Chapter Fifty-Four
He hesitated before knocking. Ash’s twin sister.
This wasn’t how it should’ve gone. Ash should’ve met her first, had that moment for himself.
But Ash was missing, maybe dying, and Rick didn’t have the luxury of waiting for perfect reunions.
He rubbed the back of his neck, drew a slow breath, and rapped his knuckles against the polished wood.
A shuffle stirred inside—muffled voices, the soft pad of feet—then the latch gave with a click.
The man who opened the door wore nothing but snug charcoal trunks and a self-satisfied smirk, a model of undressed charm.
Tall, broad-shouldered, early thirties, tawny hair tousled, blue eyes glistening with diablerie.
The scent that came with him—cologne, heat, sweat—was sharp enough to sting Rick’s nose.
“Yes?” he drawled, folding his arms and leaning against the frame.
“Detective Slade, CMPD.” Rick’s voice came out low, roughened by urgency. “I need to speak with Miss Gardner.”
The man’s smile curved, lazy, unbothered. “Babe, it’s for you!” he called over his shoulder. He stepped aside, waving Rick in with the smugness of someone used to being the guest, not the host. “Don’t take too long, pal. We were just about to… get down to business.”
Rick’s jaw tightened as he crossed the threshold.
Inside, the condo bloomed with lush, classical splendor: velvet drapes spilling from high, arched windows; orchids crowding crystal vases on low tables; the faint purr of a record spinning slow jazz.
The furniture gleamed with velour and brass under a chandelier dripping with crystal fire, the carpets thick enough to swallow a man’s footsteps.
The air was rich with scented candles and chilled white wine, with the heat of bodies, present and past. A trail of discarded clothing—shirt, trousers, shoes—led deeper into the apartment like breadcrumbs of lust.
Rick’s mouth hardened. A quick tumble before lunch. And he was interrupting. Again, he thought about how he shouldn’t be here. Not in her world, not before Ash had even seen her. This meeting should’ve meant something. Instead, it felt like trespass.
“Who’s there, Glen?” came a voice from the bedroom, honey over ice.
She stepped into the doorway, wrapped in a gown of liquid satin the color of champagne, clinging and flowing at once, a slit whispering up one thigh as she moved closer.
Lush black hair poured down her face and over her shoulders, peekaboo style, catching the light like obsidian, the faint shimmer of perfume trailing her like a promise meant for someone else.
She wore feather stiletto slippers—casual, effortless, decadent—and for a heartbeat, Rick forgot why he was there.
Ivy was stunning the way a diamond dims the world around it: luminous, breathtaking, almost unreal.
He expected it, but the sculpted face, the full red lips, the violet eyes—Ash’s eyes—still caught him off guard.
It was like seeing the same soul refracted through another body, Ash’s beauty softened, rendered in porcelain instead of marble.
Yet even as he admired her, a quiet truth coiled inside: he’d once thought she was perfection, if not for her brother.
She was flawless, yes—but his soul craved a diamond of another kind.
“The gumshoe wants to talk to you,” Glen murmured, brushing her cheek with his lips before his hand slid down to give her a playful swat on the ass.
“I’ll wait in bed. Don’t keep me long.” She only smiled, that slow feline curve of amusement, and Glen disappeared into her boudoir, the sound of sheets rustling coming from within.
Ivy glided into the living room, motioning Rick to sit. “What can I do for you, Detective?” she asked, voice smooth as silk, eyes gleaming amethysts behind a veil of lashes.
Rick cleared his throat, forcing his focus. “I need to ask a few questions.” He took the armchair opposite her as she sank gracefully into a curved white sofa, crossing one long leg over the other, the slit in her gown sliding provocatively high.
She reached for a silver lighter, its spark flaring to kiss the tip of her cigarette before she drew in a slow breath, exhaling toward the chandelier.
Smoke coiled upward, wrapping her in a ghostly halo.
“Questions about what?” she asked, reclining amid the cushions.
Her gaze roamed over him, unhurried, halting when it reached his face.
A smile fluttered across her lips. “What does the police want with little old me?”
Rick clasped his hands together, leaning forward and trying not to notice the shimmer of her bare leg. “This’ll sound strange,” he said, “but I want to know about your dreams.”
Her smile curved wider, the teasing deepening. “That’s a first,” she murmured. “Most men aren’t that interested in what happens when I’m asleep.”
“Guess I’m not most men,” Rick said dryly.
For a moment, the smoke between them shivered, a spark of caution flickering in her stare. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s for a case.” He swallowed, feeling the absurdity of it scrape his throat. “I can’t tell you more than that. But please believe me—it’s important. Have you had any dreams lately that stood out? Something vivid. Unusual.”
She studied him, cigarette poised, amusement fading to unease. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Please,” he said, the word almost breaking. “Tell me everything.”
Her lips parted, then closed. The tease drained from her face.
She looked away, tapping ash delicately into a crystal tray, lost somewhere far from the room’s perfume and light.
“It started about a week ago,” she whispered.
“The nightmares. I dreamt I was taken somewhere underground. There were candles everywhere, and the air was wet, heavy. An X-shaped cross stood in the corner.” She drew another drag, her hand trembling slightly as she bit a polished nail, expression distant.
“But last night… it was so much sharper. I was trapped in some kind of round chamber, and I couldn’t move. I couldn’t get out.”
Rick gripped the armrests to keep from showing how hard his heart was hammering in his chest. “Is that all you remember?” His voice came rough, almost pleading.
She frowned, searching her memory. “I could smell the river. Or sewage, maybe. There was also a sound. A drip, steady. And something else, low, far away. Like… like a distant thunder. That’s all.”
From the bedroom came Glen’s shout, impatient and playful: “Babe! Either tell that copper to join us or send him packing!”
Rick was already standing, haste knotting his muscles. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.
The mask slipped over her like lace. She smiled through the smoke, eyes sultry.
“Please excuse my latest admirer,” she purred.
“He’s new and not very smart.” Rising, she drifted closer, her perfume wrapping around Rick.
“Though he’s got a point.” Her fingers slid down his tie, gaze heavy-lidded. “So… what do you say, Detective?”
Rick’s expression stayed unreadable. “Sorry, doll. Not my scene.” He tipped his hat, lips tightening. Besides, I already got my hands full with your twin.
Her laughter rippled low and warm as she led him toward the exit. “A cop with principles,” she said, opening it with a soft click. “How quaint.” She paused, one hand on the frame, studying him. “I hope you solve your case.”
So do I, he thought, holding her stare for a moment before stepping back into the hush of the hallway. The door shut behind him, sealing her charms inside. He drew a breath heavy with resolve and strode toward the elevator. So do I.
The weight of Ivy’s words pressed behind his ribs as he emerged onto the ground floor and crossed the marble foyer, reflections of the storm streaking down the glass front like veins. He checked his phone before the revolving doors spun him out into the gray afternoon.
‘64 Willow Lane, Carfax,’ Kitty’s message read. Gordon’s family home address.
He knew the place. Old Town, Calgrave’s crumbling heart, where time had gilded the rooftops and then forgotten them.
The cracked stone facades full of history still whispered of ballroom nights and brass bands, but the gilt was peeling, the beauty tired beneath its paint.
Allure and corruption in the same breath.
Carfax lay by the river, close to the Blue Bridge.
Lightning cracked across the sky—sharp, roaring—and something in Rick’s gut locked into place.
A sound like distant thunder. Not weather.
A train. The Blue Line ran under the Bellona River at that exact stretch, its steel coaches rumbling through the Stanwyck tunnel and rattling the ground every half hour.
Willow Lane sat right next to those tracks, just past where they surfaced again.
Christ. That’s it. That has to be it.
He swung into the driver’s seat and slammed the door behind him, shutting out the downpour’s drumming.
The brim of his hat streamed water, droplets running off in rivulets along his shoulders.
The engine flared to life, gauges lighting up, and before the echo faded, he was already pulling away from the curb.
Tires hissed over the flooded asphalt, spray leaping behind him as he floored it through the streaming traffic.
Rick gritted his teeth, knuckles white on the wheel. The wipers beat a frantic rhythm as the streets blurred past, silvered by the thunderstorm. Every light, every block, every breath was now a countdown.
Hold on, kid. Please, hold on.