Chapter 39
Julian
The five-minute drive to BHU felt more like five hours. Every minute I spent away from Violet was a minute she was potentially vulnerable, even with Dean stationed outside her door.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel as I thought about the hooded figure from the October footage.
Whoever it was, they were methodical. Patient.
Dangerous. And they'd been operating right under my nose the entire time I'd been surveilling Violet.
Watching her. Threatening her. Trying to scare her into stopping.
I should’ve noticed. Should’ve seen the signs.
Guilt twisted in my gut, but I shoved it down. It wasn't useful right now. Finding evidence was. That way I could track down and punish this motherfucker, whoever he was.
I pulled into the university parking lot and headed straight for Violet's dorm building. It was mid-afternoon, and the halls were relatively quiet, because most students were in class or at the library.
I'd kept a key to her room from when I'd been breaking in regularly, and I used it now, slipping inside and closing the door behind me with a soft click. Then I pulled on a pair of latex gloves from my pocket and got to work.
The bed was the obvious starting place. I dropped to my knees and examined the frame carefully, looking for any dark stains that might have been missed.
Nothing.
The mattress was new. I could tell from the tags still attached to the corner. They'd replaced it entirely after the incident. Smart, but unhelpful.
I moved to the walls next, checking the area where Violet said the message had been daubed. It had been scrubbed clean and repainted, the fresh paint still faintly evident in the way it caught the light differently than the rest of the room. No traces of blood remained.
The carpet was worn and dingy, the kind of industrial-grade stuff they put in dorm rooms because it was cheap and durable. I examined it inch by inch, looking for any discoloration that might indicate blood.
Most of it was spotless. The cleanup crew had done their job well.
But then I noticed something. The bed had been moved slightly since the incident; probably shifted when they replaced the mattress.
And beneath where one of the bed legs now sat, just barely visible at the edge of the frame, was a small section of carpet that looked slightly darker than the rest.
I crouched down, eyes narrowing.
The bed leg was sitting partially on top of a patch of carpet that hadn't been scrubbed as thoroughly as the rest. It had been hidden beneath the leg during the cleanup and therefore mostly protected from the cleaning solution.
I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight, angling it to get a better look. It was definitely darker than the surrounding fibers. Could be dirt, or a stain from something else.
Or… it could be blood.
I pulled a small utility knife from my pocket and carefully lifted the edge of the carpet. The fibers were stiff in a way that suggested something had dried there. I cut a small square, maybe two inches by two inches, working carefully to avoid contaminating the sample.
Once I had it free, I held it up to the light. The discoloration was visible on the underside too, where dark liquid had soaked through the top layer and settled into the backing.
This was it. The sample I needed.
I pulled a plastic evidence bag from my jacket pocket—I'd come prepared—and sealed the carpet square inside, making sure to press out any air before sealing it completely. Then I stood and surveyed the room one more time to make sure I hadn't missed anything.
I hadn’t.
I left, locking the door behind me, and headed back to my car. Once I was inside, I pulled out my phone and dialed the concierge service again.
Two rings. “Concierge service. Name and code, please.”
“Julian Valcourt. Code seven-seven-four-nine-delta.”
“Verified. How may we assist you, Mr. Valcourt?”
“I need a lab,” I said. “Somewhere that can analyze a blood sample as soon as possible.”
“What type of analysis are you requesting?"
“Species identification. I’m fairly sure the sample is from an animal, and I need to know what kind. And, if possible, I need it traced back to where it was sourced. Butcher, slaughterhouse, or whatever.”
“Understood. One moment, please.”
I heard the clicking of keys on a keyboard as the operator searched the network.
“There’s a facility down in New Rochelle that can accommodate your request right away," she said. “Westchester Forensic Services on Crosby Avenue. I'm sending you the address now, along with a priority authorization code. Give them the code when you arrive, and they'll expedite your sample.”
My phone buzzed with a text containing the address and a string of numbers.
“Thanks. Send them a heads-up that I'm on my way.”
“Already done, Mr. Valcourt. Is there anything else?”
“No. That's all.”
“We're here if you need us.”
The line disconnected. I started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, entering the lab's address into my GPS.
I pulled into the parking lot of Westchester Forensic Services thirty-three minutes later. The building was sleek and modern, all glass and steel. I grabbed the evidence bag and headed inside.
A man in a white lab coat met me at the reception desk. “Mr. Valcourt?”
“That's me.”
“Right this way, please.”
He led me through a security door into a pristine laboratory space. Stainless steel counters, state-of-the-art equipment, everything spotlessly clean.
“I'll need you to fill out a chain of custody form,” he said, pulling out a tablet. “Standard procedure. Where did you obtain the sample?”
“Carpet from a residential location. Potential blood evidence.”
He nodded, making notes. “And what exactly are you looking for?”
“I need to know what sort of animal the blood comes from, and if possible, the source.”
“Right.” He took the evidence bag from me, holding it up to examine the carpet square in the light. “Definitely looks like there’s some kind of biological material here.”
“How long will results take?” I asked.
He pursed his lips, considering. “We should have preliminary results within three hours. Maybe a little more. But full sourcing analysis will take longer.”
“Three hours?” My brows shot up. “Are you serious?”
He shrugged. “That’s how long it takes.”
My jaw clenched. This guy’s dismissive tone was pissing me the fuck off.
“How about I pay you double?” I asked through gritted teeth. “To get it done faster.”
“You’d be wasting your money. Three hours is the minimum length of time it takes for the lab equipment to process everything,” he said, giving me a look that suggested I was a complete idiot.
“It’s not like you see on TV where someone slides in a sample and results instantly pop up.
These things take time, and there’s no possible way to speed it up. ”
I was struck by a sudden urge to knock the smarmy prick right out. But even as the anger simmered, I knew it wasn't really about him. He was just doing his job, and the lab equipment took as long as it took. No amount of money or threats could change physics.
No, I wasn't angry at him.
I was angry at whoever had done this to Violet. Whoever had crept into her room in the middle of the night with a bucket of blood. Whoever had sent her those messages, trying to scare her into silence. Whoever had made her feel unsafe in her own fucking bed.
If I found out who it was—when I found out who it was—they were going to wish they'd never been born. Club member or not, consequences be damned. Nobody threatened what was mine and got away with it.
“Fine,” I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. “I’ll wait.”
“You can wait here if you'd like, or I can call you to come back in when the results are ready,” the scientist said.
I glanced at my watch. Violet was probably going out of her mind with worry and boredom already, so I was tempted to return to the estate. But waiting right here meant I'd get the results as soon as they were done.
“I'll stay,” I said.
He nodded. “There's a waiting area through that door. Coffee and water are available. I'll come find you as soon as I have something.”
I settled into an uncomfortable chair, my leg bouncing with restless energy. Three fucking hours before I'd know anything useful. Three hours away from Violet when we'd just started to figure out what we were to each other.
I pulled out my phone and stared at the blank screen. No way to text Violet, no way to let her know what was happening. She'd just have to wait and wonder.
Fuck. I really should’ve given her phone back to her.
I forced myself to take a slow, deep breath. Getting worked up wasn't going to make the time pass faster. I needed to stay calm. Think clearly. Figure out my next steps.
I pulled up the notes app on my phone and started making a list. Things to follow up on once I had the results.
People to talk to. Angles to investigate.
Anything to keep my mind occupied while I waited, because sitting here doing nothing while Violet was alone at the estate was making me want to put my fist through a wall.
Just after the three-hour mark, the scientist appeared in the doorway, holding a piece of paper. “Mr. Valcourt?”
I was on my feet immediately. “You’ve got the results?”
“Preliminary results, yes.” He walked over, his expression unreadable. “I have to say, this wasn't what I expected.”
My pulse kicked up. “What do you mean?”
“It's actually not animal blood at all.”
My eyes widened. “It’s human?”
“No, sorry, that was terrible phrasing on my behalf. What I should’ve said is: it’s not any kind of blood.
” He turned the paper so I could see it and tapped his finger on a printed list. “What you gave me is a mix of ferrous sulfate, glucose syrup, glycerin, xanthan gum, and food coloring. So it would’ve smelled like blood, and it would’ve looked exactly like it too.
But it’s not biological material at all. ”
“So what exactly is it? In layman’s terms.”
“It’s fake blood mixed with iron salts,” he said. “The iron salts would’ve given it that distinctive metallic smell that you’d associate with real blood. Fake blood on its own typically has a sweet smell from the corn syrup.”
“Right,” I muttered, mind spinning.
“As I said, sourcing analysis will take a lot more time, but I can tell you now that ferrous sulfate can be picked up from any gardening or hardware store. Some craft stores sell it too,” the scientist said.
“As for fake blood, that can be sourced from costume stores, party supply stores, or online retailers.
You'd find it at any film production company, too.”
My pulse stuttered. “How about a theater?”
“Absolutely,” he said, nodding. “They'd use it in stage productions anytime they need realistic bleeding effects.”
Holy fuck.
“With further testing, we can try to narrow it down to a specific manufacturer or retailer,” he went on. “The chemical signature might—”
I was already moving toward the door.
“Mr. Valcourt?" the scientist called after me. "Should I call you with the sourcing analysis when it's complete?”
“Not necessary!” I shouted back, breaking into a jog. “I know where it came from!”
My mind raced as I burst through the exit and headed for my car. The implications were crashing over me like waves.
Violet's stalker—and Calista's murderer—wasn't a Dionysus Club member at all.
It was one of her closest friends.
That was how they'd known about the investigation.
That was how they'd known she'd infiltrated our initiation ceremony.
They'd been right there the whole time, pretending to help while actually trying to scare her into stopping.
And she trusted them completely. Would never suspect them.
Would put herself in danger to protect them, just like she'd protected her mother all those years ago.
So… which one of them was it?
Cherry was the senior production coordinator for the BHU theater. She'd have unlimited access to stage blood.
Ginny was a lighting and sound tech in the same theater. Also unlimited access.
Dylan was a writer, director, and occasional actor there. Plus, he had his own prank video channel on YouTube, and fake blood almost certainly appeared in some of his content.
Jeremiah was a computer science student with no official ties to the theater, but he was still very closely associated with it.
He was in a relationship with Dylan and best friends with Cherry and Ginny, and he also helped them plan, set up, and host parties there.
So access to the supplies wouldn’t be difficult for him either.
That meant all four of them had the means.
But which one had the motive to kill Calista?
I started the car, my hands gripping the wheel hard enough to hurt. I needed to get back to Violet, right the fuck now. Because if one of her friends was a murderer, she was in more danger than I'd initially realized… and she had no way of knowing it.