Page 95 of Cruel Pleasures

The outburst on the lawn comes to an end with the three of us going our separate ways. Imani leaves first. Hurst attempts to call after her. He almost follows but then refrains, backing away. It seems to occur to him he’s still not alone. I remain.

His brow creases. “She’ll come around. Tomorrow.”

Then he’s off.

He disappears among the shadows of the night. Soon the crunch of his footsteps on the freshly mowed grass dies away. I’m left with the aggressive hiss of the wind.

My gaze pans up to the impenetrable stone fortress that is Hurst Manor. Many of the lights glow down at me. Dozens of them that signify the various after-hours debauchery the club members are getting up to late into the night.

But I’m interested in only one of them.

I’m a ghost among shadows, unseen and unheard. My long coat billows the faster I stride toward one of the side doors into the house. I slip through the door and sidestep behind a large arrangement of plants.

Less than a second later, Jerome passes by doting on the Hostess.

Her mask is off, both hands covering her face. He pats her along the back as he consoles her and she cries. Quiet, soft cries that sound like a coo to the ears.

“All is well,” Jerome says. “Please don’t let yourself get so worked up.”

Her fingers muffle her answer. They start up the nearest staircase.

I slide out from behind the plant arrangement and creep up after them. A momentary detour but one that seems opportune given tonight’s events.

There’s nothing that goes on under this roof that I’m not aware of.

I have my finger on the pulse of every situation. Except for one matter that’s shrouded in mystery.

The murders of Talia Weinberg and Quincy Mercer.

I have my theories. I’ve surveilled every known guest at the manor. I’ve studied the situation from multiple angles and looked at any evidence that was found.

Yet still the truth remains clouded.

For all I know, this could be more of the Hostess’s games. Hurst has been right about the different realities she creates.

I follow them up the staircase until we reach the third floor where Jerome unlocks the door and leads her inside. The door snaps shut behind them.

I’m not deterred. My hand slips into my coat pocket and pulls out a device I often keep with me during my reconnaissance. When you make a life out of eliminating people for a price, you become talented at collecting information you need when you need it. You become even better at tracking people down and calculating the perfect moment to strike.

After a few seconds, I carefully slide the mic to my amplifier under the door. The little black device is as small and discreet as an earbud yet picks up sound up to fifty feet away.

I step away from the door and turn on the audio. Static crackles in the background until it’s filled by their voices. More soft cries from the Hostess and reassurances from Jerome.

“It will be alright, Mistress,” Jerome promises.

The gentle element of her voice disappears for sharp scorn. “Don’t look at me! What have I told you? How many times have I said not to look?”

“I’m… I’m sorry, Mistress. I didn’t?—”

“It’s all so wrong,” she interrupts. “It’s all so destroyed!”

“But, Mistress, please. You have to calm down.”

Sounds of rummaging echo on the tiny device I’m eavesdropping from. The Hostess must be searching for something in the room. Judging by the sounds growing louder, it’s urgent. Whatever she’s looking for is important.

“Please,” Jerome repeats.

“Where is my other mask? The one with the hearts!”