He raises a trembling finger and points. A delicious-looking cherry tart sits on an elegant china plate on his bed, along with a handwritten note.
I pick up the note. It’s written in calligraphy—because of course it is—in blood-red ink.
My Dearest Jack,
Congratulations on completing your five-year journey with us here at Aces. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for your service and wish you the best of luck as you move on and pursue the “American Dream!” Please enjoy this token of my affection—my specialty, cherry tart!—to commemorate your final evening under our employ. It is a recipe that has been handed down from Montrose to Montrose for generations, and I hope you’ll enjoy a sweet treat on your final night.
With utmost cordiality,
Rouge
I read it twice, turn it over to see if anything is on the back. I face Jack. “I think it’s clear that under no circumstances should you consume that cherry tart. It’s probably poisoned.” I point to the note. “See. It says this is your ‘final night.’ She doesn’t mean your final night in this hotel.”
“Agreed.” Jack sits on the edge of his bed. “I was told I had a one-week grace period to move out, so the only way Rouge would know this is my final night is if she guaranteed it herself. And if that’s the case, I imagine one of the Kings will be by to check in on me pretty quickly.” He runs his hands through his messy blond hair. “What’s our move now?”
“We wait.” I sit on the bed next to him.
Jack turns to me. “What are they planning to do to me?”
I take a deep breath in. “If I tell you, you can’t panic.”
“I already know they’re trying to kill me. How much more could I panic after that?”
“Fair.” I take another breath in. “Bianca and I think Rouge is killing her employees and harvesting their organs, selling them on the black market.”
He jumps up from the bed. “What?”
“We discovered a cooler full of human hearts at Aces the last time we were there, on St. Patrick’s Day. I think Rouge also has all her servers—and sometimes even her patrons—killed.”
Jack paces the room. “But that night—the night I took mushrooms with Rouge—I didn’t see Mr. Rose taking the organs out. Just sawing Two’s head off, removing it from her body.”
“They do that to make the body harder to identify,” I explain. “When Alissa and Maddox found the head of May, the Seven of Spades, they found her hands as well. Fingerprints, facial identification, and dental records are the easiest way to identify a body, so remove them and all you have is DNA.”
“And if there isn’t a match in the police’s system…”
“Exactly. They can’t prove the person was an employee of Rouge’s. No way to concretely tie the body to her, and that’s if it’s found. The only reason Maddox and Alissa found the head in the first place was because Chet slipped them a riddle that led them to it.”
“Chet?” Jack raises an eyebrow. “I don’t trust that fucker as far as I can throw him.”
“Good instinct. He turned right around and betrayed them when they came to the club next. He’s the reason they ended up here at the Caterpillar Hotel, nearly starved.”
Jack widens his eyes. “There’s so much I still don’t know.”
“I wish I had time to explain the whole story to you,” I say. “It’s a doozy, that’s for freaking sure.”
“A doozy?” Jack asks.
“Like…it’s crazy. Unbelievable.”
“Doozy. You Americans have a word for everything.” He sits back down on the bed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “So what I saw in Rouge’s office that night—it was real?”
“As far as I can tell, I think it was,” I say. “My friend Maddox saw something similar. He doesn’t remember anything about someone’s head getting chopped off, but he remembers being offered a goblet of blood to drink. He freaked out, and my guess is Mr. Rose ended up getting the job Maddox was being tested for.”
All color remaining in Jack’s pale face drains away. “My God.”
“Yeah.” I clap a hand to his shoulder. “But we’re going to see to it that the same thing doesn’t happen to you. Or to anyone else. And we’ll start by making sure you don’t eat that damned tart.”
“Done,” Jack says. “But when will?—?”
