"I didn't m - " I couldn't even say the word. Couldn't think of the face that belonged to the one I knew was dead. Vissle Ponton. Otto Quinsbey. Both dead, but not because I'd murdered them. "It was an accident."

"You're a fugitive," he said, spitting the final word like a curse. "You changed your appearance and pretended to be some crazy chef's apprentice so you could run away from the law."

"I had to," I whispered.

"You had to kill them?"

I snapped ...