He looks as tired as I feel—dark circles under his eyes, jaw set tight.
“This can’t be good,” I mutter as I take the chair across from them. “Feels like an ambush.”
Pop clears his throat and slides a manila folder across the desk toward me.
I open it.
A Nevada birth certificate stares back at me.
My chest seizes.
I look up at Pop. “You found Candy?”
He nods. “I did.”
He tells me, “Her real name was Freya Jane Briggs. Twenty-four years old. Originally from Greencastle, Indiana.”
My eyes drop back to the paper.
Ruby Jane Briggs.
Born September 15.
Mother: Freya Jane Briggs.
Father: Unknown.
Unknown.
The word punches me square in the gut.
Then it hits me.
“Wait,” I say hoarsely. “Did you say was? Her namewasFreya?”
Caison shifts uncomfortably. Pop nods once, slow and heavy.
“She was found unresponsive three weeks ago in the parking garage of the Golden Nugget,” Pop says solemnly. “There was nothing they could do.”
Fuck.
I squeeze my eyes shut, the word echoing in my skull. Images flood my mind—flashes of neon, tinkling laughter, a beautiful woman with tired eyes and a smile that didn’t quite reach them.
“She …” I swallow the lump in my throat. “How did it happen?”
Pop leans forward. “Overdose. An employee found her on her way into work.”
My hands shake as I close the folder.
“She was alone,” I say. It’s not a question.
Caison speaks up, voice low. “From what Holland’s PI could gather, she didn’t have much of anyone left. Her parents were deceased, and she had only one estranged sibling.”
“What did they do with her?”
“She was cremated,” Pop says. “Clark County Coroner’s Office had her remains. They were trying to find her next of kin. My guy is picking them up and bringing them here for Ruby.”
“And the sibling?”
