here soon.”
Max turned his head and gazed down into Samantha’s eyes. He just wanted her, and, f**king miracle, she seemed to want him. Even with what his brother had done to her, she wanted him.
He would do anything to keep her by his side. Anything to keep her in his life. He bent and brushed his lips across hers.
“I’ll talk to Quinlan.” He released his hold on Samantha. “For all the damn good it will do.”
Max didn’t rise when Quinlan was led into the conference room.
Quinlan smirked at him. “Knew you’d be coming by, sooner or later.”
“You can’t talk to him.” The tall, thin man in the suit next to Quinlan—the guy had to be his lawyer—shook his head. “This is highly irregular. We need to get the DA in here. You need to—”
“We need to talk,” Max said, putting his hands flat on the table.
Quinlan laughed. “Yeah, yeah, we do.” He jerked his thumb at the lawyer. “Get out of here.”
The lawyer’s eyes widened. “Don’t you see what’s happening here?” He waved toward the mirror. “They’re watching you. Recording everything you say. It’s just a—”
“When I want your opinion,” Quinlan muttered, “I’ll damn well tell you.”
The lawyer’s face slackened with surprise.
“Now get the hell out.”
“You’re making a mistake!” The man shook his head. “Fine. Your damn funeral, kid.” Then he shoved past the two guards who’d brought Quinlan in.