Adrian Di Laurentis is practically a ghost—I’ve only talked to him over text, a handful of times at most, but he works like he’s got a personal vendetta against half the big family names in Eden.
Why?No idea.
I didn’t ask and he didn’t offer, and honestly, I don’t care.
If he hates the same people I do—and he clearly does—then that’s good enough for me.
All I know is every time I’ve needed something, some kind of access, he’s delivered without hesitation, requesting only to keep him in the loop with findings.Some part of me senses he’s been waiting for someone to hit back at the people who’ve been untouchable for too long.
The drive is fifteen minutes of empty streets and the kind of silence that isn’t uncomfortable, just heavy.
When we pull up to the mansion, it sits behind wrought-iron gates that probably cost more than entire neighborhoods.All black metal and sharp points, built to keep people like us out.
Built to lock the truth in.
I punch in the code Jake gave me—his birthday, because Scott’s nothing if not sentimental in the most twisted ways—and the gates open with a slow, ominous groan.
Like the jaws of something ancient dragging itself awake.
“Timer starts now,” Jay says, tapping his phone.“Twenty-five minutes on the dot.”
The mansion is half-finished, all sharp edges, dark windows staring down at us like judgment.Tarps flutter across the construction equipment, shadows moving like something alive.The air smells like dust and cold concrete and the second we get to the front door, I can feel my pulse in my throat.
The key Jake gave me turns easily and then we’re inside.
“Holy shit,” Jay whispers.“This place is bigger than my entire apartment complex.And it’s just the fucking foyer.”
Everything is covered in white sheets, draped like the house is hiding its face.Chandeliers wrapped in plastic hang like crystal carcasses.Our footsteps echo—loud, sharp, intrusive.
“Looks like nobody’s worked on this place in months,” Jay says, brushing a hand over a dusty table.
“Fucking rich people hey,” he mutters.“I mean no offence or anything.”
“None taken.”
“They build these fuck-off mansions, get bored, then ditch them.Meanwhile my mom’s sleeping in her fucking car some nights.”
His voice cracks on the last word.Rage rides under it like static and it lodges in my chest, mixing with my own rage until I can’t separate the two.
I want to fix it.
I want to say something that matters.
But there’s nothing.
No apology in the world can touch that kind of damage.
We find the butler’s pantry—because of course there’s a butler’s pantry—and Jay just stops and stares.
“This pantry is literally the size of a department store,” he says.“Are they gonna hoard canned goods for the apocalypse?”
“Probably.”I check Jake’s annotated floorplan.
My hands aren’t steady anymore, they’re trembling like my body already knows what’s waiting for us.
“It’s behind here somewhere.”
Scott’s hidden safe is built into the wall behind the shelving like he’s playing a fucked-up game of hide-and-seek with evidence.
