Page 67 of No Longer Mine

And I’d let her go.

Like an idiot.

I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders to release the tension coiled there. She hadn’t stolen from me that night, at least not anything of mine. The flash drive—whatever was on it—had nothing to do with me.

And yet… I couldn’t shake this feeling deep in my chest that I needed to know what was on it.

I ran a hand down my face, frustration coiling tighter in my gut. It wasn’t just curiosity—it was instinct. That goddamn flash drive was important.

I’d felt her body stiffen against mine the second that thing hit the floor. I’d seen the flicker of genuine panic in her eyes before she bolted like the devil himself was at her heels. And that was what bothered me most.

I needed to know more about Scarlett Montrose, but how could I do that with everything on her wiped?

I picked up my phone and dialed Benson. He answered on the second ring. “Yes?”

“I need to know more about Scarlett Montrose.”

I could practically hear him grinning. “I thought you would never ask.”

“She’s been spotted with a few people in the last few years. The girl I can’t get an ID on, but the guy? Oliver Christenson.”

I straightened in my chair. “And?”

“It’s funny. Everyone around her doesn’t have a life before they were eighteen, but him? He goes all the way to his birth. His family was old money. When they died in a fire, he was sent to live at Vanewood Manor. An elitist orphanage in upstate New York. Only the gifted were invited to be a part of it. When the owner, Mr. Vanewood himself, and his son were mysteriously stabbed to death, Oliver gave a statement to the police, and then he disappeared. He’s only ever been seen in public with Ms. Montrose.”

Vanewood Manor.

That name sent a sharp pulse of recognition through me, but I couldn’t place it. I pulled my laptop closer, fingers tapping rapidly as I searched for anything on the orphanage.

It had been shut down over a decade ago.

Vanewood had been for the elite—or so the official records claimed. Only the brightest, most talented, and most promising children were accepted. A school for prodigies. A haven for the gifted.

But gifted could mean a lot of things.

“Tell me more about Vanewood,” I said, still scrolling.

Benson hummed on the other end. “Not much available on public record, but from what I can gather, the place was fucked. They churned out business moguls, politicians, prodigies, butI’d bet my left nut half of them were emotionally stunted sociopaths.”

I exhaled through my nose. “And the murders?”

“Vanewood and his son were found dead in the estate,” Benson continued, his tone even, measured. “No forced entry. No security footage.”

“How do you think Scarlett and Oliver met?” I asked.

“That’s an interesting question considering he never goes in public and is never seen with anyone but her.”

“See if you can find any pictures taken at Vanewood Manor. There has to be something. A class album. I don’t know. I want to know who was there when the Vanewoods were killed. I want more than a thin statement from a child.”

“That’s the thing,” Benson said. “Oliver wasn’t a child. He was, uh, seventeen.”

My pulse ticked up.

“How old was she?” I asked, already knowing the answer would piss me off.

Benson hesitated. “Hard to say. Like I told you, she doesn’t exist before she turned eighteen.”

I gritted my teeth.