“I did when I thought I had time but now ...”I’m slightly speechless because, honestly, it’s hard to think what I can do to tell them—Hey, so she died, but it’s all going to be okay.
It would’ve been easier if they had come over to see that Cleo was well and knew the whole story.Now, I’m not sure what to do.
“How long do I have?”I ask because that should give me a little wiggle room.It’s apparent that we have to do this before the holidays.
“We can give you a week tops.That’s plenty of time to prepare everything.”Arthur’s eyes don’t move from mine.“We have to bring a couple of people to work this out.”
“What do you mean?”I frown.
“We need a dentist to get her dental records.I’m counting on the fact that she hasn’t visited any dentists since she moved to New York.”He grins.
“You need dental records?”Barret frowns.“That makes no sense.”
“To kill someone, you need a body.The only way that we’ll be able to figure out it’s her will be through dental records,” Mason states.“This all will be done on the East Coast.”
Arthur’s eyes don’t move from mine.“Thorne will steer resources toward damage control if he believes there’s no witness left to threaten.Meanwhile, we keep building the case.”
Mason opens a second folder.“He leaves fingerprints everywhere but the one place that mattered.Not literal—patterns.Payments.Phone habits.The way his people travel.I’m mapping the web.It’s there.”
Barret’s voice drops low.“Then why does this feel like the part that could break us?”
“Because it asks you to let the world believe something you know isn’t true,” Arthur answers.“And that’s its own kind of pain.”
I stare at the tide line drawn across the glass.“I own papers.Stations,” I say.“If I’m seen bending a headline, it becomes a story about me.”
“Then don’t bend it,” Mason replies.“Let it flow where it would have gone—gossip columns, wire briefs.You keep your hands off.We seed the absence somewhere else.”He taps the folder again.“Paper tickets, calls from pay phones, cash withdrawals ...it’s a new century.The world records enough to suggest, not enough to prove.We lean on that.”
I swallow.He’s right about the year.It’s not like we’re in a sci-fi world with Skynet watching.There are receipts and a teller who remembers someone in a hat.
Barret shifts.“What does ‘day of’ look like?Without diagrams.”
Arthur doesn’t blink.“A ferry that doesn’t announce every passenger, a walk that isn’t marked for tourists, and weather that can claim a misstep.We put belongings where people can find them without feeling like they’re being watched.It’ll look like a murder that was made to look like an accident—Dorian stops looking for Cleo and starts worrying about himself.”
“What do you expect him to do after this?”
Mason’s gaze goes thin with something like disdain.“The cops look even closer at the concerned-fiancé.He’ll probably pay a columnist to write a story about his heartbreak.Hires someone to ask questions around here—someone who leaves footprints we can follow back.”
“And in the shadow of that,” Arthur adds, “he makes a mistake.They always do.Contacts the wrong associate.Moves cash the wrong way to clean what’s not even his mess.Tries to disappear whatever he thinks Cleo knew in case someone got to her and interrogated her.We use everything he tries to cover.”
“What if they ask her family?”Barret suddenly asks.“Or either one of us.”
Arthur shrugs.“You don’t lie to police.They’ll ask questions, you know nothing about the murder, and therefore, there’s nothing for you to say.You let other people assume.You don’t feed the story, because the last time you saw her was a couple of years ago.”
Barret blinks a couple of times.“How would they even know that?”
“In one of the reports, while looking for her, someone mentioned she was going out with one of the members of Dead Moth Parade.”Mason grimaces.“Your name came up.”
“Fuck,” Barret groans.
“It’s okay, babe.We’ll work with a lawyer and prep you for any interview, but we’ll try to keep you away,” I reassure him.
He exhales slowly, the sound dragged out of him.“I can do that.And if someone asks me if she’s dead?”Barret’s voice fractures on the question.
“You say you don’t know,” Arthur replies, firm, like the words are already carved into stone.“Because you don’t keep track of the women you dated in the past.”
Barret’s mouth opens, then closes.A hollow sigh slips out.“I ...”
“We’ll try to keep you away from that, okay?”My hand finds his, squeezing hard, like I can keep the walls from closing in if I just hold on tight enough.I want to sound calm.I want to sound like this is under control.But I’m just as rattled, my pulse thrumming like it might bruise through my skin.
