Chapter 8
EIGHT
BOSTON
He’s lying on the bed. His hands are next to his sides, and he’s still dressed in his work clothes.
His house is a fucking mess—a chaotic tangle of papers, discarded clothes, and half-empty coffee cups.
I didn’t realize what a slob he was. But the clutter doesn’t matter right now.
My gaze locks on the gurney as it’s rolled in, the paramedics talking quietly, moving around him. And then it hits me…
Where is his mask?
The mask isn’t just an object; it’s a symbol.
If a member dies, I am to collect all information and items related to the Forsaken.
The mask isn’t just a piece of shattered glass stitched together; it’s secrecy, power.
Having it go missing isn’t a minor inconvenience.
It’s a threat. My stomach tightens, my pulse spikes, and my mind whirls.
Was it stolen?
Misplaced?
I glance at the paramedics, at the hallway beyond, and back to the bed.
Logic clashes with instinct. My cop side ticks through procedure, secure the scene, preserve evidence, and document it all.
But my other side, the part trained to anticipate, to hunt, to calculate risk, screams that something is off.
This missing mask isn’t just a puzzle; it’s a red flag.
“A heart attack, eh?” Rolland says as he enters the room, chewing a piece of candy. I don’t reply. “You knew him?”
Bailey is covered and taken out of the bedroom.
“Not really,” I answer flatly, watching the movement of the bodies, the angles of shadows. It’s true, but only partially. He doesn’t need to know that not really could mean many things.
“His family is going to come get the dog,” he says loudly, chewing.
It’s fucking annoying. “Did you want to go with me to talk to them?” I feel his eyes on me as he asks.
He was the one who was called out here, but I got here first. He was surprised to see me, but he let it slide.
I recognized the address as soon as it was called over the radio.
Immediately, I turned around from where I was going and came here.
For some strange reason, the image of a blue-haired woman pops into my head.
I brush it away as soon as it enters. I’m not sure what it is about her, but there is something there.
I just haven’t put my finger on exactly what it is.
I did do comprehensive research on her and her sister.
I needed to see what I was working with before I went to Carrie’s apartment.
Carrie was insistent that she wouldn’t say a word. Even reminded me of the NDA she signed. She also said she wouldn’t say anything to her sister, but as she said it, her eyes slid to me, and I got a strange feeling she was lying.
“You can do the talking,” I tell him. “I have paperwork to do. See you back at the precinct.” I leave the house and pull out my phone to call Soren. He doesn’t answer until I reach my car.
“We have a problem,” I state as I slide behind the wheel and then start the car.
“What is it?” he asks.
“Bailey is dead.” He stays quiet as I pull away from the curb, but then finally speaks again.
“How did he die?”
“They say it looks like a heart attack, but I won’t know more until they do an autopsy.”
“So why is this a problem?”
“I couldn’t find his mask.” My hand grips the steering wheel in frustration.
“You think someone took it?”
“Yes, and I don’t think it was a heart attack.”
“Why?”
“Because it just doesn’t feel like it,” I tell him.
I’ve been to more crime scenes than I can count, and I’ve seen many people who have died from heart attacks.
It’s not that I don’t think it’s possible.
I just don’t think that’s what happened with Bailey.
Even though everything seemed to be in place, nothing was stolen, and no one had broken in; something just felt … off.
“And the mask was gone?” he questions.
“Yes,” I answer.
“Shit,” he says.
Yes. Shit, indeed.