“Did James know…”
She laughs. “James knewexactlywho Kade was when Death Tower approached us,” she says. “That was one of the reasons he approved us. He knew what we were capable of.”
I pick at the board for a moment, taking it all in. “So, Kade was the one texting me when we were together, then,” I say, remembering my confusion. “In the car those few times.”
She nods slowly. “He was, yeah.”
“And… he’s the one who cleared the videos that night?” I ask, remembering hearing that there was no evidence of who attacked the guy in the bathroom.
She continues nodding.
“And he set up the cameras in my apartment,” I go on.
She nods again.
“Are there any cameras in my new apartment I should know about?” I ask.
Gemma pauses, and I can see her genuinely thinking about the answer. “I didn’t ask him to put any in there, so apart from the ones in the halls he should have put up for general security, no.”
“Is there anything else I don’t know about?” I ask.
She stares at her hands for at least a minute, squinting as if trying to go through every memory for evidence of something we’re missing, something that might be our undoing. She takes so long that I nearly start to believe she’s told me everything, until she curses under her breath, and my stomach drops.
“What?” I ask.
“Fucking… Rad knows who I am,” she remembers.
I blink, confused. “What?”
She sighs and pushes her hair over to one side. “When you were attacked at Radio Eleven, I went out looking for the guy who did it. My assumption was that it was Rad, but I found him, and he was unscathed. Still… I roughed him up, and I let something slip that I…”
“Gemma.”
“Anyway, he knows that I’m her,” she says. “He knows I’m the one who killed his friend, well, friends now, and that I’m your stalker.”
Well fuck.
“So… we have to be vigilant, right?” I ask, trying to keep a level head about it and not think too hard about the sound of Trevor’s neck snapping. “We have to… We just need to make sure he won’t be at RagnaRock. And once the festival is over, we what? Do we look for him? What is our plan?”
Her concern softens. She takes my hand into hers, and I don’t know why the gesture makes it harder to breathe.
“Once I know, I’ll tell you. I know you want to be a part of this, and while I don’t want you to get hurt, I know what this means to you. But I don’t want you to worry.”
“Gemma, I am worried,” I argue. “I worry about you taking all of this on your own. What if something happens?”
Her lips quirk at the corners. “You’re really cute when you’re concerned,” she says.
“I’m not joking,” I insist, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard myself sound like this before.
A quiet laugh leaves her. She leans over and kisses me, and at the feeling of her lips, I sigh into her, the fear in my head quieting—if only for the duration of the embrace.
“You don’t need to worry about this,” she says when we part, her thumb stroking my cheek. “I only want you to worry about the album and the festival in a couple of weeks. Let me take care of all the bullshit coming after us.”
I sink my forehead against hers and close my eyes.
“Tell me I don’t have to worry about losing you, too,” I say.
“You never have to worry about that,” she whispers. “Even if you decide you hate me, I’ll still be here. Always watching.”
