Heat rushes through me. “Everyone’s looking?”
“Oh, yeah. Cops, your family, even the Twenty-One Purple gang.”
The last one gives me pause. I must not be working fast enough for Reyes, and he’s hedging his bets. He’s never been stupid.
Merlin clears his throat. “Also, I monitored your known phone numbers, and you have a message on one.”
I look at him. “You did what?”
He shrugs. “I’m telling you, I’m looking for Rosalie. If you did something to her, you’re going to deal with all seven of us.”
I don’t have time to handle this right now. I left my phone at the penthouse, considering I was off committing crimes all night. “What did the message say?”
“It was from a guy named Urbano at the prison. It didn’t make a lot of sense.”
“What did he say?” I repeat, blood rushing faster through my veins.
Merlin tugs on his green bowtie. “He said he was just checking, that his commissary account is low, and that three out of five numbers isn’t enough. He said he’ll have somebody else invest his money. Do you know what that means?”
“I know what that means,” I say. “Can you access my accounts?”
Now Merlin draws back, looking affronted. “Of course.”
“Put some money in Urbano Reyes’s commissary account at the prison.” Truth be told, I had promised to do that.
“What about the three out of five investments?” Merlin asks.
I’m too tired to lie to these guys. “He means kills. And now it’s four out of five finished.”
“Oh.” Percy frowns. “I guess you better get the fifth one done, huh?”
I shut the door in their faces, turning to reach for my clothing. Unfortunately, the fifth one is Ella Rendale.
THIRTY-TWO
Rosalie
“Rosalie, wake up,” Ella says urgently.
I roll over and blink, for a moment thinking we’re back at the boarding school in Switzerland. I flip on the light. Ella’s hideaway is a cute two-bedroom Craftsman in a quiet residential neighborhood. I tossed and turned for a while last night thinking about Alexei, but finally I drifted into sleep. “Wh-what?” I mumble.
“You’re not going to believe this. Get out of bed.” She pulls me from the bed, and I pad barefooted into the adorable kitchen where she has her laptop on a fifties-style red-and-silver table. I sit in a matching chair and yawn widely, dressed in one of her small T-shirts and my underwear. “What’s going on?” I’m still half asleep.
She flips a laptop around so I can see the screen. “Hendrix Sokolov was murdered last night.”
I jolt wide awake. “Are you serious? The news is reporting a murder?”
She shakes her head. “No. I hacked into the local PD system. The media doesn’t have it yet.”
I look at the microwave. It’s six in the morning. “Where’s Alexei?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
I stand. “You need to take me home.” I brush my teeth, capture my thick hair in a ponytail, hurriedly get dressed, and soon she’s driving me in the battered old white car to my place. We screech to a stop on the front curb. “Thanks.”
“I’m coming in,” she says, hauling her backpack with her laptop over her shoulder.
I pause. “Alexei’s probably here.”
