25. Jael
Rain On My Parade - Unloved
O nce we leave Eazy Sleep, we drive straight through to Easton. We ride in silence, except for the occasional short exchange. I leave the radio on, using it as a distraction from the monotonous nature of the highway’s long, sweeping roads.
The only problem is, every hour or so, like clockwork, the radio stations provide current event updates. Most of them hyperfocus on the one story that has rocked not just the local area, but the entire nation. The same story I’d like to avoid at the moment.
“Authorities are continuing their investigation into the Midnight Society, a private group made up of society’s elites that conspiracy theorists have long speculated to be real. There is now reason to believe that the society might be connected to the grisly Cleaver murders. Sources speculate that Kaden Raskova met one of his victims at an event thrown by this club, his girlfriend Lyra Hendrix?—”
“She was not his girlfriend!” I blurt out, irritated. My fingers twitch as I reach for the dashboard and twist the knob, flipping stations until I land on something else.
It’s a jazz station, but anything’s better than listening to the media lie about my sister.
My hand returns to the steering wheel, gripping it tighter.
Bront? waits a second and then changes the station back.
“What’re you doing?” I snap, gripping the wheel tighter. Frustration crawls under my skin, heating me up despite the November cold. “I changed it for a reason. I don’t want to listen to this junk.”
He remains composed and nonreactive, like he doesn’t notice I’m about to implode.
“I’m serious. Quit undermining me.” I switch the station back to jazz.
He reverses the change again, twisting the knob until we return to the news report.
“Stop that!”
He inclines his head toward the radio on the dashboard, gesturing for me to listen.
“How many times do I have to tell you they have it wrong? My sister’s not dead! She’s alive. She’s just… she’s in hiding.”
“Shhh,” he hushes.
“Sources suggest that the Cleaver used his high-profile connections within the Midnight Society to disappear,” the radio host goes on. “It could also explain how the serial killer has managed to cover up his murders for so long.”
“The Midnight Society?” I guess aloud, scowling. “Is that what you want me to pay attention to?”
He nods in answer.
I refute him with a shake of my own head. “That’s not a real thing. That was some crap conspiracy theorists came up with. Like the illuminati or whatever.”
“No.”
“So now you speak. You’re telling me the Midnight Society is real? It actually exists?”
“Keep driving.”
It’s enough of a response to clue me into the real answer being yes .
The Midnight Society is real, and as we drive toward Easton, that seems to be where Bront?’s leading me.
But the revelation only opens up more questions.
A chill skates down my spine. I double blink, almost disappearing into my head until I remind myself that I’m driving. I focus on the road ahead as the edges of the city unfurl before us.
It’s been so many hours that we’ve been on the road that a change of scenery is more than welcomed. If only my mind weren’t now clogged with thoughts about how my sister could ever get mixed up with a secret club like the Midnight Society. What would drive her to attend one of their events?
Then I remember her Cyber Fans account, and how she’d been very active interacting with her subscribers on the platform. My thoughts land on men like Francesco Gigante, who seemed so eager to wine and dine her.
“Wait a second…” I mutter. “He had invited her out. One of their last messages.”
A sharp gasp rushes out of me. My gaze swings from the road ahead to Bront? on my right.
“So if her disappearance does have something to do with this secret illuminati-wannabe society, then how are we going to get them to tell us where she is?”
“Drive.”
It’s Bront?’s single command as we enter the city limits.
Soon we go from being surrounded by the highway to being swallowed up by towering buildings on either side. I take the next off ramp and join the congested streets of the huge metropolitan city.
Vendors camp out on every corner selling their goods, and blares of honking horns fill the air. I’m not sure where else to drive, so I take us by my sister’s old apartment, guided by the false hope that she might miraculously turn up.
I’m misleading myself.
My sister’s nowhere to be found, the red brick building serving as a reminder that she’s gone.
My stomach pits and I sigh, foot pressing on the gas.
“Keep driving,” Bront? directs. “7885 Croft Street.”
The address is so specific that I don’t question him on it. I flick on the turn signal and change lanes to head toward Croft.
Traffic slows us down, but we’re pulling up outside 7885 Croft Street within minutes. We’re in downtown Easton where peace and quiet don’t exist. Neither does privacy as I find us a parking spot a few blocks down and we’re forced to walk the crowded streets.
A big urban city like this is probably the only place on the planet where Bront? can walk down the street in broad daylight wearing his minotaur mask and not garner second looks. People are too preoccupied with their own day to pay us any mind. They rush in all directions on the sidewalk, hurrying to catch a subway or make it home from work.
Besides, he’s not the only one in a costume—a half-naked pirate strums a guitar on a street corner nearby, asking for donations from passerby.
Bront? leads the way toward 7885 while I cautiously stick by his side. My neck aches, craning for a look up at the skyscraper.
I’m not sure what business we could possibly have inside a building that looks like it costs a hundred bucks a second just to breathe its air.
“What are we doing here?” I ask. “Do you see how we’re dressed? There’s no way they’re letting us into a place this nice.”
Bront? ignores me as we approach the revolving glass door and the doorman on post furrows his brow at us.
“See,” I hiss, barely above a whisper. “He’s not letting us in here.”
But Bront? couldn’t give less of a fuck whether we’re allowed anywhere. He stalks right through the revolving door even as the doorman calls out to stop him. I curse under my breath and then rush to follow.
The lobby is wealth personified, with high, vaulted ceilings and floors so polished you can see your reflection staring up at you.
It definitely costs a C-note just to breathe the air inside here.
The air, which doesn’t smell polluted like outside, smells of fresh flowers and tangy citrus.
A few residents who happen to be passing through, some with their fluffy little dogs on diamond-encrusted leashes or strolling in business attire, take notice of us.
The two outcasts who just entered their midst. One who’s gigantic with a whole-ass minotaur mask on his head. I’d laugh if my cheeks didn’t burn from embarrassment at their startled looks.
Yep, we definitely don’t belong here.
“Sir! Miss! Excuse me!”
“Crap,” I whisper to Bront?. “What do we do?”
A concierge steps in our path before we can reach the elevators at the back of the lobby.
“Good afternoon,” he says with forced politeness. “May I help point you to the right location? This building is for residents only.”
Bront? doesn’t slow down. He merely snatches the concierge by the front of his suit jacket and slams him into the wall next to the elevators. The man’s glasses are knocked off his face and he cowers like a shaken puppy. Any courage he had to prevent us from getting on one of the elevators has vanished.
He quakes off to the side as the elevator we’re waiting for arrives and we step on. The instant the doors roll shut, I turn to Bront?.
“You didn’t have to do him like that,” I say. “At least let him think he has some authority.”
Bront? stares straight ahead, unfazed. “He was in the way.”
I smirk to myself.
There’s something attractive about the unapologetic way Bront? conducts himself, no matter the situation. I find I can’t even be frustrated with him when he’s always so unperturbed by everything.
I need to get to his level of unbothered.
We ride the elevator all the way toward the top of the building and get off a few floors shy of the rooftop.
“Are you going to explain what we’re doing here or who we’re visiting?” I ask as we step off the elevator and start down a carpeted hallway.
Artwork decorates the walls, and on either side there’re a few doors. Probably apartments belonging to whoever’s lucky enough to live this high up in a luxury building like this.
Predictably, Bront? tells me nothing.
He finally stops in front of one of the doors and gives a heavy, solitary knock. His fist sounds like a hammer against the solid wood, an intimidating noise.
We listen to rustling on the other side of the door before it’s yanked open and we find ourselves opposite a man in a silk smoking jacket with tousled auburn hair. He peers at us with bloodshot eyes that tell me he’s in the middle of an excruciating hangover.
“Who’re—Bront??”
The man’s jaw goes slack from shock and he lets out a stiff laugh.
“Who else would be batshit enough to turn up in a minotaur ma— ARGH !”
His words are interrupted by Bront?’s fist.
The man stumbles back, crumpling to the floor and paving the way for us to breeze through the doorway. He clutches at his face as blood leaks from his mouth, his bottom lip quickly swelling to twice its usual size.
“What the fuck?” he coughs.
I glance over at Bront?, curious myself as to what’s going on. Who is this man and why are we here? What does this have to do with the Midnight Society, and more importantly, my sister?
We’re in the middle of this strange man’s apartment, standing among his leather sectionals and huge, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
Bront? peers down at the man who’s lip he just split open. “We need you to get us into the next event.”
The man blinks in confusion until it dawns on him what Bront? must mean.
“The Society?”
“You will tell no one.”
The man wipes blood from his mouth and gives off a sardonic laugh. “Some things don’t change. You’re still a man of few words after all these years. Who’s the girl?”
“Never mind her.”
“She looks familiar—I know!” The man snaps his fingers. His bloodshot eyes light up as he pushes unsteadily to his feet. “Kaden’s girl. You look just like her.”
“She’s my sister!” I blurt out to Bront?’s irritation. “You know her? Where is she?!”
“I know of her. As in she was the girl Kaden was infatuated with for some odd reason or another. He let Klein die over her.”
“Deserved,” Bront? grits out.
“You’d probably say otherwise if you were bit in the dick, then stabbed in the dick,” the man replies with a shrug. His tone dries up, like he’s bored of the conversation. “Anyhow, you’re not the only ones searching for Kaden and the girl. I had a business meeting with Francesco Gigante just yesterday and he was going on about some girl Imani searching for her.”
“The girl who calls herself my sister’s best friend,” I say, recognizing the name. “She’s searching for her?”
“She’ll be at the next Society event. Francesco invited her.”
Bront? takes a step toward the man and shoves him hard in the chest, knocking him backward. “Get us the invitation.”
It’s all Bront? offers before he turns and stalks toward the door.
We slip through an alley, keeping to the shadows, our breaths curling in the frigid air. It’s after dark and we’re approaching a building I’m more than a little familiar with after the last therapy session I had. The question is, why would Bront? bring me here of all places?
We need somewhere to crash for the night, but in a city as large as Easton, there are other options…
Cars roll over wet pavement and city lights twinkle in the distance as we emerge from the alley and start toward the brownstone building.
I’ll say one thing about being out so late with Bront?—I feel safe, even as we move through some shady parts of the city. No one’s messing with me so long as I have my own monster to provide protection.
Bront? walks the streets like he owns them. He welcomes anyone to challenge him otherwise.
“Why are we here?” I whisper, following him up the front steps.
He ignores me as he steps toward the door, his presence resonating the kind of quiet strength that demands attention. That I’m in awe of as I scurry behind and my pulse beats faster.
We have nowhere else to go—too little remains of the borrowed money from Stanley and too many people out looking for us—but this doesn’t seem to be slowing Bront? down in the slightest.
He stops at the front door and stares down at the keypad lock.
“It won’t work,” I hiss from behind, standing on tiptoe just for a chance to peek around him. “All the locks in his building are keypad. You have to know the access code to?—”
Click.
Bront? punches in the numbers and the keypad flashes blue. The door slips open, granting us entry.
I stop short. My stomach churns. “How did you?—”
“Quiet.”
Bront? stalks inside, soon swallowed up by the building’s deep shadows. I let out a shaky breath and then follow him.
More questions plague my mind, but what else is new? It seems I’ll never get any answers. I’ll be kept in the dark—both literally and figuratively—forever.
The familiar smells inundate me almost to the point of trauma.
Paper and pine.
Two scents that I’ve spent hours having to endure as my mind was cracked open and probed.
“Bront?,” I whisper. “I… I don’t think I can stay here…”
But Bront? doesn’t answer me. He leads the way down the hall of polished cherry wood and past leather chairs until we reach the office door marked Dr. Cornelius Wolford. He easily bypasses the keypad lock on that as well, the door swinging open.
I step in after him, the thud of my boots jarring on the wooden floorboards. The walls immediately feel as if they’re closing in on me.
The same bookshelves and sleek, sharp-edged furniture remain.
The same carpet where droplets of Dr. Wolford’s blood had dripped onto, except as I shine the flashlight from my phone, I discover it’s been cleaned.
The bloodstain has been removed so thoroughly it’s almost as if it never even happened at all…
I blink, a chill running down my spine. “Bront?, I… I don’t want to be here. Did you hear me? Bront?!”
My pleas fall on deaf ears.
Whereas I’m being pulled into bad memories of my sessions with Dr. Wolford, it seems the same thing is happening with Bront?.
He’s stopped in front of the psychiatrist’s desk to peer at the framed photographs on display.
I hover where I am, my skin prickling as familiar feelings arise. The same feelings I’ve let take me over so many times that there’s no stopping it.
Once the paranoia seeps in, I’m no longer myself. Why would Bront? bring me here if he’s not…
“We need to leave,” I say. “This isn’t where I’m spending the night.”
Pulling my jacket tighter, I force myself to move. I move toward the door before I stop after a couple more steps.
Nope. I’m not going to run again. Not before I get answers.
“How did you know the code to his office?” I demand, turning back around. “You entered it like you knew it by heart. How would you know that?”
Bront?’s motionless, his massive frame still standing over the desk. The bright light from my phone catches the sharp edges of his mask, illuminating the darkness in his eyes.
Something’s on his mind.
“You know him.”
Nothing. Just silence.
It drives me crazy, stretching between us, taut as a wire. I glare at him, refusing to give up this time.
“Were you a patient of his?” I press.
Bront? finally looks up. His head turns slightly, just enough for his gaze to meet mine. “Something like that.”
“Then what?—”
“He’s my father.”