Page 172 of The Silent Note

When I’m satisfied that I have the most accurate representation that I can possibly pull from the pixelated video, I snap a picture and start searching for hits online.

There are none.

Which could be due to my awful drawing skills or to the fact that I’m barking up the wrong tree.

Absently, I reach for my glass and realize I’m out of wine.

I pour myself another and return to my sketch. Standing and looking down from this vantage point, the swooping motion of the drawing kind of looks like the tail of a dragon.

With renewed energy, I type the word ‘dragon tattoo’ into the search bar and scroll through the images. But none of them look like the tattoo.

I’m about to give up and go searching for the extra container of pasta that I charmed the lunch ladies into sneaking out to me, when an image catches my eye.

It’s not a dragon, but a snake.

I click on it and lift my drawing up to the computer. I never caught sight of the head of the snake, but my sketch is the perfect replica of the tail end. Typing furiously, I dive deeper into the white snake.

“A sacred symbol in Japanese culture,” I read out loud. “Japanese?” So frantically, I nearly spill all my wine, I tap the track pad and rewind the video to the part where the real killer speaks.

“Take the girl.”

My eyes spring open.

A Japanese drawing.

A Japanese accent.

My heart thumps against my chest. “Oh, Sloane. What on earth happened to you that night?”

Chapter Forty-Five

ZANE

As I predicted, Marion isn’t there when we walk in. The remnants of our conversation are gone too. The shards from the glass she threw at me have been swept away. The knickknacks returned to their places. The divorce papers probably hidden somewhere in the house.

There’s a feast spread on the table, untouched. Dad’s bodyguards lead us past the dining room to the sitting area.

That doesn’t surprise me. I’ve actually never seen dad eat Marion’s food.

“Wait here,” Dutch tells Cadence when we stop in front of the doors to the sitting room.

She nods.

He gives her a quick kiss and then trails me and Finn into the room.

Dad is sitting in the dark with only a lamp throwing light in front of him. One leg is balanced over the other and a few files are scattered at his feet. A small pair of glasses are slipping down the edge of his nose as he turns a page.

He’s clearly had a wardrobe overhaul, trading in his rocker jackets, spiky bracelets and torn jeans for a ‘president of a tech company’ vibe. With the black turtleneck covering his ink and those sharp grey pants, he looks like a harmless academic except for the tattoos creeping out of his sleeves and onto his knuckles.

Wolves in sheep’s clothing are great at disguising themselves, but there’s always a hint of fur, a glint of a canine—something that can’t fit into the costume.

I send a cursory glance Finn’s way, just in case. But my brother seems unfazed as he walks into the room.

“You’re late,” dad says, snapping a binder closed. His eyes sweep past me and Dutch to land on Finn. There’s no spark of surprise at the sight of him.

“Sit. There’s a lot to discuss.” Dad gestures to the chairs.

No one moves.