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Every time things started to look promising and I’d be allowed to live at home with my mother, men like these would eventually show up, and before long, the social worker would move me into another foster home. My mom wanted to take care of me, I could see she wanted to so badly, but there was always a part of her that was tethered to something darker. Anna looked at me like that when I found her at the club. She didn’t want to be there, but she didn’t know any way out.

This time when I watch it, I focus solely on them, pausing the video where I need to in order to enhance the image and reveal subtle details. There’s a crescent-shaped birthmark on one of their wrists; it’s faint but visible when the light hits it right. Another wore a watch, diver style, an older model, not helpful for tracking, unfortunately. Above the wrist there’s a partial tattoo showing maybe talons? An eagle or hawk perhaps? It’s too hard to tell. One of the men has a ring, it’s not a wedding band, but it has Greek letters like maybe it’s from an old fraternity or social club. His hands looked the oldest, lots of wrinkles around his knuckles.

Next I isolate the audio. Accents tend to surface when men let go of inhibitions, and I catch a slight East Coast inflection to one of them—the guy who mentions teenagers. He’s boisterous, like he’s trying to sound in control; I’m able to deduce that he’s the older one by matching his hand gestures to the dialogue.

After, I run the metadata on the video and photos. Unfortunately, the image data was stripped when it was sent through the messaging app, but the video was too big to send through text—they had to link it to a free hosting site. When I plug in the URL, I’m able to nab the phone model and serial number. This moron didn’t even turn off his GPS, which means I have the coordinates for the location of where it was filmed. It appears to be an abandoned trap house, so that’s less helpful. I cross-reference the phone with sales databases, resale listings, and stolen property reports. Nothing.

He contacted her with a VoIP phone number, which means it’s not tied to a specific physical phone line or device . . . which means it’s an even bigger pain in the ass because I have to get into the carrier database, which is locked down pretty fucking tight.

Thankfully that carrier is one I’m familiar with from other surveillance jobs. After over an hour of fucking with their security, I’m able to trace it back to the source and get the IP address. Surprisingly, this guy was smart enough to use a VPN. Sigh.

The thing about VPNs are that VPNs are a bitch. They mask the true IP by routing to a server. There’s a couple ways to “unmask” them. The first way involves legal authority, paperwork, and time—three things I’ve never been very fond of. The other way requires some finesse and significant resources. It’s doable but if I can figure out a way to work smarter, not harder, I’d prefer that route.

I lean back in my chair and scrub a hand down my face. Okay, based on the phone model and date the video was taken, the owner was using a phone that was a couple years old. The blackmail amount must be low enough for Anna to make at a shitty dive club, and let’s not forget about his GPS fuckup. That alone paints a pretty good profile. This guy is sloppy and bad with money—which means he’s going to cut corners wherever he can.

The odds of him using a free VPN product with open loopholes are pretty good . . . But why waste time tracking down his home base when I can have him come to me? That way, I don’t have to step foot anywhere and risk leaving evidence. It’ll look like he left the house and just . . . didn’t come home. I highly doubt he’s checking who messages him, so if I reverse-engineer and spoof her phone number using a SIP trunk, it will make it appear as if she’s texting him, when really it’s me. Then all I need to do is tell him where to show up to our appointment. Ta-da!

It’s monsters like these men that stole everything from me as a child. By the time I got my revenge, it was long after my mom was dead. But this time I’m not a child anymore; I don’t have to wait until I’m older, bigger, stronger. I can fix this problem now.

All I need is this fucker; he’s the coordinator. He’s going to tell me everything. As most people who are fortunate enough to know me can confirm, I’m a delightful conversationalist. I have a way of helping people find their voice. Give me an hour with them in a quiet room, and they just start opening up. It’s the damnedest thing.

Now that I understand the severity of the situation, my patience has run out—but there’s one thing I want to hear from her. I want to know who gave her those scars.

I’m halfway through the chapter of my book, but I haven’t taken in a single word. Stretched out on my sofa, I lie basking in the morning sun while my finger lazily traces the edge of the paperback cover while my mind is somewhere else—well, somewhere earlier, back to waking up with a note at my bedside. There’s something hot about seeing Duchess scrawled in his rough, masculine handwriting.

“He made me blueberry pancakes,” I say aloud to the empty room, smiling. My teeth bite into my bottom lip as those familiar butterflies flood my system.

The click of the lock has my eyes flicking up toward the entryway.

Casper steps in, standing on the mat near the door, unlacing his boots and tugging them off with practiced efficiency. He moves around the space like he belongs here, even down to washing the dishes after making me breakfast. I like it.

He grabs my keys off the side table and loops one back on the ring. “I took your key so I could lock up behind me,” he explains. “I’m also giving you a key to my place,” he says, adding an additional key.

A chuckle rises out of me. “Cool! And when are you giving me your address?”

He grins on his way down the hall toward me.

Casper rounds the sofa to my side, picking up my calves and sitting down, setting them on his lap. “I missed you this morning,” I say. “Sorry I fell asleep last night.”

He clears his throat. “Don’t apologize, you needed the rest. Besides, I had some things I had to take care of. Anyway, I was thinking . . . since you have the day off, how about we do your third session?”

My cheeks heat; this is an uncomfortable topic. Not only do I still feel ashamed of canceling our last appointment so last minute and not rebooking, but I don’t have the money for it. I close my paperback and trace my fingers over the title. “I can’t afford that right now, and I can’t dance with my back scabbed up while it heals,” I explain. “I’m picking up a shift later this afternoon.”

“So strip for me.”

“No, and if you keep showing up at the club I’m going to get in trouble. I’m already waiting for a phone call from my boss after leaving early with you.” I try to take my feet off his lap, but he holds them in place. It pains me to keep him in the dark after our conversation, but he wouldn’t understand.

“I’m not talking about the club, I mean your place or mine. After work, every night. I don’t care.”

I roll my eyes. If only. “You can’t afford how much I need.”

“You may not know this about me, since I haven’t brought you to my house, but I don’t buy a lot of stuff. I spend money on experiences, things that make me feel alive. Right now, that’s you. There’s nothing better for me to spend it on. I meant what I said . . . I’ll pay double.”

This is humiliating. What he must think of me, taking off my clothes because I need the cash. “I can’t do that to you.”

“Maybe if you told me why you need the money, I could help in some other way.”

“Pretty sure it’s a little early in the relationship to start sharing debt,” I remind him.