5. Robin
ROBIN
I shouldn’t go alone.
I know that before I even grab my keys.
I know it while I’m pacing my kitchen, my phone clutched in my hand, Raven’s voice still echoing in my ears.
Belinda is gone. Possibly kidnapped. And Daniela’s immigration status has been called into question.
I stop pacing and brace my hands on the counter, staring down at the cold marble.
Adriana de la Fuente.
Except that’s not even her real name. Or it is, and the other isn’t. Leona Patel. For the past few days, I’ve devoured every piece of information I can find about her.
Somehow she’s connected to all of this. I can feel it.
I should take someone with me. The thought hammers at me again.
But who? Eagle is in the hospital. Falcon is busy with Savannah, and he never took me seriously anyway. Raven is fragile with Belinda gone, Daniela threatened.
Hawk would understand.
Hawk always does.
But Hawk is buried in Daniela’s situation right now, trying to fix something that might already be broken beyond repair. I can’t pull him away from that.
Vinnie?
I shake my head.
He already dismissed me. That picture was good enough for him. Enough to convince him Vega is dead. I can’t waste time trying to convince someone who’s already decided I’m wrong.
My father—
I don’t even let myself finish that thought.
He’s still in that hospital bed, trapped in a body that won’t cooperate.
He can’t help me. And my mother? Right. She’d tell me I’m being ridiculous. Besides, she’s hardly left the hospital, moving between Dad and Eagle.
Maybe Shane? He’s one of my vet techs, and we’re pretty close friends. But I can’t drag him into this. You don’t ask an employee to risk their life, no matter how well you pay them.
I draw in a deep breath.
I’ll go alone.
I’ve done more difficult things than this.
And I’ll have my phone. If something goes wrong, I can be tracked.
The house sits at the end of a quiet street. I park a few doors down and kill the engine.
Adriana de la Fuente’s house. Or Leona Patel’s. Or whoever the hell she really is.
It’s big. Eight bedrooms, if the records I dug up are right. More a mansion than a house.
I leave the car and walk toward it, trying to be nonchalant.
Right away something feels off.
No cars in the driveway.
No lights on.
No movement behind the windows.
I look around and then slip into the side yard. I circle the house, checking angles, sightlines, anything that might give me a clue.
No security cameras that I can see. No alarms. No signs of life. Either she’s confident no one would ever come looking…or she doesn’t actually live here.
I make it to the backyard and continue scanning.
Aha! A window well. I crouch beside it, brushing dirt away from the glass, and peer inside.
I grip the edge and lower myself down carefully.
For a second, I hesitate. This is the moment where I can still walk away. Call Hawk. Call anyone.
I don’t.
I check the window. It’s unlocked. I open it and slide through, landing on the basement floor with a muffled oof.
The basement lights flick on with a soft click. I freeze for half a second, my heart leaping into my throat, before I realize they’re on a motion sensor.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to relax, and then I look around. The basement space is finished with recessed lighting and dark hardwood floors. I inhale the smell of fresh paint.
But it’s empty. No furnishings at all. No boxes. No signs anyone has ever lived here.
I turn slowly, scanning the room again, slower this time.
Nothing.
“What the hell?” I whisper under my breath.
I move toward the stairs and walk up to the main floor.
Same thing. Pristine alabaster walls complete with wainscoting. And not a single piece of furniture.
A chill slides down my spine.
I force myself to keep moving room to room. Every single one is bare.
I take the stairs to the second floor, my pulse ticking with every step.
Eight bedrooms. Every single one empty. Closets and bathrooms all untouched.
“What is this place?” I say out loud.
I turn slowly, scanning the hallway again. I should leave. This isn’t where Belinda is. This isn’t—
Something catches the corner of my eye.
A painting hangs at the end of the hallway. The only furnishing in the entire house. I step closer, something familiar needling me. The painting is tall and narrow, of a woman with dark hair and luminous green eyes wrapped in a flowing turquoise robe.
In her hand is a pomegranate.
My breath catches.
I’ve seen this before.
“Persephone,” I whisper.
By Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Not the original, of course. I saw that at the Tate Britain years ago during my travels in Europe.
Persephone. The girl taken to the Underworld. The woman who becomes its queen.
Why is this the only thing in the house?
I step closer. It’s a beautiful recreation of the original. Nearly perfect. Except…
I home in on the pomegranate in her hand.
The bite.
It’s actually an indentation.
I know you should never touch the surface of a painting, but my curiosity bests me. It’s a print, anyway. I reach out slowly and brush my fingers into the hollow.
It’s real. A groove, and inside, a handle.
My breath catches. “No way…” I grip it and pull.
The painting shifts and swings open.
It’s a door. A fucking door!
My heart is pounding now, adrenaline flooding my system as I step through the opening.
The room beyond is small and windowless. A desk sits against one wall with a computer on top of it. A filing cabinet stands against another wall.
I move straight to the cabinet, yank it open, and flip through the files.
Names.
Documents.
Records.
Too many to process at once.
I slow down.
Focus.
And then I see it.
“Bellamy, Austin.”
My breath catches.
My father.
Oh. My. God.
This is it. This is the connection.
I reach in and grab the file, close my fingers around the tab—
A prick. Then a sting at my neck. Near my ear.
“What—”
My hand flies up instinctively, brushing against something soft and feathery. Some kind of dart.
Oh God—
The room tilts.
“No—”
I try to turn. Try to move. But my body isn’t listening anymore. My legs give out beneath me. The file slips from my fingers.
And then—
Nothing.