“Judge and be judged.” Rachel’s voice shakes as she struggles to sit up.

A finger of ice slides over my skin. I’ve heard those words before. Where? When?

“What are you saying?” Adam asks her.

“The killer. When he had me during the fires. He said . . .” Her fingernails scratch lightly at the bandage on her arm. I reach across the bed and take her hand in mine.

“He isn’t going to hurt you again,” I say.

“He is if he gets the chance,” Willow says.

“Does it ever occur to you not to say whatever comes into your head?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Tell me I’m lying.”

Lying. The killer’s been lying to me all along. Maybe instead of concentrating on trying to find him by what we know of his past, we need to focus on what actions he took to make his lie seem like the truth to me.

I rub my thumb across Rachel’s knuckles and say, “The killer needed us to trust him. Accept him. The best liars use as much truth as possible. He’d have a convincing story. One that could explain away anything we might find worrisome.”

“He’d make sure his actions gained your trust as well,” Quinn says from across the room. “He’d confide in you. Fight for you. Maybe make it seem like he’d risked his life for you, because who would believe the person determined to destroy you would be willing to die for you?”

“Maybe he’d find a way to have an alibi during the murders—or something we’d believe to be an alibi—to deflect suspicion,” Adam says.

“Judge and be judged.” My blood hammers through my veins, and my breathing scrapes my lungs in harsh bursts. I remember where I’ve heard that phrase before.

“Logan?” Rachel leans forward. “Are you okay?”

“He said it was something his father used to say.” I look at her, but I’m not seeing her. I’m seeing the boy who fought better than he should’ve been able to fight and explained it away with a convincing story about his former occupation. I’m seeing the boy who argued that it was morally wrong to give the Rowansmark device to any other city-state.

I’m seeing the boy who looked me in the eye as we stood in the tunnel beneath the Commander’s compound and told me he wouldn’t rest until the man he held responsible for his father’s death was punished. I’d assumed he meant the Commander.

Now I realize he meant me.

“It’s Ian,” I say, and Rachel’s face goes white. “He told me he could fight because he’d been apprenticed to the Brute Squad, but that was a lie. He also said his father was loyal to the Commander and that it cost him his life. I think he was telling the truth about his father dying. Everything Ian’s done . . . this was personal to him. If James Rowan punished Marcus for his treachery, and Marcus didn’t survive his pain atonement, that would be enough to push his son over the edge.” I don’t say that this makes Ian my brother. I don’t have to. I can see the horrified realization on everyone’s face.

Ian, with his easy charm and his courage against Carrington. Ian, with his false loyalty and his dedication to no cause but his own desperate need for revenge.

Ian, with his knife to Donny’s throat. With his syringe full of poison in Sylph’s room. With his hands on Rachel.

“I’m going to kill him.” I let go of Rachel’s hand and stand. “I’m going to find him and kill him.” My eyes meet Willow’s dark, feral gaze. “And I’m going to make it hurt.”

She smiles. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Fifty-Four

RACHEL

“You can’t go without a plan,” I say, but what I mean is they can’t go without me.

“I have a plan: Kill Ian,” Logan says. In his voice I hear the furious need to avenge Donny, Sylph, Thom, and the others who died under his watch because of his brother.

Because of Ian.

The boy who saved me from the Cursed One so he could gain my trust. So he could forge an alliance with me behind Logan’s back. So he could try to use me to get his hands on the device.

Nobody uses me and gets away with it.

“I’m coming too,” I say, and push the blanket off myself with my left arm.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Logan says.

“Logan, he killed Sylph. I’m going with you.” I give him a don’t-bother-arguing look and grasp the little table beside the bed so I can stand without falling.

“You’re in no condition to go anywhere,” Quinn says, and I glare at him.

“Neither are you, but that isn’t stopping you, is it?” I ask as Quinn sits on the side of his bed, pulling on his boots with shaky fingers.

Logan mutters something under his breath, and Willow says, “You’re both insane. Get back in bed.”

Quinn meets her eyes. “No.”

Willow shakes her head and looks away.

“Neither of you should come with us. You’ve been injured, and you’re still weak. You don’t even have a weapon in case he tries to hurt you,” Logan says.

I pull a pair of pants on under the loose tunic I’m wearing. “So give me a knife, and let’s go.”

“You are so predictable,” Logan says. “How are you going to use a weapon? Your right arm is injured.”

“Nothing wrong with my left.”

“You can barely stand.”

“Which will make my facade of weakness even more convincing,” I say. “You aren’t going to stop me. If you leave me behind, I’ll follow you anyway.”