Page 20

“I’m not addicted,” I bite back. Although, obsessed may be the correct word. What started as a distraction from boredom ended with me going down the rabbit hole. Now I can’t stop digging through these old papers and reading up on The Forsyth Carver.

“It seems like he was active–on and off–for three or four years.” I push through the door of the room that has a plaque identifying it as ‘The Morgue’ on it. The scent of musty, dried-out newspaper slams into us. This is where I’ve spent most of my time while Remy has been recovering. There are no corpses here, like the Barons’ crypts, just the dead stories of old Forsyth. “Heliked co-eds, particularly ones with royal affiliations. Not actual royalty, but women the community would be less focused on.”

“Like the girls at The Hideaway,” he muses, looking around the dusty room.

I nod. “Or the girls in the Princesses’ court.”

“Vipers from North Side.”

“Or a cutslut.” My forehead creases. “Like Laura.”

“Hey,” he grabs my hand, “there’s still a chance she ran off.”

I frown, unconvinced. “I just don’t think she would leave the girls without saying something. Or Ballsack. He’s still upset about it.”

“Ballsy is a great kid,” he notes, “but he’s got too much heart. Which is one reason we sent him over to keep an eye on Verity. He needed something to focus on.”

“It just feels like no one in Forsyth gives a shit about women when they go missing. Not then, not now.”

Laura going missing landed like a punch. My sister, Leticia, was missing for years. Although she wasn’t kidnapped, she was another victim of this city’s ruthless patriarchy. It’s not a surprise I’m drawn to the Carver story. It’s just more spilled blood. More lost females.

Remy pulls me to him and runs his fingers under my chin, tilting it up. “I’ll talk to the guys, see if we can get some action on finding Laura, okay?”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t actually think these are connected do you?” I ask. “The Carver and these new cases?”

“No. I haven’t unearthed everything yet, but I did ditch the analog and went to Google. The Forsyth Carver case was officially closed when he and his wife were found dead in a murder-suicide.”

“For real?” he asks, eyes wide.

“Yeah. Twenty or so years ago, so unless there was a cover-up,” which none of us can put past the Powers-That-Be in Forsyth, “it wasn’t any of the current Kings. Just some psycho over in the East End, who not only destroyed the lives of all those people he murdered but also his own family.”

“Well, that’s a bummer.”

“It is, but it’s also weird that it’s happening again, right?” I ask. “I just can’t help but think there’s some kind of connection, even if it’s just another home-grown psycho trying to be a copycat.”

“I like this color on you.”

“What color?” I ask, moving into his arms.

“It’s kind of pink.” I run Sy’s chart through my head. I’m not familiar with pink. “You’re all glowy.”

“I guess that’s what curiosity looks like?” I push up on my toes, preparing to kiss him, but a loud noise down the hall tenses us both. There hasn’t been a sound outside of our own in this building for three days.

“Did you hear that?” I mouth, eyes wide.

He nods, hand already on the gun tucked into the back of his jeans. Following, I bend, reaching for a knife, moving to step in front of him.

“The fuck?” He grabs me by the shoulder, yanking me back behind his lanky, muscular frame. A shadow shifts in the doorway. Again, I try to take a step forward.

“Stand down,” he hisses.

“You’re hurt,” I argue.

“Woman–”

A high-pitched scream cuts our argument short. Remy’s eyebrows shoot to the top of his forehead.