The Sins that Ruin (Obsidian Knights Secret Society #3)

26. Scarlett

TWENTY-SIX

Malone isn’t there when I wake up in the morning.

I don’t expect to find him sleeping next to me, and when he isn’t, I tell myself I’m glad. But the lie bites at me. I ignore it, though. After a quick shower, I think about the day ahead.

It’s my day off from the Wellness Gardens. I’d usually spend it baking or hanging out with Lacey when she’s done with work. Or if I’m really bored, I’d find some work to do at Dad’s place.

When I go to make some coffee, it’s clear Malone’s not here at all.

The apartment feels empty.

I turn on the espresso machine, and then I look at the glass-covered plate in the center of the kitchen island. A smile tugs at my lips. He’s been at the cupcakes, which lifts my heart for reasons I don’t want to examine.

I drift through the apartment, wanting to be in his room, to breathe him in, but while his scent lingers in the air, the bed doesn’t look slept in.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask. “Stop creeping around his place like a lovelorn ghost. It’s pathetic.”

Turning, I march back to the kitchen, drop in a pod, and make an espresso. I wander to the outdoor balcony when I see his computer sitting on the coffee table. I already know there’s nothing on it because I’ve used it to go online. I check it again anyway.

Nothing.

Not even an open Google tab. And when I go to the search history, it’s just the sites I looked up… news feeds and a gossip site.

I grab my phone, head outside, and call Dad. Voicemail.

Hmm. “Maybe he’s working.”

Usually he answers my calls, but there are days when he doesn’t. I call Grant next. Voicemail again. I don’t know why that makes me uneasy, but it does. Usually, at least one of them will pick up. Next, I try Amelia. I clench my phone tight in my hand. No answer.

She should be on her way to school.

So many frenzied thoughts grab hold of my mind. I try to focus on something other than my family being MIA. Anything, literally anything except last night. I scrub a hand down the front of my face. No, dammit, I don’t want to think about last night. The humiliation of Malone’s threat to use me as a party favor and I—I believe that he wasn’t going to. I mean, I do now. But it still wrecked me. Made me want to commit grievous acts of violence against him.

I pace the length of the balcony, more memories bubbling up right beneath the surface of my sanity. Him tying me up and fucking me, whipping me, and then fucking me again. The first time with the vibrator, the last time with his cock.

Thinking about how insane, how almost spiritual and mind-bending the whole thing was is too much. I cried. I fucking cried. I still don’t even know why.

And it still burns shame deep and hot into me.

I gulp down the rest of my espresso and hurry back inside as if I can escape those thoughts lingering on the balcony. They still haunt me as I walk toward my bedroom.

Something catches my eye before I make it there.

The door he normally keeps locked is open a crack.

I stop and push it open.

There are parts of a watch, a set of small tools, and a notebook on the desk.

He also has a second laptop and an iPad. The iPad’s off, and it looks like he’s working out the client list, or trying to, judging by the scribble on the open notebook page.

Peering at the computer screen, I see feeds of the dock, Sugar Hill, Uncle Grant’s building, and the main office.

I frown, my stomach clenching as bile starts to churn hot and fierce.

With a shaking hand, I pick up the notebook. A folded page falls out. I open it, and the bile races up, scorching a path to my mouth.

The threats. And dates.

Normally, I’d put it down to Malone recording them so he can work out when they were sent and maybe who sent them.

Except… they don’t correspond. And…

I want to throw up.

There are ones that I know haven’t happened. Against Grant, against Dad, and against my life.

Planned threats.

“Oh. My. God. He’s behind them. He fucking made these threats.”

The room spins and I stagger, grabbing the edge of the desk to keep from falling.

The notebook falls from my fingertips. My pulse jumps into my throat, hammering the side of my throat. I practically run out of the room.

I can’t. I can’t stay here. With him.

He orchestrated it all. Had to.

Why else would he have threats that haven’t been sent?

And Amelia? Did he actually threaten and try to harm my cousin?

But she wasn’t mentioned on that piece of paper, nor were the brakes on Dad’s car.

Fuck.

No.

I can’t be here. I can’t.

“But he’ll find you.”

The words tumble from my lips.

He clearly wants me here for a reason, one that has nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with power. But if I stay here, he’ll seduce me, or maybe I’ll actually try to kill him. And I honestly don’t know which is worse.

And he knows my address.

“Lacey?” Does he know about her?

I have keys to her apartment in Columbus Circle. I quickly pack a bag and call to let her know I’m heading there, leaving a voicemail when she doesn’t answer. “Lace, I need somewhere to lay low. I’m coming to your place.”

And with that, I leave Malone’s and don’t look back.

During the morning rush hour, it takes me almost forty minutes to get from SoHo to 59th Street. There are delays and the subways are crowded. When I get out to finally breathe the fresh air, there are five missed messages on my phone. I don’t recognize the number, but they’re all from the foreman.

I call him back as I make my way to Lacey’s building on 62nd Street.

“Ms. Hanlon, sorry to bug you. But I’m looking for your father.”

“I thought he was there or at the main office.”

“No one’s seen him. Or your uncle.”

That uneasy feeling returns, twisting my gut. “Can I help you with something?”

There’s a pause, and the noise and shouts from the working dock filter through as I twist the key into the lock on the front door of Lacey’s building. I climb the stairs to her tiny third-floor apartment, waiting for him to answer.

“Did they say where they’d be?” he finally asks.

“I haven’t spoken to them.” And I haven’t. Not since before we saw Amelia. Guilt pummels me along with the unease, leaving a slick, ugly residue inside of me. “But I’m going to head to Dad’s shortly.”

I hadn’t planned on it, but now… now I think I should. Check to see if Dad left a note, or I don’t know, if he’s so snowed under he needs my help.

But it’s also not like him to ignore me, and I can’t imagine why he’d ignore the foreman.

What if something happened to Dad?

I remind myself those threats came from that liar Malone, and if the intent was to hurt him, he’d have already done it. No, he’d need to keep my dad alive; otherwise, he’d have no leverage against me. The man’s trying to manipulate us. No. He’s not fucking trying. He already has. And it ends now.

“Can I relay a message in case he’s there?”

“Sure.” The guy sounds pissed off, but I give him a pass. His job’s to make sure things move quickly and smoothly. So, if there’s an issue he needs Dad or Grant for and they’re not available, I don’t blame him for being salty.

“Hang on.” I unlock Lacey’s door, dump my overnight bag on the floor, and grab some paper and pen. “Okay, what’s the message?”

“There’s an issue with shipment number DDa4, so if you can have one of them call me back ASAP, that’d be great. Let them know it’s delayed.”

When I hang up, I scribble a note for Lacey, letting her know I have to run errands and don’t know when I’ll be back. Then I lock up and leave.

The trip to Sugar Hill is faster, since this time I’m moving against the people coming into Manhattan for work.

The townhouse is locked up and dark. I turn off the alarm and walk inside. “Dad?”

No answer. The silence is deafening,

And there’s no note. Nothing to indicate where he might be.

I walk through the house. His bed hasn’t been slept in, but clothes spill from his normally neat closet, almost like he took off in a hurry.

Which is weird. The queasiness in my gut turns into hard concrete, and the unease begins to morph into dread. Dad wouldn’t take off without leaving me a message. And he certainly wouldn’t go without letting the foreman know, or making sure he could be reached.

Unless some emergency came up.

I know he has money in other businesses, investments, and his friends are spread across the country. What if he had to deal with something quickly and didn’t think he’d be gone long?

What if something bad has happened?

Shit. I don’t have any numbers of his friends or colleagues, and people don’t keep address books anymore. If something happened… I’d have gotten some kind of call, right?

“Don’t panic.”

But my words are vacuous, void of trust and faith.

I leave a note for my father as well as the message from the foreman. I’m on my way up to my room to grab some of my clothes when a ringing sound jolts me.

My phone’s on vibrate. I furrow my brow and look around.

I choke on a gasp when my eyes drop to his work phone on the floor.

The cold dread hits hard like a vicious punch.

I pick it up and answer. “Dad?”

“No, bitch. Not your fucking Daddy.”

My whole body vibrates with fear. An icy sensation snakes through, clutching my heart and squeezing.

I don’t recognize the voice. I don’t know who it is. It could be anyone because it sounds weird, distorted.

“Who is this?”

“I’m the man calling about Amelia. I figured your dad would answer. But you can take a message.”

“Leave her alone?—”

“Shut the fuck up, bitch. I have Amelia. If you want her back, come to 154 Ardman Way, Brooklyn. Warehouse five. Bring the bank account numbers. And the list.”

The list?

“Okay.”

“You have an hour, no police, or she dies.”

The phone goes dead.

I don’t know what the fuck the list is. The client list that Malone wants is the only one I can think of, but why?—?

Everything in me freezes.

Malone.

It’s too much of a coincidence to have it not be him.

Shit, shit, shit. I look around, opening and closing drawers, and rifling through things in an increasing panic as I search for a notebook.

There’s a small hardback one I’ve seen. It’s got a bunch of dates and names. I think it might be a roster or something. It’s old, down at the bottom of the lowest drawer, and I’m betting, judging from the dates, Dad hasn’t touched this since the early days of the business.

It’ll do. I need something to bring this lunatic. I have no idea what kind of a list he means but it’s all I have to give him.

I open Dad’s computer and pull up my bank details, since I have no way of getting into the business ones. I copy everything I need, then I race upstairs and unlock Dad’s bedroom safe. With my heart thrashing in my chest, I grab the gun and bullets.

I realize I don’t know how to shoot a gun, but worst case, I’ll bash Malone in the face with it.

It’s got to be him. It has to be. He’s been so hot on getting his hands on that list, and all attempts have failed. He has to be desperate.

I take a few shaky breaths. He won’t hurt Amelia. I know that. No matter what he is, there’s no way he could be so nice and good to her and then harm her. He said it himself. She’s just a kid.

Maybe I’m being na?ve, but I can’t see it.

I order an Uber and race downstairs, almost tripping over my own feet. I shove everything into my bag and lock up, resetting the alarm.

One thing twists my brain. Why the fuck would Malone want money? Or anything other than the list? The place he lives in is worth millions. The club he owns is raking in money, too. It’s got to be. Kink is in.

When the car arrives, I jump into the back seat and try to keep my head from spinning.

Maybe the money’s a ruse and he wants to steal Dad’s client list for himself.

He might think I know where it is and lied to him about that, so now he’s resorting to more desperate measures.

I clench and unclench my fingers.

If I keep thinking these things, I feel better, because Malone might be a snake in the grass, but he’s not going to hurt Amelia. And I don’t think he’ll hurt me, either.

It takes almost an hour to get out to the industrial part of Brooklyn.

“Are you gonna be okay getting out here?” the Uber driver asks with a cautious look around.

All the buildings look abandoned, and an eerie chill licks at the hairs on the back of my neck as I creep around.

“Yes. Thanks.” I get out and start walking. I find 154 and walk toward the row of warehouses. The door to number five is open.

I reach into the bag and palm the gun.

And then, with blood rushing between my temples, knowing this is possibly one of the dumbest things I’ve ever done, I walk inside.

It takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the low light, but it’s obvious no one’s here.

The place is empty, dank, and cold. When I reach the room at the very back, I stop, my stomach knotting. I clap a hand over my mouth to keep from throwing up at what I see.

On the floor are old mattresses. Stains and blood are soaked into them, and it’s one of the vilest things I’ve seen. Chains hang from the back wall.

It looks like one of the worst porn movie setups. Not the typical ones in nice places, but the underground ones you hear about, ones where they kidnap or trick girls into playing a role and then rape them on film for sick male fantasies.

Oh my God… Amelia.

There are some papers and a backpack on the floor, and I race to the pack and crouch to get it and open it.

As I pull open the zipper, a small sound behind me makes me jump.

I see the shadow too late.

Before I can grab the gun, before I can even open my mouth to scream, a hand slams down over my mouth.