Each day that passes, the more I hate myself. Every time I close my eyes I see their faces, hear their screams, or the sound of their sobs from their nights away. I’m not doing anything to help when I should be. What if I’m their only hope? Am I really so cowardly I’ll sit here falling in love with a man who rides the line?
I snort and push my makeup aside.
Exiting my room, I make my way to the kitchen. Stefan mutters in the pantry, and I smile watching him take inventory, which is just fancy talk for flipping out over everything being disorganized.
The TV is on, and the meteorologist calls for another scorcher today. Sounds like a perfect day for the lake and freshly cut watermelon. I hunt down the wooden cutting board and a long knife, mind wandering to Slade.
Talking to him on the phone was … refreshing. A sense of normalcy in all this, like I would talk to a boyfriend or my mom if she were still alive. Though the sad reality is that this isn’t normal, and he’s not my boyfriend. Gosh, that’s such a college-student way to look at it, isn’t it?
The knife sinks into the watermelon with a satisfying crack that splits the thick green rind. Juice wells up, and I fumble for the towel to sop it up before Stefan sees my mess. It pools on the cutting board, and when the knife finally cuts through, half of it thuds on the wooden board, and with a loudsplat, a rogue splash of red goes straight onto my shorts.
I sigh and lean against the counter to keep going, moving on autopilot at this point. After falling into a quartering, cubing, and dropping chunks into a big plastic bowl snooze-fest, I nearly miss the interview on the TV.
“—have Piper Reeves from theChicagoChronicleto join us. Thank you, Piper, for being here.”
I drop my knife, splashing more juice over my bare stomach and onto my swimsuit, and glance up at the TV. The female news anchor with high cheekbones and sharp red lipstick looks like she may explode with irritation, and she smooths her short hair, even though it’s probably sprayed stuck. Next to her is a younger woman with golden hair pulled loosely into a high bun with bright brown eyes sparkling. Her dewy complexion looks like she’s nervous.
“Thank you for having me.”
“So, as I understand it, you’ve been researching the disappearances of women in Chicago?”
“I have.” She looks directly at the camera. “All of which have been blatantly ignored by local law enforcement.”
The news anchor looks annoyed. “If there’s been no evidence of these disappearances what makes you so sure?”
Piper shakes her head. “They’ve been covered up. There’s more going on here. I believe, and have been working to uncover, a large underground society made up of politicians, law enforcement, businessmen, perhaps even organized crime organizations.”
“And you have proof of this?” The haughty tone in the newswoman’s voice makes me roll my eyes, but I stagger around the island, drawn to the screen.
Piper swallows, and the stoic, almost forced professional expression on her face falters. “I, uh, don’t exactly. But I’m working on it. There are too many politicians with money, too many businessmen doing shady transactions, and too many girls ‘wandering off’ to call it coincidental. I’m urging anyone with information to contact me at myChronicleemail.”
A banner with the email [email protected] flashes across the screen along the bottom. I crack my knuckles while staring at the rolling information.
“Well, that’s certainly an interesting conspiracy theory …”
I spin, drawn to the oily, calculated voice hissing behind sharp teeth. Henry DuPont stands in the kitchen threshold, arms crossed, and a smirk emphasizing the wrinkles around his mouth.
I step back, eyes wide, and wish I had the knife sitting by the watermelon. My gaze flicks toward it, and he slithers out a laugh.
“No need to panic seven-fifty-five.”
Edmond flies around the corner behind Henry, huffing out his words. “Sir, I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear the front bell.”
“I didn’t ring it.”
His voice makes my skin crawl. It’s slick and self-assured, like he just walked into Slade’s house to bestow the gift of it on us all.
Stefan stumbles out of the pantry, not aware he’s there. “Listen, Thea. Next time you and Slade raid this pantry for your late-night snacks, can you at least make time to put?—”
He stops talking as soon as his attention lands on Henry, whose mouth has turned from a smirk to chilling disgust. Henry DuPont steps farther into the room.
“It looks like you’ve made yourself right at home seven-fifty-five.”
I hate the way my stomach twists.
Edmond chimes in, strolling to my side. “I’m sorry, Congressman DuPont isn’t back yet, but I’ll be sure to let him know you stopped by.”
Henry snorts. “I am not here to see my grandson. I came to check on society property.”
