Ansel’s bravado cracked. “Do you think the women are still alive?”
“I don’t know,” Seven admitted. His voice trembled, but his gaze was steady. “But I know someone who can find out.”
Enzo cocked his head. “Thomas’s hacker friend? Callista?”
“Calliope,” Ansel and Elio corrected in unison.
Seven blinked. “You know about Calliope?”
“Well…not really,” Ansel hedged. “Levi mentioned her a few times, but we thought he made her up. She sounded like some superhero character. Like Felicity Smoak or that chick fromCriminal Minds.But she’s real?”
“Terrifyingly real,” Seven said.
“Can we meet her?” the twins asked together, eyes bright with childlike glee, like they’d just been promised a trip to Disneyland.
Seven cracked a faint smile, the first since they’d arrived. “I can ask.”
“Fuck yeah,” Elio muttered.
Seven didn’t respond, just chewed his bottom lip.
“In the meantime,” Enzo said, shifting his focus back to the stack of damning papers. “Get the thumb drive back to Lucky before the precinct notices they have a dupe.”
Ansel raised a brow. “And what are you two going to do? Aside from meeting the terrifyingly real Calliope?”
Enzo’s smile was sharp. Humorless. “We’re going to talk to the weakest link.”
Seven nodded, eyes glinting with steel. “Brioni.”
Brioni wasn’t at work. She’d been home “sick” for two days. Seven had passed the time driving to Brioni’s townhouse picturing every worst-case scenario, imagining the people running this enterprise deciding she’d fucked up too badly to keep around, or that she’d made a run for it.
But when they knocked, she opened the door in unicorn pajama pants, a shockingly pink tank top, and a threadbare oatmeal-colored sweater, her chestnut brown hair shoved into a messy bun. Her nose and eyes were red and swollen; she clutched a wad of tissues in the hand she used to gesture for them to come inside.
“You’re Seven, right?” she asked, voice small and beaten.
“Yeah. We need to talk,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
She nodded and backed away from the open door into her definitely over-budget townhouse. Seven knew what his mother made and there was no way she could have afforded a place this nice. He couldn’t stop himself from taking in the large flatscreen, the expensive sofa, the granite countertops. She wasn’t even trying to hide that she was getting money from somewhere other than her job.
She flopped onto the couch and pointed to the two armchairs opposite it. The coffee table was a graveyard of tea cups. A small trashcan lived between the table and the sofa. A blanket and a pillow were half-tucked into the cushions, and a vampire show re-run droned on low.
“So. Talk,” she said, and blew her nose loudly.
“Why did you frame my mother?” Seven asked.
Brioni froze. Her watery eyes went wide. “What?”
Seven glowered at her. He wasn’t in the mood for her innocent act. “You heard me. We have proof. Don’t waste our time lying. Did she get too close to realizing your boss was trafficking women?”
Brioni blinked so fast the words came out wrong and ragged. “Wh—what?” A coughing fit seized her. When it finally relented, she shook her head. “That’s not true. He wouldn’t do that. He takes care of those women.”
“He?” Enzo prompted.
“Grant,” she said.
“The director?” Enzo asked to confirm.
“Yeah.” The word deflated halfway through her lips. She wrapped the fuzzy blanket tighter around herself like a shield. “He…he’s a good man.”
