Chapter 15
Iris
How many shoes does one person need? No, seriously.
I’ve been in this damn dressing room for over an hour, and I still haven’t gotten through all the shoe boxes, ninety-nine percent of them filled with sky-high stilettoes.
When does Britney even wear these? I haven’t seen her wear anything other than her sneakers at the compound.
Maybe she collects them as a hobby. What the fuck do I know?
Not like I imagine Erik would hide his murder trophies in Britney’s shoe boxes, but I have to check, just in case.
Besides, I’ve already looked everywhere I could think of: under the mattress and bed, in the air vents, under the picture frames, in his socks and underwear drawers.
Not only that, but I also dug through the soil in their potted plants.
Hell, I even checked the floorboards to see if one would move.
And I still came out empty. Looking from the outside, you would think Erik’s life was picture-perfect.
However, I know it was only a facade. I just need to find the cracks.
“Anything?” Noah asks as he props his hip in the door frame.
“Other than Britney’s unhealthy shoe obsession?” I shake my head and blow out a frustrated breath, making the tendrils of hair that escaped my braid dance. Then I flick my gaze to him after closing the last shoe box. “You?”
“Nope. But there’s still the office. I figured we could look there together. I’ve already checked the kitchen and the living room.”
“Even under the smoke alarm?”
“Yeah.”
Damn it.
When we’re done ensuring everything looks how we found it, hours have passed.
Good thing Noah is here. We then make our way to the office.
Like the rest of the apartment, this room doesn’t say serial killer in the slightest—light gray painted walls, minimalist desk, black leather executive chair, a walnut bookshelf, and a love seat next to it in the corner.
Judging by the lack of pink, I don’t think Britney spends much time in here.
The only things that stand out are the three paintings perched on the wall behind the desk, which seem to tell a story.
The first depicts a scantily clad woman riding a red beast that has seven heads with horns.
She’s surrounded by a hoard of demons as though she commands them.
The story changes in the second—seven men wearing crowns appear amongst the demons.
They’re kneeling before her. The third is the most gruesome: an archangel holds the head of the now dead woman, her blood gushing in a crimson river over the slain beast, while the demons run for their lives.
Tendrils of light touch the foreheads of the seven kings, who are standing with their heads tilted skyward as if thanking divinity.
It’s an allegory told through the strokes of a brush.
The message is loud and clear: good conquers evil.
However, it leaves me with an oily feeling because it is one portrait of millions that only serve to perpetuate the patriarchal society we live in.
That if a woman is not the perfect Stepford wife and dares to embrace her sexuality, she’s the portrayal of evil—the whore who commits spiritual adultery with the beast/demon and uses her body to manipulate.
To bring men to their knees. And there is nothing worse than that. After all, lust is a cardinal sin.
I know others wouldn’t catch the subtle meaning, but to me, these images scream of Erik’s deep hate of women.
I wonder if, in his fucked-up head of his, he was excusing every murder by doing God’s work.
His words ring inside my head, “Stay still! I need to cleanse that demon from your body.” Surely, his lightborn blood made him some sort of righteous savior in his mind—like the archangel in the painting.
But who knows? It’s too late to ask him now, anyway.
Ripping my gaze away, I stride toward the desk to sit down on the chair. The leather creaks softly under my weight. “Do you think Timothy already went through Erik’s computer?”
“Knowing Grayson, it’s a pretty big possibility. I don’t think he would leave any stone unturned.”
I ponder his words before powering the PC. “Yeah, you’re right, but if Timothy did look, it surely was for signs of someone having the intention to hurt Erik, not the other way around.”
But any hope I had fizzles out when I see that the computer isn’t even password protected.
You would think it’s a good thing, but why would someone with something to hide leave his computer unprotected?
If Erik was a serial killer, we won’t find anything incriminatory in there, that’s for sure.
So, I don’t even bother looking. It’s a waste of time, and we have little left of that anyway because Britney should be back from her hellseeker shift soon.
“I’ll take the drawers. Will you look through the bookshelf?”
Noah nods before rifling through the dusty books in the corner. Not much of a reader, eh, Erik?
“So, how come you’re staying at the compound?
I imagined you would be more comfortable living in your old house.
” I’m not proud to admit how I know Noah held on to his parents’ house: I frequently checked online real estate property records over the five years he was gone to see if he’d sold it or not.
If he still held on to it, it meant he had a reason to come back.
Yeah, trust me, I’m aware of how lame I sound.
He could have made a lot of money from it since his parents were filthy rich.
Though, you couldn’t tell by looking at Noah because he always dressed off the rack, and he was never a snob or made me feel inferior.
Moreover, he could have had any car he wanted, but he chose to save his hellseeker salary for over a year to buy Betsy—his beat-up Kia.
That’s one of the many reasons I fell so easily for him.
“When I landed in Ashville, I took a cab straight to the house. You remember Robert, our butler?”
“Yeah.”
“He and his wife Maria still live there, and they take care of everything. I’ve been paying their salaries over the years, but I never kept in contact.
I told you about the no-attachments-to-the-past rule the Kabal imposes on us.
” He chuckles softly. “Maria almost had a heart attack when she saw me. She was tending to the azaleas on the front lawn. The ones my mother loved so much.” There’s a pause as he sighs, a forlorn expression on his face.
“Anyway, I couldn’t get inside. My feet stopped working when I reached the front door.
Maria and Robert were upset I didn’t stay, but I couldn’t bring myself to get past the threshold.
All these memories of my parents flashed before my eyes.
I got Betsy out of the garage and bolted out of there. Maybe someday…”
I know the feeling. I haven’t been back to my apartment since I left Kaiden’s penthouse.
I can’t. It’s too damn hard. I know I have to eventually.
But my safe haven—the place I was so proud to call home—became infinitesimally better when Kaiden lived with me.
The short time we spent together between those walls made me realize a home is not made out of bricks and mortar, but of flesh and bones, a beating heart, and a warm chest to lay your head on.
Not a place but a person.
Kaiden was my home.
Now, the rooms are haunted by the ghosts of us laughing in the kitchen while he whipped up something quick for dinner, watching movies together on the couch, and him holding me every night to chase my nightmares away. And I know I’m not strong enough to face them yet.
I blink back to reality and continue rummaging through the drawers.
“Fuck,” I let out under my breath when both Noah and I come up empty. Again. Frustration has me gnashing my teeth as I plonk down on the loveseat unceremoniously. Short of slashing through the furniture and pillows, we searched in every single nook and cranny we could think of.
Noah takes a seat next to me. He heaves out a defeated sigh. “Maybe we should go through his computer after all.”
“There’s not much time left.” I purse my lips, eyes fixated on the three paintings. Then it hits me—the freakin’ paintings. Huffing in disbelief at my stupidity, I jump up, startling Noah.
“What are you doing?”
I don’t answer. My legs eat up the space to the back of the room in three long strides. I lift the first canvas to look behind it. Nothing. Then the second. Again, nothing. But when I look behind the third.
Bingo.
Taped to its back are a flash drive and a key. I unstick them with careful movements, then beam at Noah when I turn around to show him what I’ve found.
“Finally! You’re a genius,” he says as he pushes up from the loveseat and strides toward me, pulling me into his arms to twirl me in a circle.
A surprised squeak leaves me. My whole body stiffens, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
When he stops spinning and settles me down, happiness dances in his eyes, turning them to burnished steel.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as he brushes my hair behind my ear. His hungry gaze drops to my lips.
The caress is soft, but it grates on my skin like sandpaper.
Alarm bells go off in my head. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong, every cell in my body shrieks.
Is he really trying to kiss me after our earlier discussion about Erik’s assault?
I push back, but he dips at the same time.
His lips seal over mine, his arms still bands around me like steel.
He takes advantage of my surprised gasp to force his tongue in my mouth with a guttural groan.
What the fuck?
In a flash, I’m thrown back into the dark alley with Erik on top of me and blinding panic sinks its talon-tipped claws into my lungs. I shove him back. Noah’s back hits the wall with a loud thud.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” I bellow. My hands ball into tight fists at my side.