Chapter 21 Amelia
AMELIA
The morning air bites at my cheeks as I hurry down Michigan Avenue, my mind still reeling from what I found in Gabe’s office. Every step feels mechanical, disconnected from my body, as if I’m watching myself move through the city from somewhere far above.
I barely slept after leaving his club yesterday. The images from those files keep flashing behind my eyelids—crime scene photos, bodies arranged like grotesque art installations, meticulous notes on blood collection and preservation techniques.
My phone buzzes with another text from Gabe. The third since I left his place.
We need to talk. Please speak to me, Amelia.
I ignore it, just like the others, and pick up my pace. The wind whips my hair across my face as I turn onto the side street where Adrian’s chocolate boutique sits, its elegant storefront a stark contrast to the horror I now know lies behind it.
I need answers. I need to understand what my best friend has gotten herself into—or worse, what she’s willingly become part of.
The bell above the door chimes softly as I push it open, the warm scent of chocolate hitting me immediately.
On any other day, it would be comforting. Today, it turns my stomach.
Maya looks up from behind the counter, where she’s arranging display truffles, her smile faltering as she takes me in. I haven’t bothered with makeup or even proper clothes—just threw on yesterday’s jeans and a sweatshirt before rushing here.
“We need to talk. Now.” My voice cracks on the final word, betraying the chaos churning inside me.
Her eyes dart to the few customers browsing the displays before she nods, gesturing toward the back room.
“Of course,” she says, though I catch the slight tremor in her hands as she lifts the counter divider. “Let’s go somewhere private.”
I follow her through a door marked Employees Only, into a small but elegant preparation area. Polished stainless steel surfaces gleam under soft lighting, with specialized equipment arranged. Everything is clean, orderly, beautiful.
Just like Gabe’s basement must be.
As soon as the door closes behind us, cutting off the soft music from the boutique, Maya turns to face me. “What’s wrong?”
“I was at The Blue Room, in Gabe’s office.” My hands shake uncontrollably as I clutch my purse, anchoring myself to something solid. “I saw some files and... Maya, there were photos. Horrible photos.”
Her face drains of color, and my stomach plummets. She knows. Of course she knows.
“Amelia—”
“People tied up. Blood everywhere.” I grab her arm, needing her to understand the gravity of what I’ve discovered. “And there were pictures of you, too. From before you met Adrian. They’d been watching you.”
“Let me explain—”
“Explain what? That my best friend is involved with murderers?” Tears streak down my face, hot and unstoppable.
Everything we’ve been through together—college roommates, supporting each other through failed relationships, celebrating career milestones—suddenly feels like it happened to different people.
“I found recipes, too. Special ingredients. Human ingredients. Tell me I’m wrong, Maya.
Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is. ”
She can’t meet my eyes. Can’t lie to me anymore.
“Oh my God!” I stumble backward, my hip hitting a preparation table. The realization crashes over me like ice water. “The chocolates. All those exclusive tastings. That’s why they taste so different.”
“It’s more complicated than that—”
“Is it? Because it seems simple to me. You’re helping them kill people.”
“Only the ones who deserve it,” she whispers.
I press my hand against my mouth, fighting the urge to be sick. This can’t be happening. Not Maya. Not my best friend, who once cried over accidentally stepping on a snail.
“Listen to yourself! These are people’s lives we’re talking about!”
“You don’t understand what they did, who they really were—”
“And you do? Since when did you become judge, jury, and executioner?” I back toward the door, suddenly afraid of this stranger wearing my friend’s face. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
“I’m still me. I’m still your friend.”
“My friend wouldn’t help serial killers make candy out of their victims.” The words taste bitter, horrific.
“We’re not monsters, Amelia.” She reaches for my hand, but I pull away instinctively. “We choose our targets carefully. These aren’t innocent people.”
My mind races, connecting dots I wish I could unsee. “Like Marcus Reynolds? The councilman?”
“He was destroying small businesses, families who’d put everything into their dreams. Taking bribes, approving dangerous building projects, evicting people from their homes.” She takes a deep breath. “But that was just the beginning. We’ve found worse. Much worse.”
Maya retrieves her phone from her pocket and pulls up something on the screen. She holds it out to me, her hand steady now. “Look.”
Against my better judgment, I take the phone. What I see makes my blood run cold—documents revealing a human trafficking ring operating through certain construction companies Reynolds was connected to. Bank records showing payments to police officers. Evidence that would never see a courtroom.
“These girls...” I whisper, scrolling through the images of young faces, official reports that were buried, testimonies that went nowhere.
“Brought in as workers. Never seen again because they’re sold.” Maya’s hands clench. “The police are bought off. The politicians are protected by powerful people. No one helps them.”
I sink into a chair, my legs suddenly unable to hold me up. The world tilts on its axis, everything I thought I knew about right and wrong shifting beneath me.
After a long moment, I hear myself say, “Remember Gregory Walsh?”
“The gallery owner?”
“He promised to showcase my work. Said I had real talent.” My voice hardens as the memory surfaces. “But there was a price. When I refused, he blacklisted me. Three other female artists came forward later with similar stories. He still runs the biggest gallery in Chicago.”
“That’s why we do this,” Maya says softly. “Because sometimes the system protects the predators.”
I look at her, really look at her, for the first time since I found those files. The Maya I’ve known for years is still there, compassionate, driven, fiercely protective of those she cares about. But now I see another layer, a hardness that wasn’t there before.
“I understand wanting justice. But murder, Maya?”
“We give them what they deserve. No more, no less.” She meets my gaze unflinchingly. “And yes, we use their blood. It’s our way of transforming them into something meaningful.”
I rub my temples, feeling the beginning of a migraine pulsing behind my eyes. “This is insane. But I get it. God help me, I actually get it.”
Maya studies my face, something like recognition dawning in her eyes. “You see things differently, too, don’t you? That’s why you can break down art into its fundamental elements.”
I nod slowly, the familiar rhythm of my brain taking over.
“I notice everything. Sometimes, too much. The textures, the subtle color shifts, the geometric relationships...” My fingers tap rapidly on my knee—a self-soothing gesture I’ve done since childhood.
“People think I’m obsessive about details, but I can’t help seeing all the layers. ”
“Like how you knew Walsh was dangerous before anyone else came forward?”
“His smile never reached his eyes. And he’d arrange meetings at odd hours, always changing the time at the last minute.” A shiver runs through me as I recall the pattern that no one else noticed. “The signs were there.”
“That’s how I experience emotions through taste. The layers, the subtle shifts.” She pauses. “And that’s how we identify our targets because their actions form patterns, too.”
“Predatory patterns,” I whisper. My hands instinctively arrange the pens on the nearby desk into perfect parallel lines. “Like Walsh. Like those politicians.”
“Exactly. We see what others miss. Society calls us different, but maybe we process the world more thoroughly.”
Our eyes meet, sharp with recognition. “That’s why you and Adrian connected so deeply. You both see beyond the surface.”
“Yes.” Maya reaches for my hand, and this time I don’t pull away. “We’re not monsters, Amelia. We’re just different. And we use our differences to protect others who can’t see the dangers we can.”
Maya walks me to the boutique’s door, and I pause at the threshold, fidgeting with my scarf as I try to process everything I’ve learned.
“I need time to think about this,” I say. “I’m going home to get some perspective.”
“I understand.” Her voice catches slightly. “Thank you for listening.”
I give her a tight nod and step out into the cold Chicago afternoon. The wind cuts through my thin sweatshirt, but I barely notice. My mind is too busy trying to reconcile the horror of what they’re doing with the twisted logic behind it.
I think about the Valentine’s cards on display at every shop two weeks ago—all those platitudes about giving someone your heart.
None of them captures what is happening between Gabe and me.
He hasn’t just taken my heart; he’s claimed every inch of me, body and soul, even the darkest corners I’ve never shown anyone.
If we’d met on Valentine’s Day instead of after, would I have recognized him for what he is?
Or would the backdrop of hearts and roses have disguised the predator until it is too late to choose him consciously?
And underneath it all, a small, dark voice whispers: What would I do if I had their power? Would I be any different?