“Mum, who arethey? What’s on the USB drive?”
“There isn’t one.” Mum shook her head, all the colour having seeped out of her complexion. “I lost it, Violet.”
My chest tightened, like ropes cinched around my lungs. “What do you mean you lost it?”
“It was the only thing that was keeping…” She paused before meeting my eyes. “You need to run!” she barked, shooting to her feet. “My flower, you need to run. RUN!”
“Sorry, but you’ll have to go,” one of the orderlies said before rushing over to mum, who was still screaming.
“RUN! RUN! RUN! RUN!”
I jumped up from the table, following her advice and running to the lift. I wiped the silent tears from my cheeks, not stopping as I moved through the atrium until I was outside on the street. My chest clenched with every breath, each inhale catching in my throat like it might never come back out. I forced myself to pause, to calm myself and look around, only to realise Ryder was nowhere in sight.
I glanced back through the glass doors, half-expecting to catch him flirting with the receptionist again. But instead, my gaze snagged on a man sitting across the atrium on one of the sofas.
A newspaper was spread in his hands, though his eyes weren’t on the print.
They were on me.
He didn’t blink or look away. He simply stared, unmoving.
Fear froze my muscles, a phantom breeze sweeping over my skin as he slowly folded the newspaper before rising to his feet. My pulse stuttered, and I swallowed hard and tore my gaze away, straight towards another man blocking my path.
He said nothing, his expression cold as I stepped back.
Only for him to move forward the same distance.
“Violet!” My name rang, and I turned in panic, hand reaching out to Ryder. “You okay? You’re pale.” His dark brows pulled together in a frown.
I fisted his shirt, unable to control the tremor in my arms as I looked back, finding no evidence of either men other than the newspaper left discarded on the cushioned seat.
Chapter 22
Ryder
Violet was hiding something. Subtlety wasn’t exactly her strong suit considering she’d spent the entire train ride wringing her hands in her lap like a nervous schoolgirl. Not that she could ever sit fucking still, always seeming to fiddle with something. If it wasn’t fidgeting with something, she would be drumming her fingers against her leg, or doodling.
Clearly, her normal was to always be in motion, but I could tell something had rattled her.
This was becoming more complicated than I’d planned.
We stopped outside the shithole she called her studio, a warehouse that looked more like it should be condemned rather than a place of creativity.
Violet punched in the four-digit code I already knew because I was good at my job, slid the lock free, and shoved at the heavy metal door. It screeched across the concrete like nails on a chalkboard, revealing a dark space before she flicked on the harsh lights.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” I muttered, reaching down to pick up one of the easels that had been thrown without care. Clearly whoever had destroyed the place didn’t find much based on the holes punched througha canvas or two. “Grab your spare clothes, then we should get out of here.”
I wasn’t surprised with the carnage in all honesty. It hadn’t taken me long to find her, and now that I knew Cedric was hired before me, there was no telling how many people were after that bloody USB drive.
And my money.
“Fuck me, your hair gets everywhere.” I flicked at my hand, where a few blonde strands seemed stuck to my palm. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I swear I woke up coughing up a hairball this morning.”
Finally dislodging the hair, I spun around to find Violet standing in the centre of the wreckage, her eyes staring at the wall with folded clothes pressed tightly to her chest.
“Violet?” I called, walking up behind her slowly.
“None of this makes sense,” she whispered as I moved around to face her. “She had me at seventeen, and worked in a supermarket my entire life. She was always a little strange, I suppose. Overly protective growing up, and on edge whenever we were in public.” She looked distant, unfocused, as though she were speaking more to herself than to me. “What if it’s all true?”
