Stale walks up behind me, unlocks the cuffs, and then points at a chair. “Have a seat, Ryler.”

Rubbing my wrists, I drop my ass down into the chair.

Stale slips off his coat, drapes it on the back of the chair, and sits down across from me while Senford lingers near the doorway with his arms folded.

“Don’t worry, son. You can trust us,” Stale says for the umpteenth time as he rolls up the sleeves of his button down shirt.

He keeps saying it as if it’s so easy to trust.

It’s not.

I know this way too well.

Trust is rare.

Almost unattainable.

Stale slides his notebook and pen across the table toward me. “We’d like to ask you a few questions now.” He glances at the scars on my throat, scars that tell the story of how I lost my voice. Without my voice, I refuse to tell the story, refuse to let anyone know how it happened.

Before he can ask anything, I scrawl down: What’s this about? I shove the notebook back at Agent Stales.

He collects the notebook, and his lips move as he reads what I wrote then his eyes rise to me. “It’s about Donny Elderman.” He studies me carefully, assessing my reaction.

I cross my arms and slump back in the seat, silently conveying, “I’m not opening my damn mouth for you.”

Why would I? I have no idea what this is about, what they’re after. If what I say could be incriminating.

Stale shoves the notebook in my direction again. “We know you’ve been hanging out at one of the warehouses a lot lately, Ryler. We’ve had reports that you’re there at least three times a week.”

I cringe. The warehouses he’s talking about are owned by Donny Elderman and is exactly what it sounds like—a massive warehouse secluded out in the middle of the desert. There are actually quite a few warehouses that he owns all over various states. The larger ones are hidden in bare, untouched areas and surrounded by several of his men. All the warehouses serve the same purpose, though—to hide illegal activity. A lot of gambling goes on inside along with a ton of other illegal activities like drug trafficking and prostitution.

When I don’t respond, Stale leans over the table and lowers his voice. “Ryler, we want you to help us bring down the main warehouse.”

The main warehouse is where Donny Elderman spends most of his time, but I have no clue where it is or what exactly goes on in there. All I know is that even the mentioning of the warehouses seems to terrify everyone.

I pick up the notebook and write: How the hell am I supposed to help you with that? I don’t know where it is.

Stale squints at the page then looks at me. “Have you ever heard of an informant?”

I write: You mean a nark?

He chuckles after he reads what I wrote. “Yeah, I guess that all depends on how you look at it.”

My hand glides across the paper again. A nark’s a nark, no matter how you look at it.

Senford steps forward with his arms folded, leans over Stale’s shoulder, and skims over our conversation. “We’re not asking you to be a nark. We’re asking you to help us bring down the man responsible for one of the biggest crime mobs, to do something good for your country.”

I glance at the door. I should run. I actually tried to run from the cops once. Didn’t make it very far, though, before I was tackled.

“Relax, Ryler. No one knows you’re here,” Stale says.

I rip my attention from the door and wrap my fingers around the pen. If I agree to help you, it wouldn’t matter. As of tonight, Elderman wants my ass dead.

“Over a gambling debt?” Stale questions. “Yeah, we know it’s actually your father’s debt, not yours, and that most of what you do is because your father pushes you into it.”

I swallow the lump wedged in my throat. So, if you know all of that, then why are you even asking me?

He overlaps his fingers on top of the table then leans forward. “What if we said we could pay off that debt for you? What if we said we had a way to get you in with Elderman? That the offer he made you a few months ago to work for him—the one you turned down—will be on the table again.”

I turned him down for a reason. I’m not into drug trafficking or drugs or any type of violence. All three are Donny’s MO. It’s what he’s known for and why people fear him. I’m sure it’s also the reason you want to catch him.

Senford moves up to the table and leans over my shoulder to read what I’ve written. “We never said you had to be into those things to do this. You just need to be able to pretend you are.”

I glance between the two of them then press the tip of the pen to the paper again. And what if I say no? What are you going to do to me then?

“You’re not going to say no,” Senford states simply. He finally takes a seat at the table next to Stale. “Not after you hear our offer.”

I cock a brow as I write: And what exactly are you offering me?

“Your freedom in exchange for helping us put Donny Elderman behind bars.” Senford’s eyes are locked on me. When I knit my brows, he adds, “We know you have a record. That your time in juvenile detention has kept you in this lifestyle way longer than you wanted. If you help us with this—help bring Elderman down—we’ll erase that record.”

I study them closely underneath the florescent lighting. Are they serious? Can they actually do that?

“You’d have a fresh start.” Stale crosses his arms on the table “You could do anything you wanted to.”