Page 8 of Captive Audience

Lately, every day I’d searched for one name. Sierra Witkowski.

Nothing. Again.

I’d have to drag Jake to Kensington and go back for a better look, but I was feeling uneasy about last night’s strange experience.

Just as I was about to close the tab, a different headline caught my eye.

Man Brutally Slain in Kensington Alley Overnight. Police Seeking Witnesses.

I clicked on it, half out of habit. Kensington wasn’t exactly short on violent crimes. But when the page loaded, the image attached to the article made my blood run cold.

Latino. Face tattoos. Mustache.

My breath caught. It washim. The man who’d followed me.

The one who’d vanished before I’d turned around with pepper spray ready to fire.

Beside the image of Lorenzo Tate was a photo of the alley where his body had been found. Yep. Recognized that, too.

I sat up straighter, pulse spiking as I skimmed the article.

The victim has been identified as Lorenzo Tate, 36, a convicted felon with a long history of offenses including sexual assault, drug trafficking, and aggravated battery. Police say the killing was targeted. No suspects have been named.

Holy shit.

I slammed the laptop shut. Opened it again and reread the article.

What in the actual fuck?

Nausea twisted through my gut. Other sensations tugged at me, things I was reluctant to acknowledge.

Relief. And maybe a little gratitude.

I didn’t condone murder, but one less violent rapist on the streets was always a good thing.

Where was my savior three years ago when I needed one?

Maybe I was the last person to have seen Tate alive? Other than his murderer, of course. I should probably report what I knew to the cops. But then I’d have to explain what I’d been doing in Kensington in the first place. Their questions would reveal that I was Inferno, and I didn’t want anyone to know that. Especially the police. My investigations highlighted their failures, and there were times I’d questioned their motives for ignoring cases. Plus, my research methods weren’t altogether legal.

What would I tell them, anyway? I’d walked, heard footsteps, turned around to find nothing, then run to the El station? Not exactly helpful.

No. No one needed to know I’d been in Kensington last night.

I shook off my unease and stood to get ready for drinks with Daisy and Beth.

We caught up every week, the tradition dating back to college. Daisy would wear something impractical and stunning. Beth would pretend she hated being dragged out in public, but still have the best time.

After Mom had died six years ago, my best friends hadbecome my family. Not that I’d had much of one before. My dad hadn’t stuck around past the pregnancy. It was always just the two of us, and then suddenly, it was just me. Daisy and Beth had filled the void she’d left behind, the sisters I’d never had.

I pulled my favorite jeans from the drawer and tossed them onto the bed.

But…no. Tonight called for a dress. Something that made me feel sexy and screamedI’m thriving,even if the sting of being ghosted yet again lingered.

I tugged a slinky black number from the back of my closet and held it up. Off one shoulder, clingy in all the right ways, and speckled with tiny silver flecks that caught the light. It looked like it cost a small fortune, but really, I’d scored it for ten bucks from a thrift store.

I slipped it on, smoothed the ruching over my hips, and gave myself a once-over in the mirror.

Target heels. Drugstore lip gloss. A dress that looked like I had my life together.