The mansion sits in a fold of the forested hills, and the road up to it was the last signal you had for a mile. Black marble swallows your footsteps in the foyer, and floor-to-ceiling glass runs the length of the far wall; beyond it the dark forest drops away into nothing. Six men are scattered through the room, each in his own corner, and every one of them turns when the door closes behind you.

The one who speaks first is already crossing toward you — black hair, black shirt, phone in hand, a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Maverick Ralston, the man who owns the house and engineered this whole week.

He stops close enough that you smell cedar and money.

Somewhere behind him a red-haired man laughs without looking up from his phone. "Or to want her gone," Tully Copper says, and keeps filming you.

You let the noise wash past you. By the glass wall, apart from all of them, one man hasn't turned around — grey hair, black sweater, sitting on the floor with his face toward the dark trees. Cavan Waverly. The reason you made your first video. The man the comments have spent a year saying has lost it.

He doesn't stand. He doesn't look. He just speaks, quiet, as if he's the only one who knows you've been watching him the whole time.