Page 12 of Carved Obsession (The Sanctum Syndicate #4)

Carter

I hacked into the city’s CCTV system for the second time today, this time to find the cameras around Metamorphosis. Four currently occupy just as many of my computer screens. None show the face of the culprit.

Considering the situation, the confidence with which they carry themselves is irritating. It not only suggests experience, but preparation too.

Only, that would be impossible since I only decided to go to the club late in the afternoon. There wasn’t even a plan to leave my car there, and it’s not something I do every time I frequent the establishment.

No. This smells like seized opportunity after some degree of preparation. It also smells like surveillance—they’ve been watching me.

And I have no fucking distinguishing factors by which to locate and watch them.

All I see is this hooded figure disappear down an alley between the backs of two old stone buildings.

I switch to another camera angle that may catch the alley from the distance, but it’s too dark and this person dissipates into the shadows.

I check footage that captures the other side of the alley, but the angle only sees half of the entrance.

“Fuck!”

Pulling up more cameras in the area, I sit back and watch the monitors for any trace of this person. They have to show up on one of them. No matter what, they would have left the area.

Unless they live there.

Three hours and countless rewinds later, and I can practically feel the bulging vein in my throat throbbing with frustration.

That’s all I seem to feel these days—endless frustration.

Because the hooded figure is nowhere to be seen.

Just drunk people returning to their hotels and homes, and others leaving disheveled after getting exactly what they went there for. No one stands out.

Which means it could be any of these people. Or someone in a car. Or they could live here.

I have no more information than I had when I was staring at my car.

Only the puzzle.

With a deep sigh that feels more like breathing fire, I grab the damn thing and start powering down my system.

Wait.

There’s something else I didn’t check.

I didn’t assume the gender of the person who did this. What if it was a woman? What if it was her? No cameras capture her property, but maybe I can see her car on the road. Or something...anything to indicate it was her.

Better yet, I’ll hack into her phone and get her location data. Finding her number was easy. Hopefully, remotely accessing the device will be just as easy.

My phone vibrates on the desk, and I turn it over to find a text. Speak of the fucking devil.

I had more time to think about this, and I need to tell you something.

Do tell.

I’m truly hurt.

I may be mad, but I feel a tug at the corner of my lips.

It was only a small cut.

I mean emotionally.

This should be good. Surprising that the physical injury doesn’t faze her. Or the potential scar.

I thought we had something... an unspoken, rational understanding. I don’t hand you over to the cops, you don’t kill me for no good reason. Then you go and slice my damn throat!

Understanding? Wishful thinking is more like it.

You’re alive, aren’t you?

Semantics, killer-boy.

Accuracy in accusation is important.

Noted. Now, what do you have to say for yourself?

I already said what I needed to say.

Blah, blah, you’re coming for me, blah, blah. I’m talking about hurting my feelings. What are you gonna do about that?

I cock my head as I re-read that text. She’s playing me, right? Or is she truly mad? Because it sounds like, once again, she’s baiting me. Jesus, she’s an odd woman.

Yet...there’s a flame in my chest that seems to send sparks with each thought of her. Each text. Each interaction. She may be odd, but damn, is she intriguing.

Considering what I’ll do to you soon, your feelings won’t matter anymore.

Tsk, tsk, tsk... once again. You can hide it, killer-boy, but I know you like me. Admit you don’t actually want to get rid of me.

Now, what gave you that idea?

You.

My eyes go dry as I stare at that text for what seems like a small eternity. Either she’s delusional or there truly is something happening to me.

I don’t answer. I can’t. I turn my system back on and, starting with the cameras, I work my way through the only two in Scarlet’s area.

Nothing stands out. A couple of taxis, a few cars, but nothing to indicate it’s Scarlet.

It’s a bust. The only thing I found was her Mercedes going home earlier yesterday. That’s it.

I move on to her phone, fingers flying on the keyboard as I go through the same processes as I’ve gone through countless times before with others. I look for vulnerabilities in the network, cracking my way in until I get what I want.

Only, it’s not really working. I’m being blocked at every turn. This is...interesting.

Surprising.

She has countermeasures set up not only on her phone, but on her home network too.

Why?

I keep going. Keep pushing. Trying to find one tiny split in their shields.

Nothing.

Who is she? Why does she have shields set up? Good ones.

I’ll find no explanation here. Only delays.

This whole fucking day has been filled with failures. And it’s goddamn unacceptable.

I slam the side of my fist onto the wooden desk, and everything on it jitters. But anger isn’t solving anything. It’s a useless, pathetic emotion and one of the few I’m capable of tasting on my tongue.

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 a client that’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.