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“Now what?” Enzo asked. “That’s one more person who knows about you! That’s one too many.” Enzo looked like he wanted to break something.

“She kept it a secret for so long. I don’t think she has any intention of using it against you,” Yara said. “She truly loves you.”

“I have known her for so long, and she has never even hinted at knowing about this.”

“So you’re what? Going to pretend that you don’t know she knows, and she’s going to pretend she doesn’t know anything?” Enzo shook his head. “Do you think it’s wise?”

“We have maintained the facade for years. We’ll go on like this.”

I sent a message to Reah.

Me: Name: Noah Mercer. Adopted. Brother Grant Mercer. Find him 4 me, will u? Here’s his photo.

Reah: Sinclair, why do u always send me a text when I’m asleep/ going 2 bed?

And there it was, our routine. She’d complain, she’d curse, and then she’d find me what I wanted.

It was a strange comfort in the world full of changing, burning things.

After five minutes, my phone vibrated.

Reah: There r no adoption records. But I found a Noah Ortiz. His mother, Sophie Ortiz, was murdered when she was 26. They haven’t found her killer. The cops suspected she was murdered by her own son, but the boy disappeared, and there was no trail of him. He was nine. It was an interesting case. I’m sending u the photos.

There were at least fifty of them.

I clicked the crime scene photos, sliding through them. They were grainy and blurry.

I stopped.

“Fuck.” Enzo grunted, leaning over my shoulder to stare at the images.

The pot of gardenias sat there with blood spots on it. It had faded to a slight pink.

“What is it?” Yara asked.

“I think we, maybe, found the Tattooist,” Enzo said, looking pale.

Irene gasped.

“Yes,” Enzo said.

“What’s with me and my uncanny ability to attract serial killers?” Irene muttered, kicking a vase that stood in her path.

“She was twenty-six when she died,” I read from the documents. “She was never married. The cops thought her son murdered her. She was a sex worker, and he must have been… a victim of one of her many clients.”

The end should have felt like relief.

But he was just another kid abandoned by the system, just another prey, eventually turning into a predator. It was a bad cycle.

“He hates his mother,” Yara said, a thoughtful frown on her lips. “He’s obsessed with his mother.”

“He’s killing her again and again.”

31

ONE WRONG COINCIDENCE

YARA