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One guy, Florian Rose, owned a fancy historic hotel downtown. He was actually in surgery for an injury to his eye when news broke about Rouge. Video footage surfaced of him performing horrific rituals with the bodies of the employees Rouge killed. He was arrested upon waking up from surgery.

A few other people were arrested. But not enough.

Rouge Montrose has followers carrying on her misdeeds even in death.

The organ harvesting is over. Shinzo Life is closed. Bianca cooperated with the police investigation. They combed Aces from top to bottom. A small space lay hidden above a secret door in the women’s restroom. That’s where they kept the organs before distributing them through Shinzo. But beyond that, they didn’t find anything else unexpected.

The cops searched Rouge’s other clubs, the Jade Sanctum included, but they didn’t find anything.

Is it possible they didn’t search deeply enough?

I have to dig into Rouge’s past. Uncover the secrets the detectives failed to.

“Let’s go to my place,” I tell Thea. “We’ve got work to do.”

She nods, her jaw tensed.

She can’t go back to her place anyway. It’s still swarming with cops.

I drive us back and bring her inside, throwing a few TV dinners into the microwave for sustenance. Not what I imagined the first dinner I’d prepare for her would be, but I don’t have time to whip up a Michelin-star meal.

I pull out the dinners—chicken tenders and mashed potatoes—and serve them up.

I take a bite of mashed potatoes—still freezing in the middle, great—as I boot up my laptop.

It feels silly, but I have to start somewhere. I search “Rouge Montrose.”

Hundreds of articles pop up, most of them about the organ scandal and her suicide. It made national news. I remember when it happened. For days, it was all you could read about online. People dressed up as Rouge and Chet for Halloween. Drag queens did shows inspired by her eccentric looks. Rainbow Unlimited unleashed about fifteen documentaries.

And then the news cycle moved on like it always does.

Rouge’s name was nothing more than an echo of a past time.

Or so I fucking thought.

I go to the advanced settings and search for results before March of last year, when Rouge died.

An article from the Tribune catches my eye. It was written a month or so before I left Vegas and started working at Jade. I open it.

Rouge Montrose announced today her family’s acquisition of four of Chicago’s most unique retreats: MINOS, the Noir Parlor, Second Star, and the Jade Sanctum. “I’m proud to welcome these exquisite locales to the Aces Underground family and am even more delighted they’ll be operating on a cover basis—no membership required! I have traveled the world seeking out talent to staff each of these clubs and bring the same Aces Underground magic the Montroses have been weaving for three generations to a wider demographic,” Ms. Montrose said in a statement earlier today.

“MINOS is happy to have the prestige associated with the Montrose name at our disposal,” Zebulon Minos, owner of the club before the acquisition, stated. “It’s no secret clubs like ours have been struggling to regain our footing the last few years. This is nothing short of a miracle.”

Lucille Vivienne of the Noir Parlor expressed similar sentiment. “I have been in discussions with Rouge regarding her ideas for our club, and when we reopen after a brief remodel, Chicagoans will be in for a real treat.”

The Tribune has reached out to Scythe of Second Star and Asha Paisley of the Jade Sanctum but has not yet received a statement from either.

I stop reading.

I’m familiar with the other three names. Zeb, Lucie, and Scythe. They owned their respective clubs when Rouge took over and reclaimed the reins when she died and Bianca dissolved the partnership. I’m the odd guy out. I didn’t own Jade when Rouge bought it.

I never knew the name of the woman who owned the club before I did. Rouge never mentioned her name and iced me out if I ever asked about the previous owner. She said she didn’t like to dwell on the past.

I google “Asha Paisley.” No results. Closest I get is an Etsy shop selling paisley-patterned cloth napkins.

It’s an unusual name. It could have been misspelled. I try other iterations. Ausha Paisly. Awsha Paysleigh. Nothing.

In this day and age, having no presence on the internet is something deliberate, something calculated. A woman who owned a club so big it attracted one of the most powerful moguls in the city of Chicago should have an online footprint.