Fallen Stars (Stone Bay Series Book 3)

Chapter 7

I stumblethrough the pool house door, my eyes heavy but mind buzzing. The further I dig into the dark recesses of the web for this case, the more I question my sanity and if I will be able to finish this assignment.

I’ve never been one to throw in the towel. Admitting defeat is a last resort. The evidence trail has to have been desolate for weeks or reached a point where my mind can no longer handle the monstrous content I unearth. Only then will I concede.

Tossing my phone and keys on the kitchen island, I amble to the fridge, open it, and stare at the bare contents.

When I moved into the pool house after college, I lost the perks of living in the main house on the estate. Housekeepers don’t tend to my needs. No dusting, vacuuming or laundry services. No trips to the grocery store to stock my fridge or pantry. All of which are fine. It’s a rare occasion to see any part of the pool house messy.

What I do miss, though, is access to the personal chef. Someone to make meals for me and store them in the fridge. Simple dinners to reheat. Grab-n-go lunches I can take to work. Light and quick breakfasts to eat in the car or after I get to the office. A few days during the week when I don’t have the wherewithal to cook anything myself.

I snatch a can of Mountain Dew and a box of questionable leftovers from three or four days ago. Cracking the lid, I do a sniff check. Satisfied with the smell, I open the box and scan the remnants of the lasagna Bolognese.

“Looks safe.” I shrug.

Fetching a plate from the cabinet, I transfer it from the box and reheat it in the microwave.

While it warms, I cross to my bedroom, swap my work clothes for sweats and a T-shirt, and grab my laptop. I situate myself with dinner at the island, crack open my computer, and dive back into case work while I eat.

Should I take a breather from all this shit, even if only for a night? Absolutely. My mind needs the break as much as my soul.

Will I listen to my body and take the night off? Good question. I’d like to say I will. I know that I need to. But more often than not, curiosity or determination or being close to a resolution steer my answer.

Remotely connecting to my work computer, I pick up where I left off at the office. While I eat dinner, I sift through topics on a forum I discovered earlier today. Most of it is sick assholes looking for disturbing pictures or like-minded people to speak with. As of now, I have simply scanned the topic titles. Unless one piques my interest in reference to the assignment, I don’t open the thread.

I finish the last of the food, shove the plate aside, and shift my laptop front and center. Hunched over the keyboard, I study the screen closely as I scroll, scroll, scroll. Get lost in the dark subjects some of these fuckers talk about with too much ease and delight.

My phone buzzes on the counter and I startle in my seat. Straightening my spine, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When I open them, I disconnect from my work computer, shut the lid on my laptop, and sit in silence for a beat.

“Take a break,” I chastise myself. “Even if it’s just an hour.”

I reach for my phone and wake the screen to see a text notification. Tapping it, I wither when I see who it’s from.

Abi

Parents are asking if we’re going to the Memorial Day Fest together

My phone digs into my palm as I stare down at the screen, my knuckles burning and tight.

This whole setup was concocted so our parents would stop interfering in our lives. So they’d stop forcing us to attend dinners and events on their schedule. So we could live our own lives and let them believe we were fulfilling their twisted, unpleasant, undesirable fantasy.

Now they want us to put on a show for the entire town. Flaunt the eldest West son with the youngest Calhoun heir. Give the gossip mill new Seven falsehoods to whisper about.

Fuck.

Why the hell did I propose fake dating? Seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. A way to get my father off my back. For a couple weeks, it worked. The relentless thrust toward a wealthy, well-known and well-loved member of the Stone Bay community ceased. For a couple weeks, life felt normal.

But I suppose that was the calm before the storm. It was foolish of me to expect it to last, but I did. And now we’ve hit the other side of the storm.

After kissing Oliver two nights ago, I no longer want to play this game. Though I made this bed, I no longer want to lie in it. I want to rip the sheets off and burn them.

Not my scene, but I suppose we have to.

Fire singes my veins as I stare at the screen. Not a single cell in my body wants to do this—fake date, attend town festivals, smile for people I don’t give a shit about.

It’ll be fun! Food, drinks, music. Let’s make the best of it

She sounds more excited than she should be, especially since she has to attend with me and not Desmond.

I read her message again and pause on the word music.

Immediately, my mind drifts to Oliver. To his band and the night they played later in the garage than usual because they’d just heard back from the town. Along with other musical talent, Hailey’s Fire had been asked to play during a few town festivals this year.

I sift through my memories for which festivals they’re scheduled to play. Is Memorial Day one of them? Will I be able to talk with him before then? I need to, especially if I’m required to make an appearance with my fake girlfriend.

I don’t bother replying to Abigail. The whole situation has me ready to puke up my dinner, no sense in adding fuel to the fire.

Instead, I open Instagram to check Hailey’s Fire’s page for their schedule. As the app loads, the story icon indicates the band is currently live streaming. I tap the circle and squint a moment as my eyes adjust to bright lights filling part of the screen.

As rock notes and Hailey’s raspy voice float through the speaker, I stare at the small stage on the screen. I glimpse past Hailey and Trip and zero in on the man behind the drum kit. Oliver. Per usual, I lose myself in fantasies as he hammers his sticks on the drums.

Years of watching and listening to Hailey’s Fire, I sing each of their songs to myself or in my head as they play. All artists have their own twist. Hailey’s Fire writes their songs with this interesting blend of rock and soul. You get the grit of rock ‘n’ roll with this deep, emotional undertone. When they play a new song, I focus with more attentive ears. It usually takes hearing it a few times before I pick up on the hidden meanings in the lyrics. But they are there. Loud and clear.

I have yet to ask Oliver who writes the songs or the significance behind certain ones.

For years, part of me has feared the answer. That the songs were one of his other bandmates’ creations. That he only chipped in with the musical concept for the songs and nothing more.

But every now and then, the smallest sliver of hope in my veins whispers to ask anyway. Because that small sliver swears those songs are written by Oliver about me or us.

I exit the live video and go to their main feed. Tap on the pinned post with a list of upcoming dates and read the May schedule. There, in black and white, I have my answer.

May 27th – Stone Bay Memorial Day Festival

Seeing him play, having the chance to hang out with him in public for a bit, is a perk. Being at the festival with my fake girlfriend, on the other hand, puts a damper on spending any true time with him. I easily picture my father scowling as I ignore Abigail to speak with Oliver.

“Fucking bullshit,” I mutter as I swipe up and close the app.

I tap on the photos folder, then click on videos. And because I obviously have masochistic tendencies, I choose a video I filmed a while back in Oliver’s garage as the band practiced. Over and over, for far too long, I stare at the screen, at Oliver, and watch him play. Without shame, I play it muted on repeat for close to an hour.

When I close the video, I open my text history with Oliver. My fingers fly over the keyboard. And before I second-guess myself, I hit send.

Saw part of the live in LL. Sounded great. Not sure if you’re back tonight or tomorrow. Would like to hang before MD fest.

A light sheen of perspiration dampens my skin as I read my text to him again and again. My message feels generic and lifeless. Like I don’t know what to say. Like I don’t know how to speak with my best friend.

But I guess that is what happens when you kiss said best friend. The world around you—every word, every glance, every touch—is different. The lightness you once had morphs into something more complex.

And since we have yet to discuss what this all means or where we go from here, the earth is less stable. The future is more uncertain. The friendship Oliver and I have shared for almost seven years is in limbo.

I toss my phone down, drop my elbows to the counter, and let my head fall into my hands.

Please tell me I didn’t fuck this up.

Oliver kissed me back. He pulled me closer and wordlessly begged for more. I may have been reserved about my feelings for Oliver for years, but I picked up on every single one of his signals. He wanted me. He wants me.

Not opening up to him about how I feel has been tough as hell. Countless sleepless nights have passed when I wanted to call or text him at three in the morning and reveal all my secrets. Spill my heart.

Seeing Oliver with other guys… it chipped away at my soul. Made me question if I’d misread him all these years. If I’d misinterpreted the smiles he gave me and no one else. If I’d misunderstood the way he flirted differently with me than other men.

Fingers crossed, Oliver’s silence is just his way of processing this major revelation. Uncertain what our kiss means, he needs time to sort through his thoughts and feelings. To adjust to this new side of us.

If there is an us.

Quit overthinking.

I get up, rinse my dishes, and put them in the dishwasher. Grabbing my laptop from the island, I go to the gaming chair in the living room and crack open my computer again.

Much as I need a break from all the work chaos, I need a distraction from my wayward thoughts about Oliver more.

After I reconnect to my work computer, I pick up where I left off in the forum. Line by line, I scan through the feed and read the topic captions. My eyes grow heavy and my limbs weak as I sift through endless dark chats. Topics written in creeper code that I spend minutes deciphering before reading the next.

As I’m about to close my laptop and call it a night, a title catches my attention.

Fresh catch from port at market price.

To the layperson, it sounds like fishermen offering fresh fish to markets and restaurants. To sick motherfuckers, this is something way darker, more sinister, and the ultimate prize.

I take a few deep breaths to center myself. Calm as possible, I click on the topic and read through the thread. Nausea roils in my belly as I wade through the posts. As I read comments from others with off-putting user handles asking how fresh the catch is, if it’s ripe, I question if I am able to do this. If I can pretend to be one of these disgusting pieces of shit to find missing children.

I shove down the bile climbing up my throat.

This is for Sydney. Set aside your feelings and find her.

My fingers hover over the keyboard as I think of what to type. Can’t seem too eager. Can’t be too clean.

Keep it simple. Talk their lingo. Earn their trust.

fall_or_rise39

sampled recent catch from a buddy

Not too eager. Vague yet straightforward. In their words and hinting that I know someone in their circle.

I can do this.

I have to do this.

A new line fills the screen and I hold my breath as I read it.

hook_n_release_cap

@fall_or_rise39 welcome. which buddy? don’t want them to miss out on their referral bonus

Are they serious? Is this their way of verifying if I’m a cop or creepster? Either way, the lasagna is about to make a comeback.

Swallowing, I type out my reply with the user Tymber got from his buddy at missing persons and hit send.

fall_or_rise39

@hook_n_release_cap @night_angler54 would have my head if I didn’t mention

The feed quiets for several minutes. No one chimes in with a single word or reaction. My heart thrashes in my rib cage as I wait for something. Breath caught in my throat, my lungs burn as I wait for anything. My knee bounces as I bite the corner of my thumbnail.

Still, I wait. For a response, for the site to kick me out.

Hour-long minutes tick by as I stare at the blinking cursor on the screen. On the cusp of saying fuck it and shutting down my computer for the night, a new message pops up on the screen.

hook_n_release_cap

@fall_or_rise39 verified referral. check out the market place. new members are encouraged to wade through the surf and explore before sampling catch.

I just got accepted into an underground human trafficking ring forum. Via a fake referral. For my job. To find missing children. And the person on the other end is telling me to explorebefore sampling.

I react to the message with a simple will do.

Then I set down my laptop, bolt for the bathroom, drop to my knees, and lose my dinner.