33. Maya
33
MAYA
I t’s been two weeks of bliss with Adrian when I’m sitting at my desk, scrolling through industry news, when a headline catches my eye: “Renowned Chocolatier Thomas Laurent Questions Vale’s Methods.” My heart skips a beat.
“There’s something not quite right about those Valentine’s collections,” Laurent states in the article. “The FDA has strict regulations about ingredients, yet Vale refuses to disclose his full list.”
My fingers tremble as I read further. Laurent plans to hire private investigators to look into Adrian’s supply chain and manufacturing processes.
I grab my phone to text Adrian, but I pause. The last thing I want is to cause him unnecessary stress, but he needs to know.
“Have you seen the Chocolate Weekly article?” I type.
Adrian’s response comes instantly. “Laurent’s always been jealous. Don’t worry.”
But I do worry. I’ve tasted Laurent’s creations before—they’re technically perfect but lack Adrian’s emotional depth. Now I understand why. Laurent can’t replicate that.
My phone buzzes again. “Come to the boutique. Now.”
I grab my coat and rush out. The February wind whips at my face as I hurry down Michigan Avenue. I spot Adrian in his pristine white chef’s coat through the boutique’s window, calmly tempering chocolate as if nothing’s wrong.
Inside, the rich scent of melted chocolate envelops me. Adrian doesn’t look up from his work.
“Laurent’s been trying to replicate my recipes for years,” he says, spreading liquid chocolate across the marble. “He’ll never succeed.”
“He’s hiring investigators.”
“Let him.” Adrian’s knife scrapes across the surface, creating perfect chocolate curls. “Our ingredients are carefully sourced and only we know about it. There’s nothing to trace.”
I watch his steady hands work the chocolate, remembering how those same hands extracted Reynolds’ blood with surgical precision. “What if they start asking questions about your suppliers?”
Adrian finally meets my gaze. “Then we’ll need to be more selective about who tastes our special collection this Easter.”
The bell chimes at the boutique’s entrance. I look up from arranging display truffles to see Amelia, her face ghost-white, mascara smeared beneath her eyes.
“We need to talk. Now.” Her voice cracks.
I guide her to the back room, away from curious customers. “What’s wrong?”
“I was at The Blue Room, in Gabe’s office.” Her hands shake as she clutches her purse. “I knocked over some files while waiting for him and... Maya, there were photos. Horrible photos.”
My stomach drops. “Amelia?—”
“People tied up. Blood everywhere.” She grabs my arm. “And there were pictures of you too. From before you met Adrian. They’d been watching you.”
“Let me explain?—”
“Explain what? That my best friend is involved with murderers?” Tears streak down her face. “I found recipes, too. Special ingredients. Human ingredients. Tell me I’m wrong, Maya. Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”
I can’t meet her eyes. Can’t lie to her anymore.
“Oh my God!” She stumbles backward. “The chocolates. All those exclusive tastings. That’s why they taste so different.”
“It’s more complicated than that?—”
“Is it? Because it seems pretty simple to me. You’re helping them kill people.”
“Only the ones who deserve it,” I whisper.
Amelia’s hand flies to her mouth. “Listen to yourself! These are people’s lives we’re talking about!”
“You don’t understand what they did, who they really were?—”
“And you do? Since when did you become judge, jury, and executioner?” She backs toward the door. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
“I’m still me. I’m still your friend.”
“My friend wouldn’t help serial killers make candy out of their victims.”
“We’re not monsters, Amelia.” I reach for her hand, but she pulls away. “We choose our targets carefully. These aren’t innocent people.”
“Like Marcus Reynolds?” Her voice shakes. “The food critic?”
“He was destroying small restaurants, families who’d put everything into their dreams. He’d send back dishes during rush hour and write scathing reviews unless they paid him off.” I take a deep breath. “But that was just the beginning. We’ve found worse. Much worse.”
I retrieve my phone and show her the evidence we’ve gathered—documents revealing a human trafficking ring operating through certain high-end restaurants. Her eyes widen as she scrolls through.
“These girls...” she whispers.
“Brought in as ‘kitchen staff.’ Never seen again.” My hands clench. “The police are bought off. The owners are protected by powerful people. No one helps them.”
Amelia sinks into a chair, her face pale. After a long moment, she says, “Remember Gregory Walsh?”
“The gallery owner?”
“He promised to showcase my work. Said I had real talent.” Her voice hardens. “But there was a price. When I refused, he blacklisted me. Three other female artists came forward later with similar stories. He still runs the biggest gallery in Chicago.”
“That’s why we do this,” I say softly. “Because sometimes the system protects the predators.”
She looks at me, really looks at me, for the first time since she found those files. “I understand wanting justice. But murder, Maya?”
“We give them what they deserve. No more, no less.” I meet her gaze. “And yes, we use their blood. It’s our way of transforming them into something meaningful.”
Amelia rubs her temples. “This is insane. But I get it. God help me, I actually get it.”
I study Amelia’s face as understanding dawns in her eyes. Her information processing has always been different—methodical, pattern-seeking, and exact. For example, she arranges her paint tubes by color temperature rather than just basic hues. She can spot minute details in compositions that others miss completely.
“You see things differently, too, don’t you?” I ask softly. “That’s why you can break down art into its fundamental elements.”
She nods slowly. “I notice everything. Sometimes, too much. The textures, the subtle color shifts, the geometric relationships...” Her fingers tap rapidly on her knee—a self-soothing gesture I’ve seen countless times. “People think I’m obsessive about details, but I can’t help seeing all the layers.”
“Like how you knew Walsh was dangerous before anyone else came forward?”
“His smile never reached his eyes. And he’d arrange meetings at odd hours, always changing the time last minute.” Her body trembles. “The patterns were there.”
“That’s how I experience emotions through the taste of food. The layers, the subtle shifts.” I pause. “And that’s how we identify our victims because their actions form patterns, too.”
“Predatory patterns,” Amelia whispers. Her hands flutter to arrange the pens on the nearby desk into perfect parallel lines. “Like Walsh. Like those restaurant owners.”
“Exactly. We see what others miss. Society calls us different, but maybe we just process the world more thoroughly.”
Amelia’s eyes meet mine, sharp with recognition. “That’s why you and Adrian connected so deeply. You both see beyond the surface.”
“Yes.” I reach for her hand, and she keeps herself rooted this time. “We’re not monsters, Amelia. We’re just different. And we use our differences to protect others who can’t see the dangers we can.”
I walk Amelia to the boutique’s door, my heart pounding against my ribs. She pauses at the threshold, her artist’s hands fidgeting with her scarf.
“I need time to process this,” she says. “I’m going home to get some perspective.”
“I understand.” The words catch in my throat. “Thank you for listening.”
She gives me a tight nod and steps out into the cold Chicago afternoon. I watch her figure disappear around the corner before turning back inside.
Adrian stands at his workstation, methodically tempering a batch of dark chocolate.
“What was that about?” His knife scrapes across the marble with mechanical precision.
I take a deep breath. “She found some files in Gabe’s office. Photos. Recipes.” My fingers trace patterns on the cool counter. “She knows everything.”
The knife stops mid-stroke. Adrian’s knuckles whiten around the handle.
“Everything?” His voice drops to that dangerous whisper I’ve come to recognize.
“The special ingredients. The victims. She saw pictures of me from before we met.” I step closer to him. “She knows you were watching me.”
Adrian’s jaw clenches. The chocolate on his spatula starts to set as he processes this information.
“This complicates things.” He sets down his tools with deliberate care. “Gabe will need to be more careful with his documentation.”
“She won’t tell anyone,” I say quickly. “I explained about the trafficking ring. She understands why we do this.”
Adrian turns to face me. “Understanding isn’t the same as accepting. Or keeping quiet.”
I watch Adrian’s face harden, those elegant features transforming into something predatory. I grip the marble counter to steady myself.
“Promise me something,” I whisper. “Promise that you and Gabe won’t hurt her.”
Adrian’s fingers trace the blade of his chocolate knife. “That depends entirely on her discretion.”
“I need your word, Adrian.” My voice grows stronger. “Amelia is innocent in all this.”
He sets down the knife and cups my face, his touch deceptively gentle. “Very well. As long as she keeps her mouth shut, no harm will come to her.” His thumb strokes my cheek. “But understand this—one hint that she will expose us, and I’ll gut her myself.”
A shudder runs through me at his words. The contrast is jarring hearing this sophisticated man in his pristine chef’s coat speaking of murder with such casual brutality. Those same hands were crafting delicate chocolate curls with artistic precision just minutes ago.
“How do you do that?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“Switch so easily between...” I gesture at his workstation, the perfectly tempered chocolate. “This. And violence.”
His smile is razor-sharp. “They’re not so different, Maya. Both require precision, patience, and attention to detail. The medium simply changes.”
My stomach churns at how calmly he discusses it. I can’t deny the thrill that runs through me, knowing I’m one of only two people who truly knows both sides of him—the artist and the killer.
“I’ll talk to her again,” I say. “Make sure she understands the consequences.”
I watch Adrian’s hands resume their work with the chocolate, his movements precise and controlled despite the tension in his shoulders. The late afternoon sun streams through the boutique’s windows, casting long shadows across the marble countertop.
“I’ll give her until tomorrow,” I say, steadying my voice. “She needs time to process everything she learned.”
Adrian’s knife scrapes against the marble, creating perfect chocolate curls. “Twenty-four hours.”
“Yes. I’ll go see her first thing in the morning.” I step closer, placing my hand on his arm. “She’s my best friend, Adrian. She deserves a chance.”
He sets down his tools and turns to face me, his expression unreadable. “Your loyalty to her is admirable. But remember where your true allegiance lies now.”
“I know exactly where I belong.” I meet his gaze. “Trust me to handle this.”
Adrian’s features soften slightly. He cups my face with chocolate-warmed fingers. “Very well. Tomorrow morning.” His fingers ghost across my throat. “But if she proves unreceptive to your explanation?—”
“She won’t.” I press my palm against his chest, feeling his heartbeat. “Let me talk to her. Please.”
After a long moment, he nods. “Handle it however you see fit.”
I lean up and kiss him softly. “I will fix this.”
My mind racing, I step out of the boutique into the biting February wind. The weight of Adrian’s threat about Amelia sits heavy in my chest. Twenty-four hours.
The words loop in my head with each click of my heels against the sidewalk.
A text notification jolts my phone, and I see it’s from my editor about a deadline, but I can’t focus on work right now. Not when my best friend knows our secrets. Not when Adrian’s words about gutting her echo in my ears.
I pause at a crosswalk, watching my breath cloud in the cold air. Amelia has been there for me through failed relationships, career struggles, and family drama. She’s the one person who’s never judged or abandoned me. Until now, maybe.
But Adrian... my Adrian. He understands me in ways no one else ever has. The way he sees the world, the way he transforms evil into beauty through his creations. I touch my neck where his marks still linger, remembering how completely he owns me.
A horn blares, snapping me from my thoughts. I’ve been standing at the green light, lost in my head. Other pedestrians brush past, shooting me irritated looks.
I start walking again, but my feet feel like lead. How did I end up here? Caught between my oldest friend and the man who awakened something twisted in me?
My reflection catches in a store window, and I can’t ignore how haunted and pale I look.
I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over Amelia’s number. What can I possibly say to make her understand? How do I protect her without betraying Adrian?
The cold seeps through my coat as I stand there, torn between two worlds. One safe and familiar, the other dangerous and intoxicating. Both are equally vital to who I’ve become.