Strange.
I flip through her pictures, not surprised to see she classifies herself as Wiccan, but has very few friends. There are patterns like the pieces to a puzzle scattered on a table, beginning to take form but still just a jumble of cardboard. I need to fit more pieces into place before I can see the whole picture.
Margaret Sellier has a similar story. Left home at eighteen, got a double associates degree from a local community college. But reports say she was “strange” and “odd.” Further investigation shows she was known for resisting mainstream culture, publicly and vocally.
I pace my apartment. Thinking.
If I were someone looking to take advantage of women… I would want to take someone no one would miss. It would cover my tracks if I took someone who might be involved with things their family didn’t approve of, so said family might blame their social groups or behavior on their disappearance…
It’s after midnight when I close my laptop and go to shower. I strip my clothes off halfway down the hall and toss them into the hamper just before I get to the bathroom. I wish I could cleanse what I’ve read from my mind, but I’m determined now. I will find the person responsible for these crimes.
A pang of guilt hits me.
I haven’t thought about finding my parents’ murderers in hours. I haven’t gone that long without thinking about them in… God, years.
I tell myself this is only a means to an end. Help him, and he’ll help me. I’m only working with him for this one reason, so I can leverage his power and connections.
I put the water on to scalding and glance down at myself. God, I’m a mess. Between the stupid accident and bruising my shins all to hell today on Cain’s car, I’m covered in bruises and lacerations and smudges of dirt. How could that guy hit on me?
Did he hit on me?
I stare at myself in the mirror, just before the steam fogs it up entirely. My body may be damaged, but my eyes are the same vivid shade of violet as ever.
I should maybe get those color-changing contacts. If I’m on the hunt for someone, they’ll remember a girl with eyes like mine.
I text Cain. I bet he’ll be able to get them quicker than I will.
Me: Hey, I know it’s late, hopefully you do the ‘do not disturb’ after a certain hour thing
The response is immediate.
Cain: Everything okay?
Guess he doesn’t.
My heart thumps. I probably woke the guy up, and his first question is, am I okay? This is after he bought me dinner and a car.
And after he tried to boss you around and showed absolutely no respect for your self-respect or autonomy. NO THANK YOU.
Me: I’m fine, but I wondered if you
I pause mid-text, trying to figure out how to word my question just right. My finger is hovering over the phone when my eyes graze the windowsill in my bedroom. I’m on the second floor near the fire escape. The breeze still flutters the curtains at the window, only now the windowsill isn’t empty.
A sprig of purple irises sits on the ledge.
Chapter 9
Cain
* * *
I watch the little dots on the screen dance, then stop, dance, then stop. I asked her if she’s okay and expected a quick response, probably something snarky.
Fine, just polishing my guns. You?
All good, haven’t found any strange men lying in wait or abductees behind my shower curtain, how bout you?
I’m fine, you can call off the babysitters now.
* * *
I sent her a car, but I sent a small team to watch her, too. If she’s right about the asshole being after her, I don’t want to take any chances.
A minute passes. Two. Three.
No response.
I’m in my bedroom in shorts and a tank after a shower, prepared to do whatever work I can through the night. I’ve got a team ready to be briefed in the morning and people working around the clock already.
I go to text her, then stop. Then again. Finally, I decide the hell with it, and shoot her another text.
Me: Hey. You were typing and now nothing. Everything alright?
No response.
I pick up my phone and call Henri, the head of the team I sent to her apartment. His phone rings and goes to voicemail.
No response.
I pull on shoes and grab a jacket, slipping it on as I leave my room.
“Everything alright?” Joe asks me when I hit the foyer at a jog. I fill him in.
“You think she’s in danger?”
“After today? Not something I wanna risk.”
I should’ve duct taped her to her seat and made her come home with me.
“I’ll join you. You taking the Audi?” His eyes gleam, hoping I am.
“Hell yes.”
The truck is good for an ambush, for safety, for a potential shoot-out. But when I have to get somewhere fast? I take the Audi. It goes from zero to sixty in 2.8 seconds and drives up to two hundred seventeen miles per hour. It’s swift, takes corners with agility, but is small and sleek enough not to cause too much attention if I’m careful.