“Oh my God!” I stumble backward, my hip hitting a preparation table. The realization crashes over me like ice water. “The chocolates. All those exclusive tastings. That’s why they taste so different.”
“It’s more complicated than that?—”
“Is it? Because it seems simple to me. You’re helping them kill people.”
“Only the ones who deserve it,” she whispers.
I press my hand against my mouth, fighting the urge to be sick. This can’t be happening. Not Maya. Not my best friend, who once cried over accidentally stepping on a snail.
“Listen to yourself! These are people’s lives we’re talking about!”
“You don’t understand what they did, who they really were?—”
“And you do? Since when did you become judge, jury, and executioner?” I back toward the door, suddenly afraid of this stranger wearing my friend’s face. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
“I’m still me. I’m still your friend.”
“My friend wouldn’t help serial killers make candy out of their victims.” The words taste bitter, horrific.
“We’re not monsters, Amelia.” She reaches for my hand, but I pull away instinctively. “We choose our targets carefully. These aren’t innocent people.”
My mind races, connecting dots I wish I could unsee. “Like Marcus Reynolds? The councilman?”
“He was destroying small businesses, families who’d put everything into their dreams. Taking bribes, approving dangerous building projects, evicting people from their homes.” She takes a deep breath. “But that was just the beginning. We’ve found worse. Much worse.”
Maya retrieves her phone from her pocket and pulls up something on the screen. She holds it out to me, her hand steady now. “Look.”
Against my better judgment, I take the phone. What I see makes my blood run cold—documents revealing a human trafficking ring operating through certain construction companies Reynolds was connected to. Bank records showing payments to police officers. Evidence that would never see a courtroom.
“These girls...” I whisper, scrolling through the images of young faces, official reports that were buried, testimonies that went nowhere.
“Brought in as workers. Never seen again because they’re sold.” Maya’s hands clench. “The police are bought off. The politicians are protected by powerful people. No one helps them.”
I sink into a chair, my legs suddenly unable to hold me up. The world tilts on its axis, everything I thought I knew about right and wrong shifting beneath me.
After a long moment, I hear myself say, “Remember Gregory Walsh?”
“The gallery owner?”
“He promised to showcase my work. Said I had real talent.” My voice hardens as the memory surfaces. “But there was a price. When I refused, he blacklisted me. Three other female artists came forward later with similar stories. He still runs the biggest gallery in Chicago.”
“That’s why we do this,” Maya says softly. “Because sometimes the system protects the predators.”
I look at her, really look at her, for the first time since I found those files. The Maya I’ve known for years is still there, compassionate, driven, fiercely protective of those she cares about. But now I see another layer, a hardness that wasn’t there before.
“I understand wanting justice. But murder, Maya?”
“We give them what they deserve. No more, no less.” She meets my gaze unflinchingly. “And yes, we use their blood. It’s our way of transforming them into something meaningful.”
I rub my temples, feeling the beginning of a migraine pulsing behind my eyes. “This is insane. But I get it. God help me, I actually get it.”
Maya studies my face, something like recognition dawning in her eyes. “You see things differently, too, don’t you? That’s why you can break down art into its fundamental elements.”
I nod slowly, the familiar rhythm of my brain taking over. “I notice everything. Sometimes, too much. The textures, the subtle color shifts, the geometric relationships...” My fingers tap rapidly on my knee—a self-soothing gesture I’ve done since childhood. “People thinkI’m obsessive about details, but I can’t help seeing all the layers.”
“Like how you knew Walsh was dangerous before anyone else came forward?”
“His smile never reached his eyes. And he’d arrange meetings at odd hours, always changing the time at the last minute.” A shiver runs through me as I recall the pattern that no one else noticed. “The signs were there.”
