Chapter 22 #2
“About two months ago.”
“Clio, the last time you were on that platform, someone mailed a dead bouquet of roses to your PO box.”
“That was two years ago,” she says, “and I have much better safety protocols now. Also, this time I do soft content. I play games, wear something cute, and chat with nice regulars. It’s a much calmer version of my bad decisions.”
“Okay,” I say, choosing my battles. “So back to the thirst trap.”
“He’s a performer on the same platform, which is unusual because performers basically never interact publicly. But he commented on my last stream, and it’s a bigger deal than it sounds, then he messaged me.”
“See?” Aura blurts, already swiping through more of his content and turning the phone toward me again, and dear God, the man looks like he was handcrafted to make women lose their panties.
I stare for half a second too long. “Okay. Yeah. He could absolutely get a tax-paying adult woman into trouble.”
“Thank you,” Aura says, vindicated. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”
Clio rolls her eyes, but she’s trying not to smile and failing. “I told you—it’s not that serious.”
“I told you to be careful,” Aura shoots back. “And before you say it, yes, I know you are.”
“I am,” Clio says, sitting up straighter. “Trust me, after last time on there, I am being extremely careful. But also…” She lifts one shoulder. “How else are we supposed to meet hot Alphas?”
Aura throws her gaze toward the ceiling.
I laugh, because honestly, given my own recent track record, I’m not in a position to judge anybody’s taste in hot men with suspicious energy.
“That’s fair,” I say. “My current situation is hardly a glowing example of caution and restraint.”
“Exactly,” Clio says, pointing at me like I’ve just made her case for her.
Aura glances between us. “You are both exhausting.”
“Correct,” Clio says cheerfully.
I lean closer as Aura flips to another photo, and, wow, no. The man somehow gets worse. And so much better. There’s one where he’s sitting in shadow with his head tipped back and just enough of his throat showing to make the whole thing feel like a trap.
“Oh, what did he actually say?” I ask, because now I’m invested, and that’s on all of us.
Aura and I both turn to Clio.
Clio tries to shrink into her chair and somehow still looks pleased with herself. “He’s… intense. But he doesn’t say much. We’ve just been texting. It’s not a big deal.”
Aura lets out a laugh. “The more she says it’s not a big deal, the bigger the deal it is.”
Clio points at her with a sly grin. “That’s slander.”
I glance at Clio. “Did he say something normal intense or serial-killer-hot intense?”
Clio bites back a smile. “Annoyingly, the second one.”
Aura shoves the phone at me again. “Situation.”
“If it’s dark and sexy, I want details,” I insist, needing all the tea.
Aura points at me. “See? This is why I can’t be the only responsible one here.”
Clio laughs, then gives in with a sigh. “Fine. He said…” She glances down at her phone, and her whole face flusters and blushes. “Okay, it was hot. Like… offensively hot.”
“Well?” I press. “Read it.”
She bites her lip, half embarrassed, half thrilled. “I might not survive telling you. But if you—” Before she can finish, there’s a sharp rap on the glass at the front of the shop.
“Early,” Clio says, standing. “I knew it.”
“No, not yet,” I answer immediately, a bit too loudly, my gaze never leaving Clio’s.
“In a sec,” Aura screams out.
“Read it,” I say.
Clio bites back a smile, glances at the screen again, and then finally says, “He wrote… We should stream together, pretty girl. You in that tiny skirt, perched right where I want you, trying to keep that sweet face while I make it very HARD for you.”
Aura slaps a hand over her mouth.
I just stare at Clio. “Oh, that is so fucking hot.”
“Deeply hot,” Aura adds.
Another knock hits the glass.
Clio presses her lips together, failing miserably to hide her smile. “Okay, now I have to open the door.” She’s on her feet and runs to the front door, while Aura raises her eyebrows at me, nodding, and I laugh as she walks away.
She unlocks the front door, and Malia sweeps into the store, with her silver-streaked dark hair in a long, thick braid down her back, wire-rimmed glasses, and an enormous woven tote bag with wooden knitting needles poking out of it. She’s carrying a ceramic plate covered in foil.
“Girls,” she announces, delighted, “I baked some cookies. Adelaide, sweetheart, you came back! My goodness, you look thin. Have you been eating—”
I laugh and take the plate. “I’m maybe just a bit stressed, but okay.” She pulls the foil back to reveal sliced fruit in my hands. “These look divine.”
“My mother’s recipe, you must have two. Where’s Priya? I have news.”
“Oh, she’s going to be a bit late,” Clio answers, then grabs a cookie. “What’s the news?”
Malia sets her tote down on the snack table with a decisive thump and rummages inside. “I spent four hours at the library yesterday going through microfiche. You will not believe what I found.” She produces a printout and holds it up in front of her like a magician revealing a card.
“A photograph of our Rebecca with who I think are her kidnappers.”
Everyone stops.
Rebecca Hana is the case the group has been working on.
I know the basic outline of the young woman who disappeared from a parking area.
Aura, Malia, Clio, and Priya have been slowly, stubbornly, amateurishly trying to see if the police missed anything, because this is what they do with their Tuesday nights.
Clio takes the printout with both hands and stands under the nearest lamp to study it. I move behind her shoulder to see.
The photo is black and white, pretty clear for a newspaper scan. A crosswalk at night. Four figures crossing it at an angle, caught mid-step by a photographer who was probably shooting something else entirely and happened to capture them in the frame.
The figure in the front is a young woman. Curvy, shoulder-length dark hair, a light jacket. Her head is turned slightly, as if startled by something to her left.
Around her, three men.
They aren’t touching her or restraining her, yet the geometry of their positioning is exact. One to her left, one to her right, one behind her. The posture of all three is identical. Relaxed, alert, centered, the specific stance of people who are ready without looking ready.
The streetlight above the crosswalk has caught the side of one of their faces, and the material of it is throwing off a small, specific glint.
Not skin. They’re wearing black masks that sheen in a particular way.
Something cold pools in the base of my spine and spreads out.
I step around Clio’s shoulder and take the paper from her hands and move it directly under the lamp.
Three men. All three in masks. Contoured, close to the face, featureless, just the thin slit for a mouth, two dark holes for eyes, and two pinpricks for the nose.
The streetlight hits the one in the middle at exactly the angle that makes the fabric go greenish, like a dragonfly-wing, the same trick of the light I saw this afternoon from a different angle in a basement I was not supposed to be in.
The blood in my arms goes thin. What are the chances it’s the same kind of mask?
My attention moves to their bodies, their hair covered by the hoods they wear.
The tallest one is behind her. Broad through the shoulders. Long lines. He’s standing slightly apart from the other two, not obviously, but enough, the way you can tell when a person prefers to stand apart even when they’re functioning as part of a unit. North stands like that. All the time.
The one on her left is bulkier. Thicker through the chest and the arms even under a dark, long-sleeved sweatshirt, his hands loose at his sides, reminding me way too much of Luca’s form.
The one on her right is leaner and seems to be walking with half a step of extra looseness in his hips. Just like Ace.
The paper is rattling in my hands. No, this can’t be true. It makes no sense. Why would they be in this photo with the missing woman? Yet my stomach hurts so much right now.
“Adelaide?” Clio’s voice closes in.
I can’t form words. Instead, I grab her arm and pull her two steps away from Malia, who is still rummaging in her bag for something, oblivious, and I bring my mouth to Clio’s ear. “Clio. Clio, listen.”
“I am.”
“These are the same masks, exact finish with the way the light catches them. I’m telling you, I swear on my life, these are what I touched this afternoon in the guys’ basement.”
“Are you sure?”
“Clio, look at their bodies.” I’m holding the paper up so close to her face that she has to ease it back. “This is how they stand and walk, and their body shapes match them too much. God, this can’t be a coincidence.”
“Adelaide, don’t jump to conclusions. Deep breath.”
“You know me and that I pay attention. I read people.” My hands are shaking.
“I know you do, but—”
“It’s them.”
“We can’t see their faces.”
“I’m telling you, it’s them.”
She takes a long, slow intake of breath, while I’m squeezing her forearm hard enough that she winces, and I make myself let go.
“Okay,” she whispers. “I hear you, and I’m with you. Breathe with me.”
Malia has noticed us now. She’s glancing over with her head slightly tilted, curious.
“Girls,” she says. “Why are we whispering?”
Clio smiles at her, brittle, and turns back to me. “Ask her.”
“Malia.” My voice is quivering. “Does the article say anything about who they are? The men. In the photo.”
Malia nods, slowly, and steps closer. She takes the paper from me and runs her finger down the margin, where I hadn’t noticed there was dense, small-print text I’d missed.