What I need is unavailable. What I crave is pain. Blood. Sliced flesh and exposed muscles. The release they bring, the clarity of mind.
I power everything down for the final time, grab the puzzle box, and leave the office before I start scouring the dark web and wasting more of my goddamn time in search of a knave that needs a good fucking cleanse.
The late afternoon light streams through the tall stained-glass windows of my stone fortress. With a deep, centering breath, I sit in an armchair and inspect the object, turning it over and over in my hands until all the symbols and divots split away from the wood like glimmers of light. They line themselves before my eyes, turning into a map that leads me to my answer.
One by one I twist and turn, pressing and pulling them away until the box begins to open for me. I follow the map and, after half an hour of light swearing and annoyed admiration for the wretched puzzle, I’m done. The result is two elongated pyramids, roughly four or five inches in length, stuck together at the base, where a small latch sits. I waste no time opening it.
My brows narrow when I find only a small parchment inside. Not paper—parchment. I slowly unroll it and fall back into the armchair as I read the exquisite brown-ink calligraphy.
Power is a peculiar concept, laced with perception and illusion. We all fall victim to it. Sometimes, some of us take bigger bites than we can swallow. This time...it was you.
If I can steal from right under your nose...imagine what else I’m capable of, Carver.
P.S. If you haven’t figured it out yet...start your car. You might be missing something.
I throw the parchment onto the coffee table, run toward the office to grab the keys, and burst through the back door where the Range is parked. Otto didn’t mention anything amiss when he brought it to me. But then again, it’s not his car. He wouldn’t notice if something wasn’t right.
Climbing into the driver’s seat, I start the vehicle and wait for something to stand out. Everything looks fine at first glance. The lights are the same, and the dashboard behind the wheel hasn’t changed. The main screen looks okay. I touch the screen, go into the menu, and slide through the various sections. Everything looks just as—
“Wait.”
I click the search button in the navigation menu.
Empty.
No favorite locations have been set, and it’s all factory settings, but I’ve searched in here before, and I know for a fact that it saves the search history.
I jump out of the car and rush back to the office when an idea hits me. Heading straight to the cabinet drawer that holds all my car-related miscellaneous items, I find the adapter that allows me to connect to its computer. I grab my laptop and return to the Range.
It takes a few minutes, but eventually, I find exactly what I suspected—nothing.
The location history of this car has been completely wiped. The worst thing is that I don’t know exactly to what degree it saves it. I’m so focused on computers and phones, clearing my fucking car history hasn’t been a priority.
Whoever broke in took all this information. All the locations this car has been to.
They could be anyone...clearly an enemy. Maybe someone from law enforcement, though they couldn’t use this in an investigation, as it wouldn’t hold up in court. I’ve taken this car to some of our private locations, like our underground concrete prison we use when we have aclientthat’s not talkative enough or we want to silently dispose of. Or Midnight’s parking lot. Meeting places with contacts. Jonathan “The Ghost” Rees and his HQ. I haven’t always taken this car—I have two more—but I drive it enough that it’s been to significant spots.
They have the locations of all those places now. They might not know what some mean, but they have them on the map.
I drag my fingers through my neat hair, pulling at the roots as I go through the next steps. Only, the next steps aren’t coming to me. The solutions are muddled in my brain, and I can’t pull them out of the muck.
Climbing out of the car, I pace around the driveway, trying to assess the impact of this predicament.
Already, I fucked up by not catching a woman who has watched me kill a man so many months ago. Now this.
God-fucking-damn it!
I should have predicted this. Prepared.
Only one thing left to do—adapt.
I walk back inside, through the foyer, then straight through the living space, passing everything until I reach the violin sitting on its mount next to the old organ. Nothing centers me and helps me focus like this exquisite piece.
I settle it in place and sink into that world where everything fits together neatly and all makes sense.
Chapter 8
Scarlet
