I look at the clock. Six-fifteen. Lainey and Keelie will be here in fifteen minutes. That gives us just enough time to change, grab a quick bite, and head to Leeds.
Somewhere in this town, a killer is walking free.
And tonight, we’re walking into a lounge full of strangers who might just give us the answers we need to catch them.
Even if it means playing games, dodging vandals, and explaining to my daughter why hostile takeovers aren’t appropriate preschool behavior.
Percy lands on my shoulder. “Onward, Lottie Lemon. To Leeds. To answers. To justice.”
“To sanity,” I mutter.
“That ship sailed years ago, darling.”
He’s not wrong.
LOTTIE
Leeds sits twenty minutes below Honey Hollow, and calling it seedy would be generous. It’s the kind of town where the gas stations have bars on the windows, and the bars have gas pumps.
We drive past three pawn shops, a tattoo parlor that’s definitely a front for something, and a gentlemen’s club called The Treasure Chest that makes me question humanity’s creative abilities. And let’s not forget this is where Red Satin Gentlemen’s Club resides, although Noah, Everett, and even Carlotta and I are more than familiar with that establishment. It happens to be crime boss central, and well, the place of employment for my sweet baby sis, Meg.
“Remind me why we’re here again?” I ask, nestled in Everett’s sedan.
“Because you got invited to a mysterious meeting by a woman who knows where bodies are buried,” Noah says from the back seat.
“Right. That.”
Percy materializes in the space between the front seats, his countenance glowing a faint shade of blue in the dashboardlights. “This town has terrible energy, Lottie Lemon. I can feel it in my ethereal feathers.”
“That’s just Leeds,” Carlotta says from the back. Turns out there was no stopping her from tagging along. I should have known. Leeds is her love language. She’s reapplied her lipstick three times and looks like she’s heading to a cocktail party instead of a potentially dangerous information gathering. “It’s got character.”
Try as we might, we just can’t seem to shake her.
“It’s got crime statistics,” Everett mutters.
The Velvet Lounge is tucked into the top floor of a building that looks like it used to be a hotel in the 1970s and gave up somewhere around 1983. The exterior is all faded brick and flickering neon, with a sign that readsVE VET LO NGEbecause half the letters have burned out.
“This is either very exclusive or very illegal,” Noah observes as we park.
“Why not both?” Carlotta chirps.
We take the elevator to the penthouse—and I use the termpenthouseloosely, because it’s really just the top floor, and the elevator smells like cigarettes and regret. The walls are mirrored, reflecting our nervous faces back at us in infinite iterations. And the numbers above the door climb slowly. Too slowly.
Mercifully, the doors slide open.
And the world shifts.
Loud, raucous music hits me first—a deep, pulsing bass that I feel in my chest, layered with a woman’s sultry voice singing something in French that I don’t understand but sounds like it should come with a warning label. The beat is slow, hypnotic, a rhythm that makes you move without thinking about it.
Then there’s the sickly sweet smell. Candles—dozens of them, maybe hundreds—flicker throughout the space, casting shadows that dance across velvet-draped walls. The scent is overwhelmingly full of vanilla, sandalwood, and something musky andexpensive that clings to the air like a cloying perfume. Underneath it all lies the faint sweetness of incense. A part of me wonders if we’ve wandered into a séance.
The space itself is dark. Not dim—we’re talking someone-hand-me-a-flashlight dark. And I get the feeling this kind of darkness is designed to hide as much as it reveals. Purple and burgundy velvet curtains cover the windows, blocking out any trace of the outside world. The furniture is all low-slung leather sofas and plush chairs arranged in intimate clusters. More candles sit on every surface—the bar, the tables, clustered on the floor in groupings that look more like shrines than décor.
And then there are the people.
There are maybe twenty of them scattered throughout the space, dressed in cocktail attire that ranges from trying too hard to barely there. A woman in a silver dress that’s basically strategic cutouts and a prayer is laughing near the bar while running her hands down some guy’s chest. Another woman drapes herself over a leather sofa with her legs crossed at an angle that seems mathematically impossible in those heels. A man in a suit with his tie loosened and his shirt half-unbuttoned leans against the wall, a drink in each hand, talking to two women who are definitely not related to him.
Everywhere we look, people are touching, feeling, squeezing, and doing things I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t bear witness to. Wandering hands abound, fingers trailing down spines, bodies pressed close in ways that make me suddenly very aware of personal space boundaries and maybe a few consent laws. This is no séance. This crowd is obviously interested in people with a pulse—and making their hearts pound in a thousand lusty ways.
